All Note Long (10 page)

“It was Mama's favorite color,” Michelin said softly. She would have loved this shirt on him. And she would have told him to wear it, maybe not in this precise combo, but she would have wanted him to wear it and screw the people who said it was a “girl” color.

“It's a great color on you. Even makes your eyes pick up the shade.” Lucky's tone carried the sort of wonder Michelin hadn't even realized he'd been waiting for. But there was Lucky peering over his shoulder like a proud teacher, looking like he was finally
seeing
Michelin for the first time, and damn if Michelin's ego didn't puff up big time.

“We should show Jennifer,” Lucky said, but their eyes didn't break the hold. Lucky's hands were
still
on Michelin, and fuck, it felt like that touch had been on him all week, like falling asleep in the sun and not realizing until way too late how burnt he was. Michelin turned toward him, intending to dislodge Lucky's grip, but all of a sudden, Lucky's face was inches from his.

A need bubbled up in Michelin as if Lucky's mouth was the only possible balm to the heat under his skin, to the awful fire crawling up his back, to all these
feelings
about color and fit and which identity he wanted to embrace the most. Those full lips seemed like the best antidote to thinking ever.

And when Michelin leaned down, Lucky was right there waiting, not pulling away. He met Michelin's lips hungrily, taking over the kiss almost at once, nipping at Michelin's lower lip before deepening the kiss. He tasted like oranges and—

“We can't do this.”

Regret. He tasted like regret. Michelin nodded, but didn't pull all the way back.

“Michelin.” Lucky's words ghosted across his lips. “Let me buy my own clothes to wear to this thing.
Please.
”

“And then?”

“I'll be your date for this thing. For real. In my own clothes. And you can kiss me like that again.”

Fuck. The world was spinning too fast. He'd kissed Lucky because the alternative was burning up, but now it was as if he'd jumped in the lake and was being sucked under. He'd misjudged his own tolerance. Lucky was going to hold him to that whole “you're technically my employer” thing, but the alternative was far, far scarier. Have Lucky along as a real date? No safety net of their agreement? Just having to trust that Lucky . . . what?
Liked
him enough to come?

No thank you. Michelin couldn't take on that kind of risk, even for those lips. He shook his head. “I'll buy your clothes.”

Lucky pulled away, shaking his head. “I really don't understand you sometimes.”

That made two of them.

* * *

Lucky hung back while Michelin did a quick turn for Jennifer, who enthused over the color and fit. It truly was an outstanding ensemble on him. Even more remarkable, the man seemed absolutely oblivious to his own hotness. Like on a scale of one to ten, Michelin was currently a raging thirty-nine. In stylish clothes that fit and colors that complemented the paleness of his eyes, he seemed younger, less worn down by life. More like the guy that Lucky had been hanging around with the last few days—not old at all, and a surprising amount of fun to be around.

He was a decent cook, an unobtrusive host, and a hoot with the dog when he thought Lucky wasn't watching him. All in all, he was someone Lucky wouldn't mind having as a friend—except for the part where Michelin bought all his food, drove him everywhere, and had Jennifer (who really was a lovely person) send over clothes for him for their “candids,” like dinner out. And it wasn't like Lucky didn't own clothes—including ones that might be suitable for a party in Nashville. Other than rent, more of his money went to clothes than anything else. He was the absolute master of bargain-hunting designer duds. He
had
the wardrobe and the manners to be a superstar's friend—not just a kept boy—but Michelin and his team kept acting like Lucky was one wrong move from derailing the whole charade.

And then the man had to go and kiss Lucky like he was drowning and Lucky was the life preserver. And it didn't help that Michelin had been hiding a body worthy of the cages at The Broom Closet under his bland clothes—getting to look and touch all the acres of hard muscle and lightly fuzzed skin was nothing short of torture. And the way Michelin complied with his requests . . . Yes, Michelin was taller and older, but he had a way of kissing Lucky like Lucky had all the answers, and the way he leaned in and let Lucky lead was sexy as hell.

And infuriating.

Mainly infuriating, because if Lucky got to take control of the kissing, why in the heck couldn't Michelin listen to what Lucky needed for this to be a real friendship? Why not let Lucky have control over his wardrobe and his spending? Then they could have an actual, somewhat equal friendship, one that might or might not come with a side of kissing.

Michelin laughed at something Jennifer said, his eyes crinkling. But his big hands toyed with the hat he now held in front of him, the subtle shake he got when he was really unhappy or nervous. His gaze darted over to Lucky and his laughter abruptly died.

“You get Lucky squared away,” he said to Jennifer before returning to change back to his street clothes.

Yup. Lucky totally didn't want any part of kissing that arrogant man again. He totally pulled a Michelin and went with the first outfit Jennifer showed him. It fit. It matched Michelin's outfit nicely, didn't need much tailoring, and it had no visible price tags, which undoubtedly meant that the shirt alone was worth more than a weekend's tips. Yippee, expensive stuff he had no real way of paying back.

“You want to walk over to get the mutt some toys?” Michelin emerged back in his regular clothes—black jeans, casual western shirt.

No. No, I do not.
But voices out in the main store reminded him that they were under a microscope. Stalking off to the truck simply wasn't an option.

“Sure.” Lucky kept his voice level, didn't let any of his hurt or frustration creep in.

“I'm sorry,” Michelin whispered as they exited the store. “Can we . . . are we . . . we cool?”

Oh, Michelin.
Listening to the man who people lauded as having a once-in-a-generation voice struggle to talk was an instant anger de-fuser. And hell if Lucky didn't want to touch him, reassure him.

“We're cool,” Lucky said, even though he didn't know if that could ever be true. Wanting a guy who saw Lucky as little more than a business transaction was about as far from “cool” as one could get.

L
ucky's car—an older Impreza whose main selling points were great AC and no major repairs this year—looked weird on Michelin's property. But then everything looked weird after another few days in the weird fake-dating-a-superstar saga, including a night in his own bed, because he'd told Michelin that even ridiculously cute couples still got alone time. And Michelin, who was totally willing to take Lucky and Gloria's word about how relationships functioned, had bought it and not tied this sudden need for space to the kiss in the suit shop.

Which it absolutely was, because spending time alone with Michelin without the cameras was just
strange.
It wasn't right to enjoy being around a guy who was essentially his unwilling employer. And yet, Lucky felt remarkably at peace in Michelin's house, and it wasn't just the quasi-vacation-like feeling of all this unanticipated down time. He enjoyed hanging out around the pool, loved all the space and privacy to practice his dancing, and liked talking with the man himself far more than he should. He often found himself lingering long after their food was finished, the two of them talking about everything and nothing and entire hours slipping by unnoticed. Michelin also loved older movies and they watched several together in the evening, exactly like a “real” couple, with the dog sitting between them.

Except they weren't and would never be.

And Lucky really needed to move beyond this “vacation” and land some dancing gigs so that he could afford the video he needed for the Vegas show. It wasn't a simple matter of the sort of point-and-shoot videos he'd done on his own—the show had very specific requirements for production values from the finalists. He knew he probably could have demanded some sort of paycheck from Michelin, but the whole thing was weird enough and he already felt like enough of a kept boy. No way was he taking the man's cash. Walter had taught him that even accepting “gifts” and “help” could make him feel about three inches tall when things went south. And things would
definitely
head south with Michelin.

The sooner he started looking at life beyond this charade with Michelin, the better. While he had been at home, he'd made a bunch of calls, tried to set some stuff up. He would have assumed that famous boyfriend would equal all sorts of doors opening for him, but that wasn't the case. And now he had to switch gears back to fake-boyfriend for the weekend in Nashville.

After locking the Impreza, he put his suitcase in the backseat of Michelin's truck.

“Three guitars?” he asked Michelin, who was carrying more bags out of his house. He'd known Michelin was supposed to sing at the release party, but in all their time together during the last week, he had yet to actually hear the man sing.

“Yes, sir. Performing is gonna be the only good part of this shindig.” Michelin gave him a smile as he set the bags in the car. He started to reach for Lucky, then dropped his arm, like he wasn't quite sure how to greet Lucky. If they had been meeting in public, Lucky would have kissed his cheek or given him a fast hug, but here on Michelin's property they had no reason to pretend.

Lucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Miss me and Lady last night?”

“Dog, maybe.” Michelin smiled sheepishly. “She gonna be good at your mom's?”

“Yeah. It's just a few days. Cesar and Shakira were nice to him, but Mom definitely doesn't want three dogs long-term.” Lucky slid into the passenger side.

“Any of that vast family of yours dropping by to take a peek at her? See if they want to adopt her?” Michelin's words were deceptively casual, but Lucky knew him well enough by now to tell when he was forcing the chill.

“I'm not sure. It's taking a bit longer to find her a home. I did get her to the vet before Mom's, though, and verified that she wasn't microchipped.”

“The vet?”

“Mom didn't want her without her shots and wanted me to be sure she was spayed.” Another hit to his bank account, but the dog was worth it.

“You got the bill? I can send it on to Henry—”

“Are you adopting her?” Lucky's words came out sharper than he'd intended.

“Of course not.” Michelin waved the suggestion away.

“Then you don't need to pay. I rescued her. Me. Not you.” He knew he was being childish and, honestly, he wanted Michelin to claim the dog. That would be ideal. But if Michelin wasn't going to own up to wanting the dog, he didn't get to go collecting Lucky's bills. As it was, Lucky was wearing clothes Jennifer sent over because there were sure to be photographers today, and he was letting Michelin drive to the airport solely because he didn't want to have to deal with airport parking fees, and yeah, the plane tickets were on Michelin, too.

Speaking of, this stretch of highway wasn't familiar. “This isn't the way to LAX.”

“Not going out of LAX. Thought I mentioned that. This is out of Burbank. It's a charter from the label and the iLuvMusic digital radio station sponsoring the launch. It'll have label execs, radio VIPs, couple of the big name guests, my backup band, Gloria . . . and us.”

“And us,” Lucky echoed weakly. He stayed quiet the rest of the way to the smaller airport.

It looked like every other airport until they got to the desk for the charter company. Nothing so far had underscored the difference between their worlds quite like flying private. No lines, no security, and a level of polite deference that made him feel like some bigwig. Once on board, he discovered seats that rivaled the truck's for luxury. And the rare times that Lucky traveled, he wasn't usually surrounded by people he recognized from gossip sites. Instead of the lines and hassle, the preflight activities seemed closer to a cocktail party.

This will be fabulous for your career, too,
he tried to remind himself, but it was hard to stay positive with Michelin transforming into a different guy, a social guy who
knew
people and who commanded instant respect from his peers. He shook hands and clapped shoulders and knew the right things to say, even if he did tend toward short replies. Alone in a bubble at Michelin's house, he'd been able to see beyond the million-dollar views and forget that this guy wasn't just famous—he was an icon. Rock royalty turned country superstar with a side of reality TV stardom, producer credits on dozens of shows and albums, and his own small indie label producing albums like those of the guys at the club. Yeah. The guy was a Big Deal, and it was only too easy to forget all that when he was grilling Lucky chicken and queuing up some old action flick.

Where's the guy I know?
And where was his own usual endless supply of confidence? It was like they were starring in some weird
Freaky Friday
mix-up where he was all tongue-tied and Michelin was all suave as the A++ listers enjoyed preflight drinks and talked about summer homes and winter trips to Tahiti and who was wearing what designer to some awards show. It was a whole universe removed from Lucky's weekends spent dancing at the club and weeks spent scurrying from audition to audition.

With each person Michelin introduced him to, Lucky felt smaller and smaller, like one of those magically shrinking kids' toys dunked in a glass of cold water. No one was rude, exactly, but they all showed Lucky about as much interest as if Michelin had shown up with the dog—mild curiosity but mainly bored tolerance for this newest quirk of Michelin's.

When they finally finished the meet-and-greet and were shown to their seats by a smiling flight attendant, he and Michelin both sighed heavily at the exact same moment.

“What?” Lucky asked in a low voice.

Michelin's eyes darted around, then he lowered his own voice. “Relieved. No one was . . . different.”

Just like that, Lucky's discomfort faded. An act. This particular version of Michelin was an act. Not caring who could see, he squeezed Michelin's knee. “Of course they were the same. You haven't changed.”

Michelin gave him a thin, tight smile. “ 'Course not. I've just got more . . . interesting gossip these days.”

That was all Lucky was—interesting gossip. And he needed to tattoo that reminder on his arm in case he was tempted to forget it. But knowing that still didn't make him pull his hand away when Michelin's hand covered his and didn't stop his heart from thrilling when Michelin's smile shifted to something more genuine, something meant only for Lucky.

* * *

When Lucky—the most cocky, overconfident guy Michelin had ever met—got all quiet on the flight to Nashville, Michelin knew he was in for a long weekend. For all his brash swagger, Lucky wasn't used to the grind of celebrity. Hell, it had taken Michelin years to understand the need to be on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and the all-day-every-day networking. It didn't matter that Michelin's insides were flipping around like a jackrabbit with some beagles in hot pursuit—these were the people who buttered his bread. It didn't matter how conflicted he felt about the limelight sometimes. In order to stay relevant, he needed these people in his life. Period.

Just like he needed the crowd that night. Man, his fingers were itching just to get on stage, let everything else drop away and play to the only people who really mattered: the fans. As long as they still had love for Michelin, nothing else mattered.

When they landed in Nashville, a couple of hours before the event, Gloria had local press waiting at the airport to ask him some questions about the party, build buzz about the album. Unlike the L.A. press, no one had questions for Lucky, and not one news outlet asked for a picture of the two of them.

Next came a stop at one of local country radio stations to give away some tickets for the party and to debut the latest single from the album. The radio station was part of the iLuvMusic family of radio stations and should have been welcoming, but unlike the L.A. execs who'd been nothing other than supportive of Michelin's coming out, this local station was decidedly . . . cool.

Lucky and Gloria were along, of course, but the receptionist at the station didn't acknowledge their presence, and the DJ coughed a bit when he referenced “recent events” in Michelin's life. The man, who was in his late fifties and extremely popular locally, seemed distinctly uncomfortable shaking hands, and his banter with Michelin on air was way more forced than last time Michelin had stopped by. When Michelin gave a shout-out to Embellish for doing the background vocals on the track “No Instrument of Mine,” the guy got a look on his face like his drawers just shrank three sizes.

“I'm gonna give you a tip, son,” he said to Michelin once the segment wrapped and he was walking Michelin out of the booth. “Next time come to Nashville alone. Leave the
entourage
back there in Hollywood. Out here we still do things the country way. No need to flaunt it.”

Michelin's cheeks heated and he stammered some sort of reply, tongue tripping all over itself.

“What's wrong?” Lucky asked when Michelin made it back into the lobby of the station. He put a hand on Michelin's arm. He hadn't been lying about being an extremely touchy-feely boyfriend, and for the first time it really rankled Michelin. Couldn't Lucky just pack the gay away for a quick minute? Let him catch his fucking breath.

He shrugged away from the grip. “Nothing. Let's go to the car now. Gotta get to the venue.”

Knowing how he always insisted on driving himself, Gloria had arranged for his Nashville car—a black GMC Denali he'd owned a few years—to be waiting at the airport, and she slid into the backseat, giving Lucky the passenger seat.
Hell.
Michelin really needed them to not be side-by-side right now, needed to not be the cutesy couple. He tried to focus on traffic and not on longtime Nashville resident Gloria playing tour guide for Lucky and pointing out stuff they passed on the way to the venue.

“Wait a sec. I've got a message.” Gloria stopped her narration to tap around on her phone. “Michelin? Your security guys are going to meet us at the car, okay? Don't get out until security gets to us.”

“What the—” He bit off the curse as he turned onto the street with the theater and saw the issue.

“Protesters.” Lucky's eyes went wide, and his hands fisted. “Fu—freaking protesters. What the heck?”

There weren't that many of them—fewer than twenty—but they had big signs renouncing Michelin to the devil and declaring themselves no longer fans. Most of the signs had to do with marriage equality, not him personally, but still, their presence felt like the slap of leather tack after a rainstorm—a thud followed by a sharp, lasting sting.

“What the fuck? Can't the venue remove them?” His mama would have chewed him out but good for cursing in front of Gloria like this, but he was pissed.

“They're on the sidewalk,” Lucky said. “I think that's legal—”

“Not. Helpful.” Michelin had performed at this theater before and he drove to the rear, to the gated parking lot marked “private,” and sure enough, the head of the security detail he'd used for other big Nashville events was waiting, along with two other men in black jackets with the security company logo. Tim was the guy who had driven Michelin's truck to the airport. Michelin tried to have a civil greeting for him.