All Note Long (19 page)

* * *

Michelin lied when Lucky came in at three a.m. Saturday night, waking Lady and setting her barking. Michelin said he'd been watching a movie, but the crease lines in his face said he'd been dozing. And when he said it was fine that Lucky had to work so late two nights in a row, that was the real lie.

“Not a problem. Kept some dinner for you in the fridge.” Michelin moved around Lucky and the dog to head to kitchen. Lucky stayed behind with the dog, needing a minute to gather himself. Despite his exhaustion from work, he knew the right thing would be to force Michelin to talk, force him to admit the lies.

Lucky had seen Michelin lie plenty—making small talk with annoying people, telling Jennifer he liked a particular shirt, agreeing with Gloria over promo he'd rather not do. Michelin was a
good
liar, projecting chill and disaffection, turning on the charm to cover his discomfort when all else failed. And therein lay his tell. The superstar persona was his armor, and the charm was his weapon against people delving too deep into his secrets. Someone who had seen the real Michelin could spot the other little details—a smile that didn't reach his eyes, a muscle in his neck that jumped, and carefully brief answers.

And Lucky hadn't just seen the hidden sides of Michelin—he'd seen a glimpse of
Clyde
, the inner self Michelin protected at all costs. Thus, it wasn't hard for Lucky to see that Michelin had been lying all day Saturday. He was lying when he said he was fine after sex. He lied when he told Lucky to have a good shift at the club. And he was lying right now.

And Lucky knew a lot of Michelin's false calm was his fault—he'd pulled away fast after sex, reluctant to let Michelin know how deeply the act had affected him. It was also why he'd had Michelin flip over. He couldn't let Michelin see the emotions splayed all over his face. Unlike Michelin,
he
was a terrible liar, and he knew he couldn't hide the feelings welling up inside him.

It didn't matter how many times he told himself that he didn't love Michelin, told himself that these strange new emotions were simply a different variety of friendship and success, the truth was that he was falling in love, harder and harder, and each caress, each kiss made it harder to pretend.

Buzz.
His phone vibrated. Middle-of-the-night messages were pretty common among his friendship circle—most of his friends were either dancers or likely to be out club hopping and partying themselves. Not that he'd been the greatest friend lately, shirking invitations to hang out in favor of spending more time with Michelin. And he'd been ignoring a lot of texts that wanted gossip on his situation and others that wanted to congratulate him, like Michelin was some prize fish he'd caught. But even with his communication being less than stellar, everyone still assumed that working late meant they could message Lucky at all hours. Including Hector, the videographer Lucky knew socially.

Hell. Not working for almost two weeks meant that Lucky had barely enough to cover rent and utilities this month. He didn't have enough to front Hector the money, and he was running out of time. He dashed off a fast email to the booking agent he used sometimes, begging for something,
anything
, even a lead on some auditions. At this point, Lucky would settle for working the dreaded bachelorette parties, just to get the cash together.

And to top it off, he couldn't bitch to his boyfriend about his cash flow situation without him trying to swoop in with some magic cash solution. Sometimes it would be easier if Michelin were also twenty-three and broke. The sour tang of guilt immediately flooded his mouth at the thought.

He didn't want Michelin to be . . . not Michelin, but sometimes the whole dating a mega rich celebrity with a rescue complex was
hard.

“Food's hot.” Michelin came out of the kitchen with two steaming plates. “It's chicken cacciatore. I knew that would reheat well for you.” He offered Lucky a shy smile.

Scratch that. Dating Michelin was ridiculously easy. Who was Lucky to complain about a guy who waited up for him and cooked for him? So what if he had to keep the financial woes to himself? What sort of whiny
bambino
was he anyway?
Oh, my life sucks because my boyfriend wants to shove money at me?
No, he'd keep his mouth shut and eat his dinner and celebrate that he got this man in his bed for however long he had him.

“Thanks, Papí.” He gave Michelin the sort of kiss he should have offered the second he came in—slow and sweet, but with enough heat to promise Michelin would sleep
soundly
until noon tomorrow.

Oh crap.
He'd forgotten about his mom's texts. He waited until Michelin was settled across from him at the table to broach the subject.

“Hey, listen, I won't be around tomorrow night. I'm supposed to have dinner with my folks.”

“Oh sure. That's fine,” Michelin lied again. He smiled but his eyes were lonely and a bit lost.

“Want me to take the dog? Some of my brothers will probably be there—”

“Nah. She gets nervous with a big crowd. Take some good pictures before you go.”

Oh,
Clyde,
you fool.
Michelin loved the dog. The dog loved Michelin. And if Michelin couldn't admit how badly he wanted the dog, where, precisely, did that leave Lucky?

Time to find out.
Lucky drew in a sharp breath, letting the steam rising off the plates warm his suddenly icy lungs. He could do this. “Speaking of my folks, my grandma's turning eighty-five soon. The whole family is throwing her a big party. My mom's bugging me to bring you.”

“Me?” Michelin paused with his knife right above his chicken, eyes going wide.

“You
are
my boyfriend, right?”

“Of course.” Michelin's face twisted like he'd turned his ankle on uneven pavement. “But we can't do anything public right now.”

“It's a family party in Long Beach.
GoZZip
isn't likely to show up with cameras and questions.”

“It's a delicate time for me right now, you get that, right? Can't have the gossip sites saying we're doing meet-the-family things . . .”

“Of course,” Lucky echoed, but really he didn't. What he saw was a boyfriend unwilling to publicly claim him because his record label said it was a bad idea. “I'd put the word out to the cousins not to go squealing on social media.” Lucky tried to not sound like he was begging, but he wasn't quite sure he succeeded

“I really would like to meet them. I care about you.
So much.
” Michelin grabbed Lucky's hand, squeezed it tight. “Let me see what I can work out.”

Even though he knew Michelin was lying, the same way he had when he'd said “maybe” to the benefit concert, Lucky nodded. Being the real-but-secret boyfriend was
miles
harder than being the fake-but-public boyfriend, and Lucky couldn't help wondering if they would
ever
get to the real-and-public place. The deeper Lucky fell in love with him, the scarier it was to trust that that time would come. He had to trust the parts Michelin wasn't lying about—the part where he said he cared about Lucky—and that part had to sustain him.

“A
re you going to play that song for Lucky?” Jennifer paused in between holding up gray shirts that differed only in collar style.

Picking wardrobe for the next few concerts and events was possibly the most boring task on Michelin's list for the week. Hence, he was fiddling with a guitar on his couch while Jennifer showed him her selections for each of the upcoming events. She'd bustled through his door in a floral maternity dress and wheeling two suitcases full of wardrobe possibilities. His job was to nod approvingly and occasionally randomly pick between two choices because she needed “input.” She was used to his multitasking ways—they'd had strategy sessions while he cooked or while he worked out before.

“Might.” Michelin tried to sound noncommittal. Truth was, Lucky had slept at his own apartment last night, saying it was easier to go back there after his dinner with his folks. And Michelin couldn't exactly argue since he'd been the one to say they needed to play things cool. He was the one who'd rebuffed Lucky's invitation to meet his family, the one who hadn't shared his schedule for the week with Lucky, hadn't invited him along to anything fun. No, he'd let him go with a kiss and smile and a promise to text today.

Which he had, sending a picture of the dog watching the driveway and telling Lucky he was grilling for dinner and suggesting Lucky could swim while Michelin cooked. Suave. Real suave. Might as well type, “Please come see me because I'm lonely” and call it good. Gloria and record label be damned. He'd do their bidding in public, but this was his house and it was darn empty without Lucky.

As for the melody he was tinkering with, it was both heartbreakingly familiar and maddeningly elusive, and even if he could sort it out, separate it from the tangled mess of his emotions, he still didn't have the courage to sing the words to
anyone
.

“You're even more dour than usual,” Jennifer teased. “Now, why am I not doing wardrobe for Lucky for the two award shows we've got coming up? Is he handling his own clothes?”

“Nah.” Michelin stopped strumming and rubbed his jaw. “Label thinks it's best if he—
we
lay low for a bit. No public appearances or mentions. That sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing?
Michelin Moses,
tell me you aren't using the label as an excuse to push that nice guy away?”

“I'm not pushing him away. We're still . . . a thing. Just private. And it's because of this whole deal with Big Mart not carrying the album and—”

“You haven't checked social media lately, have you?” She put the shirts down and pulled out her phone.

“You know I don't got much use for those squawks and status updates. I let Gloria handle the official accounts.”

“
Sweetie.
You've got to tune in more.” The way she said “sweetie” made Michelin miss Lucky ten times more.
He
would know what was what on the social media sites. “You're a trending topic in the U.S. People are calling for a widespread Big Mart boycott and boycott of the stations who won't play you. ‘Hashtag Free Michelin' is everywhere today and even people who don't listen to country are buying the album from places still carrying it.”

“I'm a
trend
?” Oh fuck no. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. Now this controversy was going to define his music, people buying him because of some movement he didn't want anything to do with.

“Oh yeah. And after those high schools pulled ‘Graduation Day' from their senior celebrations, even more people are hopping mad.” Jennifer made it seem like all this anger was a grand thing instead of a complete fucking travesty.

“Wait. There's kids that want to play ‘Graduation Day' and their schools won't let them?”

“Gloria hasn't exactly kept you in the loop, has she?” Jennifer shook her head full of tight, dark curls sadly. “You're a huge news story right now. And it's more the parent-run clubs at the schools that are having issues, as well as some private schools. They're not sure that your song ‘sends the right message' as part of senior commencement and other utter BS. Michelin, you can't let the label sweep this under the rug. You need to
fight.
”

Michelin's stomach rocked and shook like an eight-point-two earthquake had hit his body. “Reckon I'll see what Gloria says—”

“Really? Conservatives want to keep your music from people, and you're going to let the label dictate your response?” Jennifer's eyes spit fire and she idly rubbed her growing belly.

“Simmer down. It isn't good for the baby if you get all worked up—”

“You
need
to get worked up. Seriously. But that reminds me, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I'm not sure I'm going to return to full-time work after the baby comes, and I don't think I'll want to travel. You haven't replied to my emails about interviewing some of the women I recommended for your summer gigs, but we may need to talk about a permanent solution.”

He hadn't replied to the emails because he hadn't wanted to admit that he was losing one of the few people solidly in his corner. Although she did seem more than a bit frustrated with him at the moment, but he couldn't focus on that—too many people were upset with him as it was. He couldn't seem to make anyone happy.

“You can bring the baby with you. I said that.” His voice was a bit desperate.

“Sweetie, Dave doesn't like that idea, and I honestly don't know how great a job I can do with a baby on my back. And regardless, we've got to get you someone for the summer, so that Henry can get them on the books, get the payment stuff arranged while you're still in town and while I can meet with the person and you to transition smoothly.”

Paid.
Sometimes, like now when Jennifer was lecturing him like a sister, Michelin forgot that she wasn't simply one of his oldest friends—she was his employee. He didn't sign her checks, of course. Henry handled all that. And now in the middle of all this
drama,
he was supposed to find someone he could trust, someone who would see him on the regular in his altogether.

The only people he was really comfortable with like that were Jennifer and Lucky.
Lucky.

“I think I've got an idea,” he said, brightening for the first time all damn day.

* * *

Lucky got a good gym session in for the first time in two weeks and his quads were screaming when he pulled out his buzzing phone on the way to his car. Not that Michelin didn't have a decent small home gym, but nothing beat Lucky's regular place in WeHo for both the social fix and the burn after a long visit to the weight room. He'd get some more cardio in when he swam at Michelin's house. Apparently the
dog
missed him. He snorted softly as he hit accept on the incoming call.

“Lucky! I got your email. Perfect timing. I had a phone call this morning from someone looking for you specifically.” His booking agent, Alicia, had a heavy Cuban accent with a smoker's voice, which managed to make even good news seem weighted with drama.

“Awesome.” Lucky loved when people saw him on YouTube or at the club and sought him out. It made all of his social media efforts worth it. He got in the car and cranked the AC. It was too hot to be standing around outside, even for good news. “Paying gig?”

“And how. It's a music video shoot.” She cited a figure about triple what he usually got, even for multi-day shoots. “Huge opportunity for you.”

“No kidding. Who's it for and who else are you booking for the shoot?” Not that he was going to turn it down, but he really didn't want to get blindsided by working with Dwayne and Rod any time soon. With his free hand, he rustled in his gym bag for a pen and paper to take down details about the gig.

“The other talent is mainly female dancers and a few extras to play bar patrons. They asked for you specifically, so no audition for you if you're interested. Oh and the best part . . . it's the Grind Father with Steve Brewer.”

Oh holy fuck, this was way worse than possibly running into Dwayne and Rod. He'd heard of the Grind Father, a rap and hip-hop star, of course. He wasn't much older than Lucky but he carried himself with enough swagger for a whole NBA team. And ordinarily, Lucky would be beside himself to get in on one of his videos—he was the real deal, Grammy nominations and MTV awards and all.

But Steve Fucking Brewer? As in Michelin's ex–band mate and ex–fuck buddy? No way was this coincidence. “Who asked for me?”

“Who?” There was a sound of papers shuffling. “I've no idea. Probably someone from the director's office. Yeah, that's who my contact is. Vid Legit is the production company. They're good. They do videos for a lot of bigger names. Why? You getting picky?”

No. Yes. No.
He totally couldn't afford to pick and choose. If this were
anyone
else offering this kind of cash . . .

“When's the shoot?” Pen forgotten, he clasped his hands behind his head like that could keep his brains in his head.

“That's the best part. You wanted fast cash, and it's shooting Friday. One-day shoot.”

Fuck.
With that much money, he could have cash to pay Hector by the start of next week. Even if this was an effort from Steve to make Michelin jealous or embarrassed, Lucky could be a professional about this. Go, dance, don't talk to the guy more than necessary to make the shoot work. A big operation like this undoubtedly had a choreographer or at the least a director to be a buffer between Lucky and Steve. Whatever the motives here, he could protect himself. Protect Michelin. He
had
to believe that.

“Email me the details.” His voiced sounded hoarse, like he'd run screaming down Santa Monica Boulevard.
Michelin will understand. He has to. Right?

* * *

An hour later, pulling into Michelin's place, he still wasn't convinced. Michelin opened the side door to greet him, letting Lady come barreling out to run circles around him like he'd been gone a week instead of a day. The man himself stood beaming in the doorway, as happy as Lucky had ever seen him. He also looked like a guy who wasn't aware that he was a trending topic all over social media.

“Hey, Papí,” he said cautiously, offering a hug as he entered the house. To his surprise, Michelin swept him up in a scorching kiss.

“Missed you.” Michelin was breathing hard as he broke away. “You hungry or . . .” His gaze dipped to Lucky's front.

Hell.
Lucky wanted welcome-home sex in the worst way. And if
Michelin
was offering . . .

No. He couldn't take Michelin's trust like that, not with this bit of news hanging over them. It didn't matter what rationalizations he'd come up with in the car. He
knew
Michelin was going to have a fit when he heard Lucky's news. Talk first. Then sex to smooth over whatever fur got ruffled. Because fur
was
getting ruffled, and he just needed to pull up his big boy jock and own up to it.

“How about we talk while you grill?” he suggested. He'd long ago learned that even though Michelin insisted that he didn't need help for the cooking, the man really did appreciate company and more often than not ended up giving Lucky things to do. And sure, having this conversation with both fire and sharp knives at Michelin's disposal might not be Lucky's smartest suggestion, but he needed something to
do
to ease the awful jumpy feeling. His skin felt like he'd rolled in his brother Franco's favorite jalapeño kettle chips.

“That works.” Michelin gave him another shy smile that made Lucky's heart quiver. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

“Oh?” Lucky followed him to the kitchen, where Michelin grabbed a tray of food, then went onto the grilling area of the patio. The dog stuck close to their heels, sensing that meat scraps were on the horizon.

“Yeah. Jennifer was here today. She's all up in arms about this Big Mart mess and all that chatter on social media.”

“Someone should be.” Lucky accepted the cutting board and onion Michelin handed him. The patio with the grill and outdoor dining furniture shared the same million-dollar view of the L.A. skyline as the living and dining room of Michelin's house, but it was also a very functional space with a large work counter and sink. “So you know about the hashtag, and you're still in a decent mood?”

“I talked to Gloria after Jennifer. She says to stay out of the fray, but that the backlash is putting some pressure on Big Mart. We have to watch it all play out.”

Lucky snorted. “Staying
out
is the whole point. But staying
quiet,
well, you don't have—”

Michelin groaned as he threaded chunks of chicken on skewers. “We're not gonna agree on this one. I know. You want me out there leading the charge. But I
can't.
It's not me. And it's not what I want for my music.”