All Note Long (2 page)

“Let's make it
rain,
” Rod said as they made their way to the party room. He thought he was so cute. Like Rod Iron was any better of a dancer name than Lucky Rain. “Oh yeah, baby.
Good
crowd.”

Rod always managed to make Lucky feel like an extra in a cheesy porno. God, he was so ready to be done with this place, these dancers, and Carlos. But rent in WeHo wasn't going to pay itself. If he didn't need the guaranteed cash from his go-go shifts, he'd focus all his energy on stage shows and music videos and going to backup dancer auditions, but ever since he'd lost out on the underwear modeling contract, income from those avenues had been sporadic at best. Which was another reason he needed to win the
Vegas or Bust
contest.

Rod was right, though, things were hopping in the private lounge with a good size crowd. The lounge had a small bar along one wall, a number of seating areas, and a dance floor area that made ample use of mirrors and smoky lights to look bigger.

“I get the ladies.” Rod didn't wait for a reply before heading straight for the couches where a crowd of women and not-so-young men lounged, snagging one of the movable low tables to dance on. He winked at Lucky as he started twerking. The mixed crowd was totally Rod's thing—he was heteroflexible, and his bachelorette tolerance was better than anyone else's in the club. And if the ladies didn't bring the cash, he could be guaranteed to find the high roller of the group.

Lucky restrained himself from rolling his eyes at Rod's retreating back. Lucky's nose for cash wasn't nearly as good, and he had nowhere near Rod's tolerance for solicitation and groping. Lucky was a professional go-go dancer and a show boy. He didn't do lap dances, and he sure as shit didn't do escort work, unlike
some
dancers here. Lucky made his way through the crowd, deciding where to set up. Unlike Rod, he preferred using one of the two dance platforms in the room, liking the clear separation of his space.

The house DJ dropped a sick beat, and some of Lucky's frustrations fled. He was here to dance, not bitch. It didn't matter what else was going on in his life; dancing was the one thing he could count on. He had the best life in the world and a few financially tight months couldn't change that.

Moving his hips to the rhythm, he claimed the platform that divided the other seating area from the dance floor. It was ideally suited to catch traffic heading to the bar or the dance floor and to work the party crowd. Lucky took advantage of the sturdy pipe ringing the platform to hang upside down, do a few reverse crunches. That was a good attention getter.
Hey, bitches, you're about to get Lucky. Prepare your wallets because ain't no better dancer in WeHo.

Flipping back upright, he started dancing in earnest, surveying his crowd. Damn it—mainly male couples. Those seldom panned out as quality tippers. And these were young couples, all cuddled up and looking like they'd be content to nurse their drinks until it was time to go home and fuck like bunnies. They were also deep in conversation with each other, which was another sign of a lousy shift. And oh hey there, Mr. Adorkable.

The guy from earlier in the night was one of the few single guys in the group and looked older than most of his friends, but he had one of those faces that could seriously be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five, especially with the hat on. His faded Henley shirt, baggy jeans, and mismatched socks pushed Lucky's guess closer to thirty. Maybe late twenties and working some kind of tech job out in the burbs and quite possibly never been laid. His tense muscles and shifting eyes said he was intensely uncomfortable, but it wasn't the usual straight-guy-dragged-to-gay-bar discomfort. Guy was absolutely gay or bi. This was more like “I have no idea how to have fun. Someone save me from myself.” And damn if Lucky didn't find that a little endearing.

He gave Mr. Adorkable a wink before spinning and giving the guy one of his best twerking sequences. The crowd whooped as Lucky spun back to face them. The guy next to Mr. Adorkable wore a “Birthday Boy” t-shirt. Brother had a smaller blond guy on his lap and the bemused expression of a guy well on his way to getting smashed. He jostled his boy until the guy bounded off his lap, cheeks pink, and put a tightly folded bill in the waistband of Lucky's briefs.

The blonde returned to the birthday boy's lap amid many hoots and hollers. With the attention still somewhat on him, Lucky went for a bit of wall twerking, and a few of the birthday boy's friends tipped while Lucky was still upside down. Someone brought a round of shots over, and the birthday boy got a gleam in his eyes. He pulled a five out of his pocket before grabbing a shot. He nudged Mr. Adorkable. “Shot or you have to tip the dancer.”

“And if I want neither?” Damn. The guy had the nicest voice Lucky had ever heard from a white guy—rich and deep with enough grit to keep things interesting, but a smooth delivery that could get the guy any radio job he wanted.

“Shot. Or. Tip.” Yeah, birthday boy was toasted. But so were his friends, who joined the chant until the guy twitched nervously. He looked up at Lucky, a plea in his eyes.

“Shot's gonna burn. I won't.” Lucky winked at him again.
Sorry, buddy, I'm not saving your cute ass.

Guy blushed way harder than the birthday boy's boy toy had as he folded the bill, face flaming all the way to his ears, which made the whole group whoop again. The man was tall enough that he barely had to leave his seat to reach Lucky's platform. He looked Lucky up and down, considering. Damn. Lucky was pretty much immune to heated glances at this point in his career, but something about the amount of sheer wonder in the man's expression made Lucky's insides all flippy.

Then with surprisingly deft fingers, the guy tucked the bill in the top of Lucky's boot. His
shoe.
Not that he was the first to tip that way, but
damn.
Lucky didn't miss a beat, but he did give what he hoped was a playful frown.

“Ooooh. You insulted the stripper.”

“That so doesn't count!”

“Wuss!”

The group had no shortage of complaints as Mr. Adorkable took his seat again. A skinny Adam Lambert clone reached for a shot and Lucky knew what was coming even before he held it out with a five.

“Tip the dancer for me, M. Please.”

“Y'all are trashed.” M's voice had a hint of country this time. What was interesting too was that this was the voice of a confident man, someone used to being in charge of shit. And yet M was so clearly out of his depth in the club—wrong clothes, practically squirming at the requests of his friends, and no apparent interest in joining them on the road to drunk-and-silly-ville.

“And you're way too sober.” The punk guy had the sort of grin that made all the boys want to line up and sin. “Shot or tip? Come on, man.”

The others chorused their encouragement for M to pick one or the other.

“Fine.” M grabbed the money. Oh, this was interesting. He clearly wasn't going to drink, but he also seemed loath to just tell his friends to keep their liquor to themselves. Lucky's uncle Benny was working his twelve steps hard—again, and part of Lucky wanted to tell M's friends to stuff the peer pressure.

He gave M his most welcoming, nonthreatening smile and held the waistband of his briefs open a smidge. “See, told you I don't bite,” he said as the guy slid the money in.

The guy muttered some words, far too softly for Lucky to hear over the music, but after working in enough clubs, he was damn good at reading lips. He could swear the guy said, “Not what I'm afraid of.”

Which could be interpreted a dozen ways, not all of them a come-on, and the puzzle gave Lucky something to cogitate on as the music transitioned to the next song. M was back in his seat, but his eyes hadn't left Lucky.

You watching? Watch this.
And Lucky busted out some pole moves using the vertical support of the rail. He worked that Nicki Minaj beat
hard.
His best shit, really, and he wasn't sure why he felt the need to impress the obviously flustered M. And really, really wasn't sure why in the hell he was hoping the friends kept feeding M their tips for him.

M
ichelin hated dares. When he was growing up, Michelin's cousins had figured out that he couldn't back down from a dare, and thus he'd end up flinging himself out of haylofts, off bluffs over the river, and one particularly harsh winter, off the back shed into a snowdrift, all despite his intractable fear of heights. The go-go dancer was every bit as intimidating as a sheer cliff face and potentially just as deadly, but the guys had figured out the magic words to make Michelin do their bidding.

“I dare you.”

“Come on, just do a shot.”

“Shot or tip.”

Three of them held out money this time. No way was Michelin doing a shot. Wasn't even remotely tempted. But then again, bar drinking had never been Michelin's thing. Give him a long, empty night, though . . . He shook his head slightly, clearing out that thought. He had three years of sobriety saying that even that temptation was surmountable.

But fuck, three more trips over to the dancer? He'd already done four. Other than Lucas, who didn't really drink, and Trevor, who had health reasons not to get smashed, the guys were well past toasted. Part of why Michelin hadn't left was he wanted to make sure everyone got home safe. Or so he told himself. He should have left a long time ago. Made the rounds and got the hell out of there.

But fucking dares.

He collected all three bills, folded them carefully. The dancer was pretty incredible—he was doing the upside-down twerking thing again, each ass cheek moving independently in a way that didn't seem anatomically possible. He caught Michelin watching, gave him a wink that went straight to Michelin's groin, and flipped with effortless grace, using the railing to go low.

Hell. Michelin needed to bend to reach his underwear. And yes, that's what the guy's current costume was. The most obscene pair of underwear Michelin had ever seen, with a tube-like part to display the guy's junk. And to top it off, the fabric was covered with a celestial pattern that was hypnotizing.

“What?” the guy asked as Michelin tucked the first of the bills in.

“Nothing. Just trying to figure out if that's Leonid's belt on your ass.”

“Trying to label my constellations. Man, you are too cute.” It was hard to hear with the music, but Michelin had decades of experience talking around concert music.

Michelin had figured out that the guy's sides were the safest area to tuck money into, but the smooth planes of his back called to his fingers and he reached around to tuck the second bill in.

The guy motioned him closer, and to his complete chagrin, Michelin went without protest.

“I'm almost done torturing you.” The dancer laughed.

“Oh?” Michelin knew his relief was probably evident on his face. He shoved the third bill in, right over the guy's defined hip bone.

“Yeah. My break's coming up. If you need to escape your posse for a bit, come find me. I'll hook you up with a water or a soda.” His smile was warm as butter on toast, and it melted some vital logic circuit in Michelin's brain.

Before Michelin could answer, a skinny dude in a jockstrap and flip-flops hopped up behind the dancer. The dancer rose back to his full height and the two guys danced together for a minute in an obviously carefully choreographed move before the skinny guy slapped the other on the ass and shoved him off the stage.

He patted Michelin's shoulder on his way down.
Fuck.
Michelin had seriously been standing there gaping the whole time they did their changeover. The guy leaned in, saying, “Find me?”

The dancer didn't wait for an answer before he glided away. Michelin stumbled back to his seat. Some of his friends had gone to dance, giving him room to stretch out a bit. Unfortunately, no amount of legroom could unkink the knots in his brain.

“Hey,
M.
” Carter slid into the open seat next to Michelin. Fuck. Michelin liked all the guys in the groups he was mentoring from the two different reality music competition shows he'd been on, but Carter was one whom he had already pegged as the most likely to ask him for a favor. At least Lucas had spread the message not to use Michelin's name tonight.

“Hey,” Michelin said cautiously.

“That dancer seemed to like you.”

“He likes cash.” Michelin knew it to be true. He was an average looking guy with a deficit of charm, but he was a damn good tipper at his favorite restaurants and he knew firsthand that cash could perk up even the most tired server. The dancer was no different. Michelin had been the one tipping him the guys' cash, so of course he was nice.

“Maybe so, but he took a shine to you. He asked you to meet him, didn't he?”

Michelin made a noncommittal “please hurry the fuck up” noise.

“You wouldn't be the first
straight
guy to take a walk on the wild side.” Carter winked. “Tough to turn down a willing mouth and all that.”

Michelin knew that Carter wanted him to correct him on the straight business. He was too damn shrewd not to suspect. He knew some of the other guys were curious, too, but he wasn't in a position to tell any of them the truth, something his argument with Gloria had made clear. Very few of Michelin's friends knew his secret, and ever since he'd shifted to country music, he'd been even more careful about who knew what.

“Not interested,” Michelin lied, keeping his tone casual. He hadn't received a “please pay me for sex” vibe from the dancer, but what did he know? Michelin was so far out of his depth here it was comical. He'd spent enough time around reality shows to know this was comedy gold—the usually unflappable guy gets pushed into a scenario where he completely loses his footing. Hysterical. Thank fuck there weren't any cameras around. Even the normally selfie-obsessed guys had been too busy getting their swerve on to be snapping pictures.

“Ha.” Carter clearly wasn't buying it. “The way you looked at him, man . . . Anyway, my friend Ryan used to come to this club all the time. Most of the dancers are available for a little . . .
extra
if you know what I mean.”

“Really not interested.”

“Whatever.” Carter was not going to be deterred. “I'm just saying. Don't overpay him. These guys are looking for sugar daddies to fleece, but the way he was eying you, you can get the goods on the cheap if you're smart.”

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Michelin kept his tone mild, but he also didn't leave room for argument. Thankfully, the guys returned from dancing just then, tumbling over each other to get into seats.

“Ooooh, new dancer!” Cody saved Michelin from skewering Carter like a kabob on his uncle Clancy's grill, but the gleam in Cody's drunken eyes said he might not be Michelin's ideal savior.

“Shots!” Some dude Michelin had never seen before brought a tray over.

“Heyyyyyy, M! Shot or tip?”

Oh fuck.
Michelin took a good look at the guy dancing—skinny with angel-wing tattoos across his ribs and a hard, mean grin. Nothing like the wide, welcoming smile of the other dancer or his delicious-as-fuck body. For the first time, Michelin was tempted by the shots.

“Neither. I've got to piss.” He stood. “And I might be done for the night, guys.”

“You've got to go back out into the main club, and it's down the left hallway,” Lucas supplied helpfully.

Carter nodded all knowingly at Michelin. “Tip well,” he mouthed.

“Bye,” everyone yelled, effectively giving Michelin the permission he desperately needed to beat a retreat.

Michelin had zero intention of either pissing or looking up the dancer, but he got all tangled up in a sea of bodies the second he stepped back into the main club. Man, the place had really filled up. He couldn't take two steps without bumping into another person. The main club was even darker than the private room, intermittent strobe lights casting weird shadows and making it impossible to navigate around the drunk people.

All he wanted was the freaking exit, but he kept tripping over dancers and drunk fools and clumps of friends. Finally he found a hallway with a glowing exit sign.

Bump. Hell. Yet another body came into his path.

“M! You came looking for me?” Quadruple hell. It was the dancer from earlier, wearing a sweatshirt over his briefs and sipping from a giant water bottle. At six foot four, Michelin was used to towering over most people, and no offense to the dancers, but most of the guys on the platforms seemed on the shorter side. He'd been struck by this guy's long legs from the start, and standing next to him, he'd guess the guy was six foot one or so. Nice. Not that Michelin had any business noticing how nicely they lined up.

“Trying to find the exit,” Michelin said, going straight for honesty.

“Oh. Not this way. It's a fire exit this way, not a real one.” The guy shrugged. “But can I get you a water? Or a soda from the bar?”

Michelin wasn't sure how the guy had picked up on him not drinking, but he was grateful. He was damn thirsty, now that he thought about it. He hated the watered-down soda most bars had, and he never really trusted drinks in glasses to be safe in a place like this. “Soda in a bottle?”

The guy laughed. Man, he had an amazing laugh. Musical, like a tambourine keeping time. “The bar's only got soda on tap, not bottles, but I've got an unopened Diet Coke in my bag. Come with me.”

“Eh.” Michelin tried to think of a good polite refusal. Soda was totally his very guilty pleasure, and he alternated between giving in to his addiction to the real stuff and trying to wean himself onto the diet crap. However, he definitely didn't need something from the kid's personal stash. But before he could say that, the guy steered Michelin farther down the hall.

The guy held up a finger for Michelin to wait, then poked his head in an unmarked door. “Good. No one else is here. Come on in, and I'll find you the soda.”

Michelin stepped gingerly into the room, half expecting to be jumped or some other nasty trick, but instead found himself in a long, narrow dressing room with a line of lockers along both walls, low benches, a table with some snacks by the door, two ancient looking showers with floor-length curtains in the rear of the space, and a couple of sinks back there, too. In other words, not unlike any locker or break room in America, and not that far from the locker room of the big box store where Michelin had worked as a stocker in high school. Nothing about the space screamed “glamorous strippers,” which was frankly a bit reassuring. And nothing about the dancer's demeanor suggested that Carter had been right about his intentions. This was just a nice guy—kid, really, as he had to be ten years younger than Michelin—doing him a favor. Michelin stepped farther into the room and let the door shut behind him.

The dancer opened a locker with shiny neon yellow combination lock and pulled out a huge duffel bag. “I'm Lucky, by the way.”

“That's a bit on point for a stripper name, isn't it?” Michelin joked to avoid the need to give his own name. If the kid could go by Lucky, then he could totally go by M.

“You want the soda or not?” Lucky frowned. He dug around in the bag and came up with a small cooler tote. He held out the soda, but his eyes still challenged Michelin. “And I'm a go-go dancer, not a stripper.”

Michelin wasn't exactly sure what the distinction was, but he nodded as he accepted the surprisingly cold soda. “Understood.”

“I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to switch costumes while we talk. And that's not a come-on.”

“Got it.” Michelin took a long slug of soda, then turned so he wasn't facing the guy, the same as he would for one of his cousins or a band mate of either gender.

“Oh my god, you
are
too cute.” Lucky laughed and there was the sound of more rustling.

“What? My mama always said it's not polite to stare.”

“You do get that that's, like, my job description, right?”

“Yeah, but you're not on the clock now, right?” Michelin shrugged. Seemed pretty basic to him, but what did he know?

“I think I like you, M, I really do.” There was a snapping sound, then Lucky tapped him on the shoulder. “All changed. You can look now.”

Holy fuck.
Lucky was in too-small football pants and nothing else. The laces were left undone so that neatly trimmed pubes played peekaboo. Sweet mother of god, it was like Michelin was fifteen again and lusting after the senior quarterback. The guy had been a Hispanic kid, too, and Lucky's playful wink made Michelin remember every one of the sweat-filled dreams he'd had about Juan Sosa's full lips and big hands.

“You like?” Lucky's knowing smile said it was a rhetorical question, so Michelin only snorted in response. Lucky grinned wider before grabbing a yogurt container. He extracted what looked like boiled chicken from it. For several long minutes, they stood in companionable silence, Lucky eating his snack, Michelin with his soda, and a weird calm descended over the room. He liked people he could hang out with, without the need to fill every second with words.