All Note Long (3 page)

Finishing off his chicken, Lucky laughed. “Sorry. I'm being rude. I'm so hungry. God. The end to this night can't come soon enough so I can get some real food.”

“What time do you get off?”

“Three a.m. You'll be tucking your wasted friends in with puke bowls long before I'm done dancing.”

“Eh. I'll make sure no one's driving, but I'm not the best nursemaid.” That was putting it lightly. Michelin liked taking care of things from a distance. Hands-on compassion wasn't exactly his forte.

“Sympathetic puker? Me too.”

“So much yes.” Michelin laughed. He loved how easy Lucky was to talk to, which was funny because Michelin wasn't a talker, something everyone who knew him complained about. But Lucky made it easy to give more than his usual terse responses. Made it almost fun. “And I'm a terrible insomniac. I'll probably still be awake then.”

“For real?” Lucky sized him up like Michelin was just trying on a line.

“The wrong side of four a.m. and I are tight.” Michelin laughed. Who the fuck lied about being an insomniac? How would that help get in a guy's pants . . .
Oh wait.
It had been so many years that Michelin's game had gray hairs and a cane, and he had a dozen good reasons not to open his mouth, starting with the one labeled “Gloria,” but he still said, “You want to get a bite to eat after you get off work? Thought I spied an all-night diner a couple of blocks over.”

“You did.” Lucky drew the word out as if he was trying to decide how it tasted.

“Never mind. It was only an idea.”
A really bad one.
“I better head out. Thank you much for the soda.”

“Wait.” Lucky stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You like home fries?”

“Love them,” Michelin said, unable to stop a grin from splitting his face in half.

“They've got really tasty ones. Find me as I leave here and we can split an order. Talk some more.”

“That'd be real nice,” Michelin said softly.

“Wanna give me your number? I can send you a text when I get done tipping out and changing into real clothes.” Lucky swiped a cell phone from his duffel, returning to that way-too-close stance by Michelin.

Not even the guys Michelin was mentoring had his personal cell number. Hell, he had actual employees who never got that number. Prudence said he should politely decline, but instead when he opened his mouth his number tumbled out, and before he could yank the digits back Lucky was grinning and tossing his phone back into his bag.

Man, Lucky had nice eyes. And they were right there, inches from Michelin's own. Not blinking. Not breaking contact. Just holding there, a million questions in those brown depths. Hand Michelin a guitar and he could come up with a hundred descriptors for the amber and honey flecks in the chocolaty depths of Lucky's irises, but here in this stuffy room, without his music, Michelin was left mute.

“I better get back.” Lucky's voice was just a hair above a whisper, and his breath ghosted over Michelin's cheek. He was close enough that Michelin could feel the warmth from his bare chest, mere centimeters separating them now.

Michelin turned slightly, leaning into the sensation because it had been so long since someone had been this close, since he'd felt the crackle of anticipation.

“Yeah,” Michelin tried to say, but his mouth opened against Lucky's skin and then they were kissing. It had been forever since he'd been kissed, even a relatively chaste kiss like this tentative exploration. And fuck, that made it even better—it was the slow, gentle slide of two mouths getting acquainted. Lucky laughed against Michelin's mouth, and he tasted like surprise. Michelin laughed too because this was so damn unexpected.

And nice.

Really, really nice.

Michelin licked at the seam of Lucky's lips, and damn, he must have done something right because Lucky growled at him and deepened the kiss, pushing Michelin against the lockers. This was every bit as potent as all Michelin's Juan Sosa football fantasies—him shoving Michelin around in the locker room, taking whatever the fuck he wanted from Michelin's mouth, football pants rubbing against Michelin's jeans, so close that Michelin could feel his erection and the crisscross of the laces.

No, this was better than any fantasy, because Lucky was right here, sucking on Michelin's lips hard before fucking him with an agile tongue that had Michelin desperate with a sort of need he tried never to let himself feel.

His hips moved unconsciously, seeking Lucky's, and then Lucky was moving those hips like he had on stage, thrusting against Michelin with the sort of practiced precision and fluid grace that had Michelin gasping against his mouth. His hat fluttered to the floor as Lucky's hands clutched at him, but Michelin didn't fucking care one bit.

His balls tightened inside his jeans, cock throbbing against his zipper.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned.

“Yeah. That's it,” Lucky whispered, not slowing down one bit, and then Michelin was right there, on the edge, and—

Beep. Beep. Beep.
Lucky's phone shrieked from its spot on top of his duffel bag.

“Oh fuck.” Lucky broke away, grabbing the phone. “My break was only supposed to be ten minutes. I'm late getting back out there. Fuck.”

“Sorry.” Michelin rubbed his face, no idea what to say. His cock still ached, painfully hard, and his breath came in little huffs.

“It's okay.” Lucky's tone made it clear it really wasn't fine. “Hell. I'm missing a good rotation, too. And tips have been absolutely for shit tonight as it is. Going to have to work twice as hard to close out the night.”

The sticky feel of shame coursed over Michelin. Money. Of course. Lucky hadn't been really interested in Michelin, didn't really want to get food with him or make out with him. He pulled out his wallet, extracted two hundreds. He dropped them on Lucky's bag, not sure he trusted himself to touch him again.

“Here.”

“The fuck?” Lucky picked up the cash and advanced on Michelin with angry eyes.

“I didn't . . . the money in the private room was the other guys. I didn't tip . . . and . . .” Michelin had screwed up, that much was clear, but hell if he had the words to explain his intent.

“And you think you can buy me?” Lucky waved the cash in his face. “Think I'm for sale?”

“I-I-I . . .” Michelin gulped. It had been years since his stutter had crept out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He jammed his lips together. Better to say nothing than to bleat like a lamb separated from its mama.
Take a breath. Maybe you can still fix this.
But one look at Lucky's stony face said that was going to be easier said than done, especially since Michelin seemed incapable of saying a damn thing.

L
ucky hadn't been this pissed since the breakup with Walter. M wasn't the first guy to assume Lucky was for sale, and he sure wouldn't be the last, especially as long as Lucky kept dancing at this shit club, but
damn.
For a few minutes there, he'd been so certain that M was different. The sweet way he'd turned his back for Lucky to change. The halting way he'd asked Lucky to go eat after his shift. The tentative way he met Lucky's kiss. All of it saying M never did this, wasn't anywhere close to a player.
Lies. Damn lies.
And now Lucky was all fired up.

“Man, M, you didn't even get off. Good idea to wait to pay until
after
I blow you. Or you were hoping for right the fuck now?” Lucky jabbed at M's chest. “What do you think the going rate for my mouth is? This shit?”

“I-I . . .” M shrugged helplessly, not even trying to defend himself. Without his hat, M looked older now, not the late twenties Lucky had been assuming, but probably midthirties with his shaved head and smile lines around his eyes. Fuck. Lucky was totally over old guys wanting to be his sugar daddy. Walter had cured him of that urge.

“I'm a dancer, not a fucking escort. Keep your cash.” He stuffed the money back in the guy's front pocket. And unlike M with his paper-airplane-sharp folding and precise lines, Lucky shoved the bills in an ugly wad.

“Sorry. I—” Whatever M was going to say was cut off in a rush of Dwayne barging through the door.

“What the fuck, Lucky? You make the rules now?” Dwayne's nasal voice grated on Lucky's last nerve on the best of times. This was exactly what the night did
not
need. First, the monumental lack of judgment where M was concerned, then the text from Carlos that he missed the start of a rotation, and now Dwayne Drama coming down on him. And any guy who put Drama in his stage name was
not
going to forget about this.

“He was just leaving.” Lucky shoved M out of the room, whispering angrily in M's ear, “Play this cool now. Don't get me in any more trouble.”

M nodded solemnly, but paused at the doorway, looking up questioningly at Lucky. He wasn't sure what the hell that look was about, but Lucky wasn't in the mood to sort it out.

Keeping his lips near M's ear and voice pitched low, he added, “And don't fucking come looking for me later. I won't be around. Save your cash for another piece of ass.”

Lucky let the door close on Michelin's face and turned to face the other guy.

“What the hell, Lucky?” Dwayne asked. “You're always the ‘no sex on shift' guy. And you're the one who made Carlos put the smack down on non-employees in here. But I guess Michelin Moses makes you break
all
the rules.”

“Miche-who?” The chicken in Lucky's stomach turned to little lead pellets jostling his insides. This was bad. Really bad.

“Damn. You didn't even know that you were banging Michelin Moses? As in country music's biggest closet case?” The shower curtain opened and Rod stepped out of the little changing area in front of the shower, wrapped in a scrap of terry cloth, but dry.
Exactly
like he'd been there for a half hour or more. And oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he was holding his phone. “I recognized him back in the party room. Figured that's why you were trying to shake him down.”

“I wasn't—” Lucky clamped his mouth shut. Anything he could say would make this worse. He grabbed his own phone, looked up Michelin Moses. As in country superstar Michelin Moses. Lucky had only a vague notion of what the guy looked or sounded like, but the name was familiar enough. Finding a picture of Michelin without a cowboy hat took a few clicks, but yeah. That was him all right.
Fuck.

“Those guys he was with were all from the reality shows he's been on. You didn't recognize any of them either?” Rod shook his head like Lucky was a sad, sad puppy.

“Too busy for TV. And I don't follow pop or country much,” Lucky admitted. The only artists needing a dancer like Lucky were drag queens and hip-hop and rap stars. Lucky could recite all the major players in those genres, down to who had the weird eyebrow tattoo and what the biggest producers liked to drink. However, he didn't keep up with the redneck crowd or the boy-band chasers. If it couldn't help his career, he simply didn't have time for it lately.

“Well, start.” Rod went to his locker and grabbed a jock before locking his towel and phone back up. “One of the guys in his party puked on my leg, so
lucky
you that I had just finished my shower and was checking my texts when you came in with him. Now, how much do you do want to ask him for? And I want half.”

“The fuck? I'm not blackmailing him.” Lucky might be pissed as fuck at Michelin, but he wasn't about to turn criminal to get some cash in exchange for keeping quiet about him liking guys. It didn't matter how badly Lucky needed bread, he wasn't outing anyone.

“Suit yourself.” Rod rolled his bony shoulders. “More for me.”

“What you got? Pics? Video? What is it?” The sick feeling in Lucky's stomach grew.

“Not your business. You just said you don't want in on it.” Rod's eyes were narrow gray slits.

“I don't want you blackmailing him either.” That didn't sit well with Lucky, and it didn't help that Michelin would assume that Lucky was in on it.

“Sorry. Did I miss the part where you're my
mamí
now? Or Michelin's? If I want to cash in, I sure as fuck will. Unless . . .” Rod looked at Lucky, calculating. “You know you don't exactly smell like Spicebomb in this story,
chico
. Wouldn't be good for you if it got out.”

“He's right,” Dwayne tossed in. “You don't want this getting around. You selling it to Hollywood guys isn't going to get you more shows and videos.”

“Fuck.” Lucky put his hands on his head. “I wasn't selling it.”

“I know.” Rod's hand on Lucky's arm was cold and clammy and no more reassuring than his fake caring tone. “Tell you what, give me your tips when you cash out.”

“And you'll delete whatever you've got?”

“My word.” Rod put a hand on his chest. “But I want tonight's take.”

“Bitch. I want some, too.” Dwayne moved to face Rod. “A third.”

“Ten percent to you,” Rod tossed back. “All you got is secondhand shit.”

“Twenty. You want to extort cash and Lucky was soliciting. My girl's in law school. You guys could both be in deep shit. I want twenty percent to keep my lips zipped.”

“Fuck you both.” Lucky paced back and forth. This was a cluster-fuck, and part of him wanted to just say fuck it and let the crap land all over Michelin. Let him decide how to deal with Dwayne and Rod.

“
GoZZip
would probably pay for that footage,” Dwayne said conversationally. “Or even the print gossip magazines. That's some dope shit. Rod's giving you a sweet deal.”

The door to the dressing room burst open and Carlos stuck his head in. “Why are three of my best dancers back here and not on the floor?”

“Sorry,” Lucky said while the other two only offered sullen looks.

“Sorry isn't going to make your asses any cash. You think I pay you to chitchat? You think I don't have twinks every damn night waiting to slip me headshots and wanting to show me their shit?”

“Sorry,” Lucky said again. Like he needed the reminder how damn hard it was to get ahead in this town. Tanned, toned twinks with moderate dancing skills littered the sidewalks all over WeHo. Every casting call Lucky went on, there were three hundred other guys who thought they too could twerk their way to fast cash.

“Lucky, door; Dwayne, back to the party room—things are winding down, but they still deserve some fun. Rod, dance floor cage.
Now.
” Carlos held the door open and motioned them out.

“Tips. Tonight,” Rod said in a whisper as he passed Lucky.

He hadn't been lying to Michelin—it had been a damn lean night, but still, this was going to hurt.
Better your wallet than your soul.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Fine.”

* * *

Two hours later, Lucky's quads burned the way they always did coming off a Friday night shift, but unlike most nights Dwayne and Rod were waiting for him as soon as he tipped out. The club had a protocol for dancers contributing to the pool for the bartenders, coat clerks, security guys, and so forth, and Lucky always followed the rules, even if some guys bitched and moaned about it and tried to work around them. He pulled twenty percent out for Dwayne, not trusting Rod's math skills, and shoved the cash at both of them in the back hallway of The Broom Closet. He couldn't look either of the fuckers in the eyes.

Or himself when he showered at home. Couldn't even glance at his face in the mirror in his tiny bathroom in his West Hollywood studio. Nothing was going to wash off the stink of this day. But at least he was done with Michelin Fucking Moses. He wouldn't get the cash back, but at least he could put this mess behind him and pass the hell out in his own bed secure in the knowledge he'd done the right thing.

And that plan worked just dandy until he checked his text messages over coffee Saturday morning, and his whole world went to hell with a single headline.

* * *

Ring. Ring. Ring.
Michelin fumbled for the phone on his nightstand. His head throbbed like he had a massive hangover, but all he really had was a case of not sleeping till close to dawn. And his eyes were too bleary to focus on the touch screen, so he just hit “talk” without bothering to check who it was, mainly to shut the ringing up.

“Yeah?” Michelin didn't have much greeting in him.

“It's not my fault. I swear to God, it's not my fault.” A vaguely familiar voice trembled with a rapid-fire delivery that had Michelin struggling to keep up.

“Jalen? What's wrong?” Michelin stretched and rubbed at his face. Fuck. He was not set for crisis management this morning.

“Not Jalen. Lucky.”

“The stripper?”

“Dancer. But that's not important. Look, I know you probably don't want to hear from me, and I really don't want to deal with you and your shit, but I just needed you to know that this is
not
my fault. It's Dwayne and Rod, and even though I think you're a piece of work, I wouldn't screw anyone, so please don't fucking sue me—”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Take a breath and slow the fuck down, okay? What's not your fault?” Michelin sat all the way up, the sheets pooling in his lap.

“You haven't checked your messages today?” Lucky sounded inexplicably relieved.

“No. Just now waking up,” Michelin admitted. He held the phone out so he could flip to the messages screen.
Holy fuck.
Fourteen missed calls from Gloria alone and . . . one hundred forty-five text messages?

He didn't think a hundred forty-five people had this number. He did not want to click any of those, and he definitely did not want to deal with Gloria. His fake hangover gathered speed and nausea rocked his body. It wouldn't take much for him to hurl like he had a belly full of cheap vodka.

Rap. Rap. Rap.
And there it was, the cherry on the crappy wake-up sundae, in the form of insistent pounding on his front door. Only a handful of people had his gate access code, and he had a strong feeling which one this was.

“Hold on a minute,” he told Lucky, then pulled on a pair of jeans and made his way downstairs to the door. He looked through the peephole, and not too surprisingly, discovered Gloria clutching a stack of papers, the phone that always seemed surgically attached to her person, and a large coffee. She wore her platinum hair swept up on her head and her face was obscured by giant sunglasses, but there was no mistaking the pissy set of her mouth.

“I'm gonna have to call you back,” he said into the phone. “My publicist is here.”

“Just remember. Not. My. Fault,” Lucky said before disconnecting.

Michelin took his time disarming the security system and opened the door, wishing not for the first time for a big ol' sloppy ranch dog who would jump up on Gloria and smother her with dog kisses. He'd pay good money to watch that. But instead, he had no buffer against her shrill tone.

“Where have you been? Why haven't you answered my calls?” Gloria stowed her phone in her huge leather purse. She was less publicist and more company-provided warden. Two months ago when his new single released in advance of the new album, the record label had strong-armed him into accepting Gloria's “assistance.” She had a long track record of getting number one records for country music stars; she had an aggressive plan for getting him “synergy,” relentless energy, and absolutely zero tolerance for objections.

“Sleeping.” Michelin rubbed his face. “Could you give me a second to shower and put on a shirt?” He felt much too bare to deal with whatever crisis she'd brought to his door. Unlike him in yesterday's jeans, Gloria wore an immaculate white pantsuit and gold pumps and looked ready for lunch at Spago. Her heels clicked against the dark tiles of his foyer as he led her into the living room, intending to leave her there while he shook himself more awake.

“In a minute.” She shoved the papers at him. “Exactly
how
do you want to spin
this
?”