All Note Long (6 page)

“Wonderful,” Michelin echoed weakly, going back to the couch. This was really happening. “The writer didn't need quotes from me for the article?”

“Oh, I handled that.” Gloria waved her hand like she was swatting a pesky fly. “And it's all really touching. I'm very pleased, really. All that's left is for you to read it over, but that's just a formality.” Her tone said she'd be thrilled if he declined to read it over.

Michelin had done enough magazine features over the years that he knew the drill—even first-person articles were seldom his own words, and this would be no different, but it still grated that Gloria had essentially crafted the most personal press release of his life while he'd been busy negotiating how Lucky was not going to put out.

She handed over her tablet with another of her brittle smiles, a sure sign that he wasn't going to like this as much as she was posturing.

“Hey, I want to see, too.” Lucky came over and hung over Michelin's shoulder—way, way too close. He smelled like exotic fruit—some sort of tangy aftershave or hair product that made Michelin want to find the places where he smelled like skin and sweat and revel in the contrasts.

But such fanciful thinking was really a way of avoiding looking down.

“Yes, I'm gay,”
the headline read. A few lines below that was as far as Michelin got before his back muscles seized and his hand shook.

He pushed away from the couch, almost toppling Lucky in the process. “I need a drink,” he said, letting the tablet fall to the sofa before he stalked to the kitchen.

He didn't grab a glass, didn't do fuck-all other than stand there and shake like a kitten caught in a rainstorm for several long minutes.

“Hey.” To his surprise, it was Lucky, not Gloria, who came after him. Lucky's hand was warm and soothing on Michelin's suddenly chilled arm. “You don't need a drink.”

“I meant soda,” Michelin blustered, even though that wasn't what he'd meant at all. He grabbed a Coke out of the fridge—regular, because maybe the sugar rush would combat some of this awful shakiness.

“No, you didn't.” Lucky leaned against the counter. “You got someone you can call? This is heavy shit. Maybe you need a meeting—”

“I don't do that stuff.” He
so
was not up to discussing this with the guy who had just had to explain the circumstances under which he would and would not hold Michelin's hand.

Lucky raised his eyebrows before he pressed a piece of paper into Michelin's hand. “I meant what I said about not bringing my family into this mess, but you can call this number if you need someone. Tell Benny that Lucky sent you and that you need a meeting or someone to talk to. He'll hook you up and he won't sell you out.”

Michelin wasn't going to need someone, not like that, but he took the paper and shoved it in his jeans pocket because it was easier than arguing. His chest got all warm at Lucky seeming to care about whether he drank or not, and he opened the fridge to cool that impulse right down.

“Soda?” he asked.

“You got diet?” Lucky asked, coming too close again. Man, he smelled every bit as intoxicating as a twenty-year-old scotch.

“I got it all,” Michelin admitted. If he wasn't going to admit his real shame, might as well cop to this. He moved away from the fridge door to reveal the six kinds of soda he kept on hand and the few random flavors he'd picked up on whims.

“Nice.” Lucky grabbed a can of diet. He clinked cans with Michelin. “Cheers. This can't get any worse, right?”

Michelin snorted. He was pretty sure it could.

“The article isn't bad, really. I read it.”

Michelin took a long drink of soda, studying the interlocking Mediterranean pattern of the floor. The kitchen had the original cabinetry and flooring from when he'd bought the house—he'd never seen much point to fixing what wasn't broken. He'd added some stainless steel appliances as things died instead of destroying a perfectly good kitchen. Or life. “I hate the headline,” he admitted.

“So ask Gloria to change it to something else.” Lucky was eying the fruit bowl on Michelin's counter like it was a five-layer cake, so Michelin scooted it closer to him before opening up the fridge and pulling out some steaks. Least he could do was feed the guy. Besides, it gave him something to do with his hands.

“It's more . . . I don't want this to be all there is to me now.” Michelin seasoned the meat with hard turns of the spice grinders, wishing it needed him to whack it over and over with the tenderizer like one of the cheaper cuts that his mama used.

“It won't be. But I know what you mean a bit.” Lucky took a bite of banana—a normal bite, but Michelin's mind went to surprisingly dirty places with the image and he had to glance away again. “Once I came out, I wasn't one of the guys anymore—my brothers and my cousins, I mean. I was the gay one. And it's like that's what they see first now when they talk about me. They love me and they accept me and we're back on good terms, but that's what defines me to them. And it sucks.”

Michelin thought about his own cousins.
Oh fuck.
He was going to need to make some calls tonight before the news hit. His hand tightened against the countertop. Maybe he could simply call Rob, let him tell the rest of the family. And Lucky was right that this, more even than music star, was going to forever define him to them. And yes, to a few of them, it would probably validate all the times they'd teased him, called him a wuss.

“I'm not ready.” Michelin finally said the words that had been chasing him all day.

“No one is,” Lucky said quietly.

Then he did the one thing that no one had done for Michelin in
years
and hugged him. A quick thing, over almost as soon as it happened and about as sexual as a car waxing, but still, it was the sort of casual contact that almost no one engaged him in. And his surprise must have shown, because Lucky said, “What?”

“People don't touch me.” He remembered Lucky's enthusiasm about home fries last night and grabbed some russets from the fridge.

“Yeah? Maybe they should start. And if I'm going to be your boyfriend, you better get okay with it. I'm a very touchy-feely boyfriend.” He gave Michelin a wicked grin that Michelin supposed was meant to put him at ease and make him laugh but instead did nothing of the kind.

“I'm not gonna be down with much PDA,” Michelin warned. “And that's the problem with that article. Makes it sound like I'm dying to flaunt it. Called me a pioneer. And that's just not me.”

“If you ask me, you could do with a bit of flaunting,” Lucky said with a cheeky smile. “And like it or not, you
are
a pioneer.”

“I just don't want to be the face of some . . .
movement.
” Michelin diced the potato into about a hundred more pieces than necessary.

“Oh, honey. That might not be avoidable.” Lucky managed to look both sympathetic and superior, like Michelin was stupid to even hope this thing could be contained.

Fuck. Michelin foresaw a lot of those looks in the next few days. And was it really only yesterday that he'd had vague yearnings for someone to share stuff with? He had a feeling that the next few days were going to completely cure him of any such wishes. Just get this over with, let him get back to being alone, and somehow avoid becoming known only for that label. Another glance over at Lucky's too-wise face told him he might be better off wishing for a magic pony, like he had dreamed about when he was five.

L
ucky took the last bite of steak off his plate. At least he was full. After the day he'd had, he'd take the bright side any way he could get it. “You're a good cook,” he told Michelin, and not simply because his mother taught him to thank whomever did the cooking. Adorably, Michelin had store-brand steak sauce and butter, same as Lucky's mom, and used bagged salad, same as the ordinary folks.

“Welcome.” A tinge of pink colored Michelin's cheeks. And same as anyone else, the man had feelings. It was easy to forget when dealing with this mess that Michelin was the one whose life was about to change forever.

Lucky fiddled with his fork. It wasn't that he meant to be self-centered. It was more that he'd been focusing on his own career and looking out for himself for so long . . .
Okay. Maybe I really am a jerk.

But seeing Michelin shaking in his kitchen had knocked something loose in Lucky. This wasn't just an inconvenience to Michelin.
Everything
was about to change for him. Lucky had been out since his freshman year in high school, and he was pretty used to being the gay brother, the gay cousin, the gay best friend—all horrible stereotypes, but he'd made his peace with the people around him and how they chose to slot him into roles. But Michelin had zero experience with that, and in a matter of hours he'd be the Gay Country Star—a role he clearly didn't want.

And yet, somehow the guy stayed functional. He made dinner for Lucky and Gloria and mainlined an impressive quantity of soda, and nodded as Gloria laid out their ever-growing itinerary for the next few days. Lucky might be put out by this whole mess, but he admired the heck out of the man for keeping it together.

“Got it?” Gloria asked as she finished outlining the plans.

“Yup.” Lucky was exhausted just thinking about the next few days. They'd film the Katie Remmington interview tomorrow, then some “candid photo ops” Gloria was planning revolving around shopping and eating together, and later on in the week, Michelin had some prescheduled stuff surrounding the album release. And there would be the album release party in Nashville next week that Lucky would be expected to attend as they played this little charade out for what Gloria called a “respectable length of time.”

“So I've got some calls I better make,” Michelin said as they finished their strangely homey little late supper. Michelin had that I'm-done-with-socializing tone again. “Can you take Lucky back home, Gloria?”

Gloria gave a delicate little cough, making the hairs at the back of Lucky's neck go all prickly.
I'm not going to like this one bit.

“He can't go back. His place is still staked out by the paparazzi. We need the illusion of a couple in love. That means you guys spending
lots
of time together. I thought you were clear on that?”

“You mean Lucky's supposed to stay
here
?” Michelin's tone suggested that cockroaches as house pets might be more welcome.

“You have a guest room, right?”

“Hey, doesn't Lucky get a vote? I want to go back to my place.” It wasn't that late at night—ordinarily he'd still be dancing right then—but he was exhausted. He wanted to crawl into bed, watch some bad TV, and forget about this whole thing for a while.

“You could both go to your other place,” Gloria suggested, totally ignoring Lucky's protest. “Give the gossip hounds a pic as you pull in. That would boost your profile—”

“Here is fine.” Michelin rubbed his temples. He looked as exhausted as Lucky felt. “Yeah. I've got a guest room. This will only be for a few days?”

“We'll work something out,” Gloria soothed. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the two of them were acting like divorced parents trying to decide where to stash the ornery tween.

“I'll be fine at home,” Lucky said firmly, even though he wasn't in a huge hurry to dodge the paparazzi and their questions again. Not to mention his landlord was sure to be having kittens with the media presence.

“Gloria's right. If we were really in a new relationship, one of us would be sleeping . . . not at home.” Michelin colored slightly, a small hint of the shy guy he'd been last night. “And we're already here. I'm not going anywhere tonight.”

Seeing as how Michelin's house had a definite hermit vibe to it with the remote location, multiple levels of security, and rustic decor, Lucky figured that Michelin didn't do sleepovers anywhere short of a six-figure tour bus or five-star hotel, but the way he just assumed Lucky would be the one to compromise still grated.

Lucky opened his mouth to protest, but Michelin held up a hand.

“Look. I've got to call my family. Probably should call some of the people who work for me, too, like band members who didn't know and the guys I mentor. I
hate
making calls. Hate. But it's the right thing to do, not let people read it in some headline. And I know this is a hassle for you, but can we just do this thing the way Gloria says?” He looked so darn weary and downtrodden that whatever protest Lucky had died in his throat.

Instead he reached out and patted Michelin's arm. He wanted to hug him again. Something about the man made Lucky even more of a touchy-feely guy than he usually was. “Okay. How do you feel about email? You could write an email. Send it out to your list. Tell them you don't have time for individual calls. They'll understand. Call only the most important people.”

“That's brilliant.” Relief was apparent on Michelin's face.

“I'll read it over if you want. If you need help—”

“I got this.” Michelin's expression buttoned up tight again. “Let me walk Gloria out, then I'll show you to the room.”

“I'll be here first thing in the morning,” Gloria promised. Or maybe it was a threat. How was it that just yesterday Lucky's life had seemed to be on track? And now he didn't even get to sleep in his own bed. But whatever, at least he wasn't the one who had to inform the people closest to him that he'd been living a lie. Lucky could give the guy a couple of nights in his guest room.

He grabbed the dinner dishes, put them in Michelin's space-age-looking dishwasher, then wiped the counters down, same as he did for his mom every Sunday night after dinner with his folks. Heck. He had his own awkward phone calls to make later, too.
“Hi. I can't come to dinner tomorrow because I'm dating this superstar and he's about to be next week's biggest story.”
Yeah, that was going to go over well. Nothing short of a communicable disease was enough to convince his mom and
abuela
that family events were optional.

“You didn't have to do that,” Michelin said from the doorway to the kitchen. He held up Lucky's duffel. “I grabbed your bag from the truck. Figured you might need it.”

“Thanks.” Lucky took the bag and followed Michelin back through the living room and down the hall past the small room that seemed to serve as an office. They entered a very ordinary bedroom with a nicely made queen bed and—

“Holy crap. Your guest room has a pool.” He strode across the room to the glass sliding door. The room did indeed open onto a small pool set amid rocks with a tiny brick pool house at the far end. Wicked cool. Even with all the views from the other rooms of the house and the brick patio that ran the length of the house, there had been no hint that this little oasis existed. Maybe this wasn't going to be
so
terrible. “Can I swim?”

“I don't know. Can you?” Michelin rubbed his jaw. His face stayed deadpan, but his eyes twinkled with the sort of humor Lucky hadn't seen very much of. The side of Michelin with the dry sense of humor didn't come around very often, but when it did, Michelin got infinitely more appealing. It made him seem more like Lucky's friends—able to give and take a joke—and less like Mr. Big-time Superstar.

Lucky grinned at him. “I was on the swim team in high school, and I've got like three Speedos in my bag. And a life guard whistle.” He'd noticed that Michelin liked his football costume last night, and he couldn't resist teasing. Just a bit. He still wasn't sleeping with the guy, but pushing his buttons was a bit of fun Lucky's night desperately needed.

“In that case, knock yourself out.” Michelin's eyes darted to the duffel he'd set on the bed. Oh yeah. He was interested in Lucky's lifeguard costume.

“Join me?” Lucky was going to swim no matter what, and he should have been craving some alone time after the ups and downs of the day, but instead found himself reluctant to say good night to Michelin.

Michelin was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. For an instant—just a flicker, really—there was such naked longing in his eyes that Lucky almost forgot that Michelin wasn't the shy, lonely guy from last night and that he had just made a bargain to keep his hands to himself. If he touched him right now, if he urged Michelin to let go and join him in the pool . . .

No. You made a
business
agreement. Stick to it. No sense in getting sentimental.

“Suit yourself.” Lucky didn't wait for a response, going over to search for a swimsuit in his duffel. He didn't want to look at Michelin and let his face reveal how much he'd been hoping for a yes.

“I hope you sleep well. Help yourself to any food in the kitchen.” Michelin's words were too formal, spoken like a guy who seldom had guests but had been taught the right thing to say. Lucky's hand clenched around his swimsuit. He hated this situation for both of them and hated invading Michelin's privacy.

“Michelin?” Lucky turned back toward him.

“Yeah?” Michelin said warily, exactly like a man way too used to people wanting favors.

“Nothing. I just hope your phone calls go well.” There was a lot more Lucky wanted to say, but the thin line of Michelin's mouth and the hard set of his jaw didn't exactly invite a mutual bitch session about how much the situation sucked, and the polar chill in Michelin's blue eyes said too much sympathy wasn't going to be received well.

“Thanks.” The man left the room with the same unreadable expression on his face.

The pool was crystal clear and the absolute perfect temperature. Lucky dove in and settled into some laps. But later, while taking a breather, he glanced up and saw a shadowed figure watching him from the master suite perched atop the house. The glassed-in room probably had some of the best views in all of L.A., but all Lucky could think about was how closely it resembled a glass fortress, Superman isolated from the rest of the world, watching over the city with hungry eyes and a lonely heart.

* * *

In the end, Michelin reluctantly took Lucky's advice and sent a terse, “Hey there's going to be this article about me, and I'm sorry for not telling you first” to the people he considered friends and the relatives who would be sharing the article with each other on Facebook long before they talked to him directly.

After he shut down the laptop, because no way could he handle reading any replies tonight, he called his cousin Rob. He and Rob had been born two days apart, and while he'd been close to all the cousins growing up, he and Rob were brothers in every way except blood. He paced his bedroom suite, making circles between the bed, the sitting area, the bathroom and back again, heart hammering as he filled Rob in. He wasn't sure he could bear it if Rob turned away from him because of the impending scandal.

Typical for him, Rob made a lot of “mmmhmm” noises and let Michelin ramble. Rob was up late walking the floor with their new baby, Maria. He could hear little baby gurgles while he told Rob about the story about to break, and that was a special kind of hell, one he could never tell anyone else about. Last time he'd visited, Rob's daughter Jane had been the baby. Michelin had taken a nap on Rob's couch with her on his chest and given her a bottle while her mama made them all tamales. His chest had been so tight, he was surprised the rest of them couldn't hear it creak with all the want. He'd had a manager once who'd suggested that Michelin marry a nice girl, give her a giant prenup, get himself some Viagra, have a couple of kids, and never worry about rumors again.

Michelin fired him on the spot. Sure, he'd taken female friends as dates to events for years, things that were more about photo opportunities for both of them, but he wasn't going to actually date or marry someone. Even if his heart did break a little every time he talked to Rob and heard the kids whizzing around in the background. Rob and Griselda had four now. A full house. Michelin's dad was one of six siblings, his mom one of five, all ridiculously procreative people, filling up their tiny county. He knew one of his mama's greatest sorrows was that he was an only kid, and he'd seen how wistful she got around Rob's brood in particular.

Just one more thing Michelin had never been able to give her. And now she was gone, and he was here, telling Rob the absolute minimum about the story and the interview scheduled for tomorrow.

“Never heard you say the words,” Rob said in between making
shh
ing noises to the baby. “But I knew. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” That they'd never had to have this conversation was something Michelin was grateful for. He'd known that Rob had guessed, probably two decades ago if they were honest, but they just danced around the issue. But he'd known before he picked up the phone that he wasn't going to shock Rob.