All Note Long (7 page)

“You need me to run interference with rest of the family until this blows over?” Predictably, Rob guessed the real reason for his phone call.

“Yeah.” Michelin wasn't too proud to admit that he needed that. They'd all been so thrilled when he'd returned to his country roots. He had no illusions that he'd be the subject of family gossip, most of it not pleasant, for a while. Oh, they wouldn't disown him, and they weren't the type to say ugly things to his face, but the rumors and judgments would still swirl. “Only thing is, I'm not sure this is gonna blow over. People aren't going to let this go, Rob. Doesn't matter even if the nastier part of the story stays buried. The fans aren't going to treat me the same.”

Because it was Rob and they had three and a half decades behind them, he could voice his biggest fear without needing a giant shot of whiskey to do it. He leaned against the desk in his sitting area, letting the corner dig hard into his thigh while he waited for a reply.

“Fuck the fans,” Rob said firmly. “You're still my brother. Same as yesterday. And you're still the guy who wrote ‘Graduation Day' and ‘Sunday Afternoon Party' and the rest of the songs that have become anthems for Redneck Nation. All those kids using you for their senior class song—they're not going anywhere.” Rob sounded far more convinced than Michelin felt.

“Here's to hoping.” He turned toward the bank of windows that overlooked the valley below—and the pool to the eastern part of his property. Lucky was swimming smooth, graceful laps, churning through the water. Watching him was more soothing than pacing, more reassuring than even Rob's words.

“This . . . thing with the dancer—is it really only for show?” Rob sounded more curious than judgmental.

“Yeah.” He watched as Lucky hoisted himself out of the pool, and even though it was way too far to see his eyes, Michelin swore he could
feel
those chocolaty depths meet his own, swore he could sense the questions in Lucky's head.

“Darn.” Rob laughed. “I was going to tell you to bring him on up here. Griselda would love the chance to cook for you, and she's waited a decade now for you to bring a date around. Kids miss their uncle, too.”

“I miss them bunches.” Michelin's throat went all tight. He knew Rob was simply saying the right things—trying to bolster him back up and let him know he was still family. But the same way his heart felt soft and tender, almost bruised, around Rob's kids, he got a bit of an ache thinking about bringing someone back home. Once upon a time...

He'd been a naive kid. And he wasn't ever going to be that stupid again. Even with him going public about being gay, he still wasn't sure he could ever trust his heart enough for a real, lasting relationship, the kind Rob and Griselda had.

However, damn if he didn't stand there a long time, watching Lucky swim and wishing for things that could never be.

T
he interview with Katie Remmington was not going well. Michelin had done enough press junkets ever since the first Speed Kills album to know when things were going off the rails in a big way. He knew he had a reputation for polite but monosyllabic answers and that tended to frustrate reporters. But over the years, he'd developed a working relationship with a few people, a sort of mutual understanding that got him decent press and the reporters longer quotes because he could relax enough to be sure he wouldn't stutter or clam up.

That wasn't the case with this interview.

First off, Katie Remmington was a huge deal with her own show on a big network, and her set alone intimidated Michelin. White shag rug, white leather couches, and discreetly placed white tissue boxes, all seeming to convey the message that this woman wouldn't stop until she had people crying and the audience convinced she'd gotten to the “truth.” Least bit of dirt would leave a smudge on her pristine veneer, and hell if Michelin didn't feel like a dusty teenager fresh off the ranch sitting there.

Gloria was over the moon that Katie had wanted the exclusive TV interview with Michelin, but he would rather have his toenails removed one by one than go head to head with the reigning Queen of Pain Porn. The label had been given to her by a competing network because of her remarkable ability to wring the emotions from a story, and right that minute, Michelin had to agree with the title.

She hadn't made him cry, but as soon as the cameras started rolling, she had transformed from a sweet grandmother greeting him in the green room to the hard-nosed interviewer with all the Emmy awards.

And he'd transformed back into the tongue-tied kid who couldn't trust his own freaking mouth.

“So tell me more about your relationship with Lucky Rain? What appeals to you about him?

“I-I-I . . . uh . . .” Michelin looked around helplessly. This was the third take on this particular line of questioning. Katie wanted an expansive answer. Gloria, who stood off to the side, wanted the long answer they'd rehearsed over and over that morning. Lucky, who stood next to Gloria, probably just wanted this over with. He wasn't there to be interviewed. He was there, along with the manager Michelin rarely saw in person and Michelin's stylist—his tiny entourage—solely to add cred to the boyfriend thing. All four of his people watching him flounder sucked. He should have insisted on coming alone.

“Cut,” the director yelled.

“If you can't
talk
about this, we're going to have to scrap the feature. My viewers like a
conversation.
And right now, frankly, you're bad TV.”

Gloria bustled over while Katie glowered at both of them.

“Water?” Gloria offered. “You comfortable enough? You could unbutton your shirt collar.”

“I'm fine.” Each word took monumental effort to get out, and this was without the cameras pointed on him. His hand moved restlessly against his black denim–clad thigh.

“You'd do a lot better if they'd give you a guitar.” Lucky had left the others by the cameras and come to stand next to Gloria.

Michelin laughed despite himself, because Lucky was exactly right. On stage, the second the roadie handed him his guitar, all stage fright dropped away. He could converse with his audience, make them laugh, but the second he was off stage, the crowd felt oppressive again.

“You've got this, though. Really.” Lucky crouched next to Michelin's chair and held out his phone. “Look at the reaction to the article. You've got supportive tweets pouring in from around the world, and people saying they can't wait to see the interview.”

“Not helping.” The pressure of the audience inside Michelin's head multiplied. People wanted to see him witty and charming and he just wasn't. Even so, he smiled at Lucky. Something about him being nearby and trying to get Michelin relaxed
did
help, way more so than Gloria's hovering.

“How about this?” Lucky held out a can of soda.

“That might.” Michelin popped the top and took a long swig.

“New plan.” Katie clapped her hands together. “I liked the idea of focusing solely on you for the segment, but you're about thirty times more relaxed with Lucky here. And I don't have all night. Let's get Lucky miked up and have him join you on the sofa.”

An hour ago Michelin would have objected, both because he didn't want to drag Lucky more into this mess, and he didn't really trust Lucky not to make things worse. But seeing as how things were already terrible, adding a dose of Lucky couldn't hurt.

“Is what I'm wearing okay?” Lucky asked as a tech handled getting him miked up.

“It'll have to do,” the director said ominously.

“You look great.” Michelin wasn't lying there. Michelin's stylist had sent over clothes for both of them, and Lucky had emerged for the ride to the studio in tight jeans, a cream-colored close-fitting light knit shirt that perfectly contrasted with his tan skin and dark hair, which he'd styled to show off its wavy texture. He looked like something out of a magazine spread on effortless weekend living, while Michelin had relied on his stylist to get him in the same sort of clothes he'd worn the last two or three years for pressers: vaguely western shirt in some dark shade, black jeans, and boots.

Katie Remmington conferred with her producers while Lucky got a quick work-over from a makeup person, but too soon they were rolling film again. Lucky settled a bit closer to him on the couch than Michelin might like.

“So, Lucky, tell us about your relationship? What drew you to Michelin?”

And then Lucky proceeded to spin such a fairy tale that Michelin darn near fell in love with him himself, the way Lucky was talking about Michelin's smile and his cooking and his dry sense of humor, and selling the whole lust-at-first-sight thing like whoa and damn.

Lucky bantered back and forth with Katie with such ease that Michelin almost forgot they were being filmed.

“Did you feel the same way, Michelin?” She finally lobbed a question at him again.

“Yes.” At that moment Michelin had such fervent gratitude for Lucky's acting skills that it wasn't hard to play along. “I knew I found a winner.”

He shot Lucky a smile he meant only for him, but Katie's little “awwww”said the camera caught it, too.

“So any future plans for you two?”

Michelin could feel his throat tightening again. Fuck. They hadn't rehearsed this question. Right as he was about to try to force a reply out, Lucky reached over and patted his knee.

I've got this,
Lucky's eyes said.

I'm not sure I can trust you,
Michelin's gut said, but he nodded. Anyone whose lies made Michelin feel
this
good inside, all warm and cozy like he was part of this awesome story, was not to be trusted.

“Just enjoying each and every day. You can't rush these things.” Lucky managed to make such a vague reply sound utterly sincere. “I can't wait to see where the road takes us.”

Me too.
Michelin found himself nodding along before he remembered again that this was entirely for show.

“That's a wrap,” the director said, and Katie came out from behind her desk.

“Finally. We got some useful stuff there, gentlemen.” She shook their hands, then winked at Michelin. “You've got a keeper there. Better make him stick around. He makes you look good.”

I wish I could.
Michelin nodded at Katie even as he told his thoughts to find a new avenue of obsession. Hadn't he just seen Lucky lie with absolute conviction about Michelin's better traits for thirty minutes?

He waited until they were on their way back to the truck to say as much to Lucky. “You're a dang fine actor. And you're great with the cameras.”

Lucky gave him a bemused smile. “Thanks. I think. I had a bunch of public speaking classes in college. Always loved them.”

“You went to college?” Unfortunately, Michelin couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice because Lucky absolutely skewered him with a steely look.

“Graduated with a 3.5 GPA from Cal State Long Beach. Double majored in dance and business communication. Got a full-ride dance scholarship. What? You think all go-go boys have GEDs and trouble adding up their tips?”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to assume.” Michelin took his time getting in the driver's seat because yes, he had thought that dancing in a bar was a job people got when they had trouble getting other work. And truth was he'd barely squeaked out a high school diploma himself.

Lucky hefted himself up into the passenger side of the truck with more force than necessary, landing with a plop in the seat. “Where'd
you
go to school?”

“Didn't go to college,” Michelin mumbled as he started the truck. “We'd been playing fairs and events around the state for the last two years of high school. Finally got a record deal the summer after graduation. Never looked back.”

That wasn't quite true. Every time he had to meet with his financial manager and ask him to explain things a second or third time, he thought that perhaps he should have paid a bit more attention in math class. And simple computer stuff took him a ridiculous amount of time. Just writing the email to his contact list had been painfully hard. And now it made sense why Lucky had offered to help him. He'd written
real
stuff before, not just social media status updates. Michelin had never really given a lot of thought to the background of strippers—dancers—but Lucky busted down every last one of his assumptions.

And if he was honest, Lucky had been doing that since they met—he was smart, articulate, funny with a quick wit that got all Michelin's jokes. And apparently he had ambition to rival Michelin's own. A plan for his future and a fancy degree to back it up. And he was infinitely more comfortable with all this media attention than Michelin—savvy in a way that Michelin wasn't, even with two decades of experience being in the public eye.

Feeling weirdly inadequate, Michelin flipped the stereo on. Some Eddy Arnold was exactly what he needed and Lucky could just stuff it if he didn't like classic country. But Lucky stayed quiet until Michelin was keying the security code to his gate.

“Wait. Michelin. What's that?” Lucky pointed to a lump near the privacy fence.

The lump struggled to its feet. The dustiest, skinniest dog Michelin had ever seen approached the truck on wobbly legs. Of indeterminate breed, it seemed to be held together with fur and dirt.

“Leave it. I'll call animal control—” Michelin might as well have saved the air, because Lucky was already out of the truck, his ever-present water bottle in hand. Lucky crouched down, pouring a slow stream for the dog to lap at.

“We gotta get you a bowl,” Lucky said to the dog. “No collar, huh? And looks like someone tangled with a kitty.”

The dog sported several nasty scratches along its muzzle. It might well have other wounds, but it was hard to guess under all the filth. It looked like it had been outdoors for weeks on end.

“Seriously. We can call Animal Control—”

“Look how dehydrated she is! She might not live until they finally make their way here. Trust me. I know how long the wait times are for animal control when it's not an emergency. And the pound isn't going to keep an animal in this rough shape.” Lucky shook his head mournfully.

“I do
not
need a dog.” Michelin could already see the direction the wheels in Lucky's head were turning. He was going to stand firm on this, even as his stomach clenched with sympathy for the poor creature.

“Oh, of course you don't,” Lucky said cheerfully as he hefted the dog into his arms, totally ignoring his pristine sweater. “Trust me. I've done this before. I'll clean her up, get some food into her, take the cutest pictures you've ever seen, and one of my friends or family will have themselves a new dog by the end of the week.”

“She's not getting that dirt on my truck seats.” Michelin resigned himself to the dog being Lucky's project for the afternoon, but he had to assert some control somehow.

“It's not that far to the house.” Lucky gave him a mock salute as he shouldered what had to be thirty pounds of canine. “I'll do the washing in the pool house bathroom. And yes, I'll clean it up afterward. She won't be any trouble. You'll see. And just like me, she'll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Michelin snorted as he got back into the truck. “I think you're both likely to be a passel of trouble before long, but climb up in the back with her.”

“Thanks.” Lucky gave him a huge grin as he swung up into the bed of the truck.

No trouble. No trouble at all. Somehow Michelin sincerely doubted that.