All Note Long

Portland Heat novellas:

 

 

 

 

 

Perfect Harmony series:

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

All Note Long

Perfect Harmony

Annabeth Albert

LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

 

LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2016 by Annabeth Albert

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

 

Lyrical Shine and Lyrical Shine logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

 

First Electronic Edition: August 2016

ISBN: 978-1-6018-3506-2

eISBN-10: 1-60183-506-X

 

ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-507-9
ISBN-10: 1-60183-507-8

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Would it be weird to dedicate a book to Spotify? Because I almost did just that. I seriously couldn't have written this book without Spotify and YouTube. Thank you to everyone who posts playlists, shares concert footage, and thank you to the artists for making their work available in those mediums. A special shout out to Steve Grand and others who are changing the face of country music to be more inclusive—thank you for sharing your journey on social media so that we can all follow along. Also, I have the best readers in the world. Thank you to everyone who asked when Michelin would get his story. I hope you enjoy! And thank you to those readers who helped me with my research into Lucky's heritage. My family put up with a lot of music and frantic writing, and their support means everything to me. Finally, a huge thank you to my editor, Peter Senftleben, and the whole team at Kensington Books. My agent, Saritza Hernandez, believed in this series from the very start, and her support is always appreciated.

M
ichelin Moses had no business at a gay bar, especially not one as notorious as West Hollywood's The Broom Closet. And the line to get in totally underscored that—the vestibule was a long, narrow tunnel filled with kids out to enjoy their Friday night. Babies, really. Fresh-faced young things who probably didn't even need to shave jostled one another in the tight space, laughing and joking as they admired one another's club wear and gossiped about who was fucking who.

Not that Michelin was listening in, but the space was so tiny it was hard not to. He didn't have club wear to ogle. He had “please for the love of God don't notice me” clothes. And the idea of openly pointing to another dude in line and announcing to one's friends, “Oh yeah, I hit that last weekend” was so totally foreign that he couldn't help but gape a bit. The plexiglass walls of the tunnel gave off weird shadows—neither the lights outside the club nor the dim track lighting along the bottom edge of the tunnel were enough illumination.

He tugged at the collar of his Henley shirt. Damn, it was hot in here. Too small. Too tight. Not enough air.
Shut up.
He was
not
claustrophobic. If this line ever moved, he'd feel better once he was inside the Closet.

“ID please.” Finally, the line reached the bouncers who were taking ID. Michelin couldn't even remember the last time he'd had to stand around like this, show ID. At least unlike these nineteen-year-olds with their fake identification, Michelin's Oregon driver's license was likely to hold up. The bouncer was a huge guy—so tall and jacked that Michelin felt for the tiny stool that held him up—with surprisingly small, delicate hands.

He held the card aloft before finally handing it back and nodding. “Okay, cowboy. Enjoy your night.”

At least he hadn't laughed outright at the name. That was something. Shoving his license back in his wallet, he stumbled a bit coming out of the tunnel.

“Watch it,” someone barked behind him.

“Sorry,” Michelin mumbled. Hell, he couldn't even successfully enter the Closet. A nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat, something he stamped right back down. Forget the stupid bar, coming out of his personal closet was out of the question, and he didn't need the crowd jostling behind him to remind him of that.

“This your first time here?” a kid to the left of him asked—short little guy with far more bravado than brains. Michelin made a noncommittal response but the kid grabbed his sleeve, his eyes going soft and hooded. “How about you be my daddy for the night? We can make sure it's your lucky night.” The kid winked.

Ugh.
Getting lucky wasn't even remotely in the cards for his night.

“No thanks.” He pulled away from the kid, scanning the cavernous space for signs of the
private
party room his friends had promised. And oh holy hell, knowing in the abstract that this place had go-go dancers was a far cry from actually seeing said dancers dispersed through the place on platforms and in cages and even on something resembling a trapeze. Gleaming bronze skin and tiny shorts everywhere he looked.

Fuck the private room. I need a soda.
Something to relieve his suddenly parched throat. He turned toward the main bar area and ran smack into one of the elevated dancers' platforms. Two platforms flanked the opening of the club, directing the stream of traffic toward the bar, sort of like how a different sort of place might have large statues. Only instead of works of stone or ice, this . . . piece of art in front of Michelin was all man.

And what a specimen he was. The dancer probably wasn't much older than the kids waiting to get into the club, but there was nothing juvenile about his tall, ripped body or that juicy bubble butt that he worked to perfection the way Michelin's guitar player did a solo—each muscle working in concert with the others, each wiggle carefully choreographed for maximum appeal. Said butt was encased in a pair of shorts. Or at least Michelin guessed that one would call them shorts—they were longer than underwear, but not by much, and made of a clingy, silky red material. The stitching did things to the guy's package that shouldn't be legal.

Those muscular legs and that smooth, oiled chest also needed outlawing. The dancer had completed his look with thick, chunky combat boots, sunglasses, and a necklace with a medal on it. The boots and glasses upped the hotness factor to supernova, giving him an untouchable appeal that made it no surprise that he had a fair-sized crowd around his platform. Right as Michelin completed his muscle-by-muscle catalog of the guy, the dancer's glasses slipped, revealing chocolaty eyes. His eyebrows went up, and the message he sent Michelin was unmistakable:
You gonna stay there all night?

Oh fuck. Michelin was blocking the line of traffic, and more important, blocking access to the platform for the patrons who wanted to slip tips in the guy's waistband.

Should he? He shoved a hand in his pocket, considering. Did he dare risk touching a piece of that gleaming skin? The lights reflecting off the dancer's body totally made Michelin think of caramel dripping off flan—rich golden tones only enhanced by the contrast of the shiny black combat boots and his closely cropped black hair.

What the fuck was the protocol in a situation like this?
Hi, I'm sorry I've been eye-fucking you for the last ten minutes, here's a five?
He'd never been to a straight strip club either. Hell, he avoided most bars like the plague. And eye-fucking? He
never
ogled—and not just because it could be disastrous to his career. Most of the time he simply felt oblivious, but something about the dancer perked up parts of Michelin that usually stayed dormant. Two people shoved around him to stuff money in the dancer's shorts, their arms trapping Michelin briefly in place. Coming here had been a giant mistake, just as Gloria had warned him.

“You can't go to that party! Gossip is already high about you mentoring
two
gay groups—”

Except now, looking at the dancer, Michelin knew how wrong he'd been. This place was risk personified, and that dancer was the embodiment of everything Michelin denied himself. The dancer was a triple pour of top-shelf whiskey and Michelin couldn't stop thinking about the heady rush touching him would bring. He should turn around now. Get back to his car now before he really embarrassed himself—

“Mi—boss! There you are!”

Oh thank you, small mercies, that Lucas stopped himself before he said Michelin's name. Still, Michelin turned toward him warily.
Play it cool,
he tried to tell Lucas with his eyes.

Lucas nodded, just slightly. Message received. Like everyone else in the club, Lucas was in his early twenties and about a decade younger than Michelin, but at least he was one of Michelin's favorite kids, especially because he was here to lead Michelin away from the temptation that was the dancer with the sculpture-worthy ass.

“The party room is back this way.” Lucas motioned with his hand. “Follow me.”

“Babe!” A familiar rangy figure with a punk haircut draped himself over Lucas. “You found him.” Cody had a smile for Michelin, but his affection was all for his boyfriend.

Ordinarily, Michelin loved being around the two of them and the other guys he mentored. Their energy was infectious, and their passion for music renewed his own. But tonight, Michelin's stomach cramped as he followed the two of them to the rear of the club. Happiness practically rolled off them and their movements were totally in sync with each other. Once Michelin had thought he might get to know what that was like, but those days were long past.

“Don't even think about doing anything now. You've got too much riding on this year. Don't be foolish. You've got the number one country song in America right now. Don't mess with your momentum.”
Gloria's voice rang in his ears. Nope. No way was Michelin ever getting what his friends shared. No sense in pining for it either. He had a career he loved, friends who made him laugh, and family at his back. He'd known what the trade-offs were when he decided to trade his rock stardom for country crossover success.

Tonight's strange melancholy mood had him aching to get back home, push all these feelings into working on a new song. With any luck, Michelin could say happy birthday to Jalen, make a round of greetings to the other musicians he was mentoring, and get the hell out of Dodge. Preferably without running into the dancer again. He didn't need another reminder of how little he fit into this world—or how much he wished life were a bit different.

* * *

The door to the changing room swung open while Lucky was in the middle of pulling his red shorts off.
Fucker.
Just as Lucky was about to curse aloud, his boss's face appeared in the doorway.

The four long hairs in Carlos's comb-over were sticky with sweat, and he mopped at his round face with a handkerchief. The AC never worked as well as it could in this part of the club. Carlos didn't bother looking away while Lucky collected the money from his shorts and pulled loose the bills that had stuck to his skin.

Working the entrance had been a pretty lean shift, punctuated by the adorkable tall dude in the slouchy beanie who looked at Lucky like he wanted to devour him with a spoon. Slowly. But then he hadn't tipped and had looked a bit like a lost kitten in a room full of dogs until some guys dragged him away. Yeah, when a non-tipper was the highlight of the shift, it wasn't exactly a great set at all. Lucky's combat boots and sunglasses were already back in his bag. Next up was his football ensemble—unlaced white pants, cleats, and a smudge of black makeup under his eyes.

“Lucky and Rod, you're working the party room next.” Carlos finished mopping himself to make the demand.

“Aw. Really?” Rod looked up from taking a swig of the mineral water he carried everywhere. “It's a twenty-first birthday party, right? I'm really not up for teaching a bunch of frat boys stripper manners 101.”

Lucky nodded. Young guys. Old guys. Everyone tended to get more handsy in the private party room, and Lucky got damn tired of being the rule enforcer in there, because Carlos rarely gave them adequate security in the lounge. Tonight was one of those nights when he just wanted to dance. Just get him in his cage, get him in his zone, let the club tunes wash over him until it was his turn at the main stage. He
lived
for his main stage slots. His music. His choreography. But it wasn't his club. It was Carlos's. And that meant that if Carlos wanted to push them toward the Kmart tippers, he could.

“The last twenty-first birthday party you made us work had shit for tips. Can't you get Julio or Dwayne to do it? They're newer,” he reminded Carlos. Private parties were so damn unpredictable—sometimes he could rake in the dough while other times it was a total waste of time. The main stage was pretty predictably good on a busy Friday night. He wasn't in the mood to pass up a main stage slot and have to babysit a room and play keep-away with his dick for two hours.

“Nope. You guys to start. We'll let them switch you out later.” Carlos made it sound like he was doing them a huge favor. “And Lucky? Not that.” He motioned at Lucky's football pants. “Give them a
nice
show, huh?” Carlos, while not the
worst
boss Lucky had ever had, had definite
opinions
and ideas about Lucky's wardrobe choices.

And while Lucky wasn't the least bit shy, he did bristle a bit as he dug in his bag for briefs instead. Something about Carlos demanding it always made Lucky feel fifteen with his
abuela
clucking over how tight his jeans were and never being happy with his fashion choices for Sunday dinner. Nothing was
ever
good enough for either of them unless they picked it themselves, and even then they'd find issue with how he wore it.

So, fine, he'd wear his favorite Andrew Christian Cosmos “twerk” briefs with the cock sock he most certainly did not have to pad, no matter what that bitch Dwayne said last week. Rod pulled on a jock. Carlos nodded approvingly at Rod and sighed heavily at Lucky.

What the fuck? Why did Carlos always have to act like Lucky had taken a crap in the middle of the club? He wore a jock plenty.
This
was why he needed every main stage show he could get—he needed to perfect his routine and collect the cash to make his video entry in the
Vegas or Bust
contest absolutely killer. The revue show had asked for professional-quality dance videos from its finalists—pro costuming, choreography, lighting, and all to show that he was worthy of a stage slot. If he got the job, he could dump Carlos and this club and focus on the next step for his future. But not until he had enough socked away.

He dug his boots back out, laced them up, locked up the rest of his crap, and grabbed his water bottle.