All Note Long (11 page)

“Tim. What's happening, man?” Michelin rolled his window down.

“Little bit of a disturbance. Nothing to worry about, but what I'm going to do is have you pull in tight next to the service entrance back here. Then you'll hop out and Danny here will park for you, while Marco and I get you to the dressing room. Your guitars and wardrobe are already waiting for you.”

Michelin really didn't think this “disturbance” was worth quite this much hassle, but he knew Tim was just trying to do his job, so he nodded sharply.

“Man. This is hardcore,” Lucky said under his breath. “This is like the crazy Jesus freaks who protest funerals and crap—”

“Watch your mouth.” Michelin had had enough. “You don't go disrespecting all religion just because a few people disagree with you. And no funny business when we walk in. Don't antagonize them.”

“What, like don't touch you? Don't look too gay?” Lucky shook his head, disgust rolling off him in waves.

“Let's just go in
quickly,”
Gloria butted in. “And you can be sure the news will mention the protesters. Don't make it worse by doing anything stupid here.”

“Fine.” Lucky leaped out as soon as Michelin stopped, the unseasonably warm spring day's humidity hitting them full force. Danny took the keys from Michelin, then Marco and Tim herded them in, but not before Michelin glanced over at the group on the sidewalk outside the gate.

“You can still repent, Michelin! God still loves you!” a protester yelled.

“I burned all my concert t-shirts!”

“You disappointed me!” That one
hurt—
enough that Michelin physically recoiled, stumbling a bit on his way into the building.

Tim grabbed his arm like he was eighty and led him straight to his dressing room.

“We're going to make sure there's no more surprises, boss. Promise. The show will go off without a hitch,” he assured Michelin on his way out of the room, leaving Michelin alone with Gloria and Lucky. He sank onto the nearest chair, covering his face with his hands.

“No one said this would be easy,” she said, nails making clicking noises against that infernal phone. “I'm working a bit of damage control on it, and hopefully the local stations will cover the event, not the protesters. Now—”

“Gloria?” Lucky interrupted her. “Can you get Michelin a cold soda? Maybe something for him to eat?”

There was a long pause, but Michelin didn't look up to see whether or not Gloria was bristling at being given orders by Lucky. “Of course. I'll be right back,” she said finally.

The door shut with a click, but Michelin still didn't raise his head. Warm hands landed on his shoulders, massaging lightly.

Fuck. Michelin did
not
deserve such niceness right then. Lucky should be stalking off, not digging in his heels and dishing out support Michelin hadn't earned.

“Sorry. I'm an asshole.” He'd been downright rude to Lucky—pushing him away at the radio station, snapping at him in the car. Lucky would be totally justified in telling Michelin where to shove it.

“You're stressed.” Lucky punctuated his words by digging his thumbs into Michelin's knotted neck. “But feel free to dial back from max grizzly.”

The worst part was how much Michelin craved his touch, relaxing into the contact like he always did with Lucky. He always managed to make Michelin stretch like a kitten despite his better instincts. It really was shameful how much he liked having Lucky around, how much he liked the sound of his voice, his casual touches; even just catching a glimpse of him practicing dancing out by the pool was enough to make Michelin smile.

And Lucky had a way of pulling the truth loose from the locked box of Michelin's chest. “I shouldn't have come out. It was a mistake.”

Lucky's hands slowed. “You didn't really have a choice. You mean you shouldn't have gone to the party?”
Shouldn't have met me
was implied.

Michelin thought about that. Didn't matter that he'd only kissed Lucky twice now or that so much of this was for show—Lucky and that stupid dog of his added something to Michelin's life. Would he trade those kisses and all their conversations for the chance to not feel like this? The chance to have things be like they were before?

“No,” he said finally. “It's complicated, but no. Glad I met you.” He tipped his head back, opening his eyes so he could stare into Lucky's.

“Me too,” Lucky said, and something potent ricocheted between them, something both tender and fierce in its intensity.

“I wish—”

“I'm back.” Gloria bustled back into the room, and Lucky stepped away from him. The moment, if it had ever been there to begin with, was lost. It was just as well, as it saved Michelin from another stupid mistake. Hadn't he learned that verbalizing his wishes was a ticket to disaster?

Even knowing that didn't stop him from wondering what Lucky's reply would have been had he been able to finish his thought.
I wish this was real. Tell me what I need to do to make that happen.
Yeah, probably better that he keep such things to himself.

L
ucky had been right. The food did help Michelin. He wasn't really sure why he wasn't more pissed at Michelin for being in a bad mood and taking it out on him. Maybe because he knew that little of this was actually about him. This was about Michelin dealing with a shift to his entire worldview and some growing pains were inevitable. And maybe it was because of Michelin's wounded tiger body language when he came out of the radio station with his broad shoulders slumped, head bowed, gait slowed. Or the crushed expression when the protesters yelled at him—Lucky was pretty damn strong and he didn't think he could sock Michelin hard enough to duplicate the pain in his eyes.

All of it combined so that Lucky simply wanted Michelin to feel better, and taking care of him with the shoulder rub and making sure he had soda and a sandwich and fussing with his collar even after Jennifer did her thing with makeup and wardrobe were all little actions that were as much for himself as for Michelin. He got Michelin to smile by showing him some pictures of the dog that his mom had texted him. Laughing about the dog together served as a reminder that, despite everything fake about their relationship, he
did
like Michelin as a person and did want him happy.

Apart from the weird protectiveness he felt toward Michelin, being backstage at an event like this was pretty cool. The historic building had multiple long corridors and rooms behind the main stage area. One of the rooms had been turned into a VIP lounge with food and drinks and people socializing before they made their way to the special VIP seating area by the stage. A peek out into the main area revealed a mixture of standing-room-only in front of the stage and seating, with balcony areas already filling with fans, many of whom looked ready to party in fancy western wear and were holding drinks from the bar area.

After he recovered from his mini-freak-out and got dressed, Michelin was nonstop busy with checking the guitars a roadie brought him for inspection, greeting more VIPs from the label and radio station, spending a few minutes with fans who had won backstage passes, and going over the itinerary with Gloria. Through it all, Michelin reverted back to the polished dude he'd been on the plane—the star-crusted glow of a real mover and shaker. Almost too shiny for Lucky to touch.

But a few minutes before he was due on stage, he brushed by Lucky to grab a bottle of water from a nearby metal tub, and the facade slipped. “Hey, you,” he said with tired eyes. “You bored?”

“Not at all.” Lucky touched his sleeve, both because they were in public and needed the good boyfriend vibes but also because Michelin responded to his touch like no one else ever had. Michelin absolutely sank into even small incidental contact, entire big body arching toward Lucky.

“Probably won't see you until late.” The tension was back around Michelin's mouth.

“You're going to do amazing.” Lucky rubbed his arm up and down.

“What if... more protesters . . . disappointed . . . my fans. Fuck. Can't talk.” Michelin shook his head, and Lucky did something he'd been wanting to do for
days:
he gave Michelin a full-body hug. Not one of those restrained happy-to-see-you greeting hugs for the cameras or jovial back-slapping bro-hugs, but a tight embrace. One where he could feel the hard press of Michelin's chest, smell his warm cedar scent, and stroke his broad back muscles.

“It's okay. I know what you meant. But the security guys will make sure there's no disturbance, and you can't worry about the fans. You haven't disappointed anyone. Go out there and sing for you. And sing for the fans who are here. The ones who aren't going anywhere.”

Michelin nodded sharply, chin brushing Lucky's face. Heat zoomed between their bodies, far too much for an embrace Lucky had meant as mainly bolstering. Stupidly, he didn't pull away, instead squeezing Michelin tighter.

“Oh, that's going to be the perfect candid for the press lurking around!” Gloria came up and reminded Lucky that whatever warmth he felt from the hug was as temporary as one of those five-minute hand warmer packs. “But, Michelin, it's time. Knock their socks off.”

One of the roadies led Michelin to the stage while Gloria took Lucky to the VIP area for the show. It was separated from the standing-room crowd pushing closer to the stage with a velvet rope off to the side of the stage. In contrast, the VIP area had tall tables and stools, as well as one of the security guys standing near. They got there right as Michelin was introduced, to a huge roar of applause. Huge monitors on either side of the stage projected larger-than-life images of the band, but the monitors had nothing on the king-size presence of the man himself. Man, when the spotlight hit Michelin, he was absolutely . . . riveting. Mesmerizing.

It went without saying that this wasn't Lucky's preferred genre of music, but he was no stranger to concerts, and Michelin had the magical “it” factor than only the biggest stars could pull off. One would never know that five minutes ago he had been the uncertain guy who had needed a long hug from Lucky to prop him up. No, that guy was long gone, replaced by a superstar who bantered with his band and joked to the audience.

“I love spring, and this year, my favorite thing is how many people have responded to the first single off the album, ‘Graduation Day.' This one goes out to all the schools who have let me know they're using it as their class song. Y'all warm my heart and this one's for you.” Michelin picked up a gleaming black twelve-string guitar.

In all their hanging out, Lucky still hadn't heard Michelin sing, and somehow looking up videos had felt . . . disrespectful in a weird way. But as soon as Michelin launched into the opening chords, Lucky knew the real reason he hadn't sought out Michelin's music— fear, plain and simple. He'd been afraid to see this side of Michelin, to have it absolutely cemented how out of his league Michelin was, afraid of falling even more under Michelin's spell.

And all those fears were absolutely warranted. Everyone who said Michelin had a once-in-a-generation voice hadn't been wrong. His rich distinctive baritone made each word of the lyrics shine like polished amber. Once he got beyond Michelin's voice to focus on the song itself, Lucky's throat got all tight. It was a beautiful ode to being ready for the better things the bigger world had to offer and leaving petty things behind, almost like a musical “It gets better” ad.

“Oh fuck,” Lucky whispered under his breath. He doubted Michelin had even thought consciously about it when he wrote the song, but it was
totally
about being the gay kid in the class. And it wasn't going to take much before conservatives started making the connections. The whole album seemed to have a theme of being oneself and not waiting too long to live. The songs were hauntingly beautiful, and Lucky found himself battling a sea of conflicting emotions: pride, pleasure, admiration, and dread about what the critics were going to do.

“This next song is really close to my heart. I wrote it while my mama was sick the last time, and I call it ‘The Me You Never Knew,' and while this whole album is a testament to the country she loved and the values she held dear, this one is probably the most personal,” Michelin said partway through the set before launching into another song.

“Are you
sure
he didn't plan to come out?” Lucky couldn't help whispering to Gloria. That's what the song had to be about. It just had to be. No way it wasn't.

“
Hush.
” Her eyes were Ginsu-knife sharp and as shifty as a guy selling counterfeits on a street corner. “This is about people not realizing the influence they have on someone until they're gone. That's all. Don't read more into it than that.”

Lucky wasn't sure whether Michelin planned it, but the whole album read as the testimony of a guy desperate to stop hiding. And if Lucky saw it, others would, too, and Michelin's worst fears would come true—his coming out would forever color this album.

Lucky wanted to wrap Michelin in one of the ridiculously soft bath sheets he stocked the house with and tuck him back in his glass fortress, keep him where public opinion couldn't hurt him, because it was coming, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

Michelin ended with some crowd favorites from his other album, including the wildly popular one about tailgating that got the whole place rocking, but Lucky couldn't shake his unease.

After the concert, Michelin had more obligations—autographs and pictures and more kind words for the people with backstage passes. Lucky hung back with Jennifer, the stylist, and chatted with her about nursery choices. God hadn't gifted him with three sisters-in-law for nothing. Lucky could talk baby and pregnancy stuff with a quarter of his brain and use the rest for watching Michelin work the crowd.

In fact, he was doing such a superb job nodding along that he almost missed Jennifer's sharp intake of breath. “Oh crap. What's
he
doing here?”

“Who?” Lucky watched as an expensively dressed guy with short blond hair approached Michelin. “Wait. Is that Steve Brewer?”

“The one and only.” Jennifer grabbed Lucky's arm pulling him closer. “Oh, I do
not
like this impromptu Speed Kills reunion. Poor Michelin.”

“Steve Brewer was in Speed Kills with Michelin?” Lucky really needed a primer on “Michelin, the Early Years.” He knew who Steve Brewer was, though—anyone who watched even a single episode of
Star!
where he was a judge would recognize his trademark aging Adonis looks. Lately, though, he was also known for his pop collaborations with hip-hop and rap stars, with a popular track that seemed to keep popping up on Lucky's digital radio stations.

“Yeah.” Jennifer kept her voice low. “They both sang lead, but Michelin was more the front man. The band broke up and Steve's solo career took off like a rocket, while Michelin's took the long way around. He should have let himself do the country thing
years
ago.”

What Michelin really needed was to tell this guy to go away—his frown kept getting deeper and deeper as Steve talked to him. Then the guy touched Michelin's arm, and he recoiled hard, pulling his arm back.

“Hey, Lucky—” Jennifer said thoughtfully.

“I'm on it.” Lucky didn't really need her prodding, but knowing the guy had some unhappy history with Michelin was a helpful tidbit. He went over to Michelin, giving the lurking hulk of a security guy a nod. He was the same one who had ushered them into the building and he nodded back, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Clearly Steve Brewer didn't have a fan club in Michelin's inner circle, which made Lucky wonder exactly how bad the band breakup had been and, more important, what had caused it.

Not waiting for Michelin to spot him, Lucky draped himself over Michelin's back, a much more calculated embrace than their pre-show hug, crossing his fingers that Michelin didn't push him away. However, whether it was for the cameras or as a result of their freaky-deaky chemistry together, Michelin sagged against him. Lucky pressed a kiss against Michelin's neck.

“See you brought the boy toy.” Steve shook his head, full of fake sadness and concern. “That publicity stunt may be going over great in L.A. but good luck keeping it country. They're going to roast you. Just wait.”

“Al pedo como teta de monja,”
Lucky cursed in Spanish and glared at him.

“God, Mich, does he even speak English?” Steve didn't bother glaring back at Lucky, instead continuing to address only Michelin.

“Better than you, I reckon.” Michelin scratched his jaw.

“You come all this way to tell the future?” Lucky spared them more of his cousins' Argentine slang, although he was tempted to keep up the
no hablo Inglés
routine just for kicks. He came out from around Michelin's back to stand next to him.

Michelin turned, his eyes catching Lucky's with a clear message.
You need me for something?
Please
need me for something.

Lucky wouldn't have any trouble dreaming up diva-worthy interruptions and demands, but a pouting hissy fit, even fake, wasn't really his style. Instead he went for truth, which he knew Michelin would appreciate more. “Jennifer's been on her feet a long time now. You think you could let her get you out of the wardrobe so she can head back to her hotel or just tell her you're good to go?”

Michelin's face sagged with relief. “Yes. Of course. I need to change, and I know she wants to stow these duds for a future gig.”

“You gonna come party later tonight at the hotel?” Steve asked.

Michelin tugged on his ear. “I gotta make an appearance.”

Lucky read that discomfort loud and clear. “A
quick
one.
Te quiero cojer a través del colchón.
” He put tons of suggestive innuendo on the Spanish, not that he really needed acting lessons to express how badly he wanted to fuck Michelin through the mattress. He was
just
pissed enough not to care whether other Spanish speakers were around either.

Michelin blinked, but nodded. He likely had no more clue than Steve what Lucky had said—which was Lucky's intent.