All Note Long (12 page)

“Yeah. Super quick.” He gave Lucky the kind of intimate smile that showed Lucky wasn't the only one with acting chops in this “relationship.”

“Whatever. Not like you even know how to have fun anymore.” Steve rolled his muddy green eyes. The skin around them was unnaturally tight.

“Oh, he's plenty of fun.” Lucky gave Michelin a squeeze.

“I'm
sure.
” Steve walked away. The way he said “sure” made the hair on the back of Lucky's neck prickle. One thing was for sure—he and Michelin weren't about to have a shortage of things to talk about later. Which was good, because Lucky needed a distraction to remind himself why all these touches and innuendo couldn't lead to their logical conclusion.

M
ichelin changed into carefully selected “casual country” clothes for the after party. Jennifer fussed over him until Michelin sent her back to the hotel with strict instructions to rest. As for he and Lucky, they headed for the hotel as well, but he wished they could just cut the BS and call it a night. His music row condo wasn't far from the swank hotel where the label and sponsors were holding the after party, and he really wished he could skip ahead to the part where he convinced Lucky to act on the lewd suggestions he'd been making in front of Steve.
Not happening.

Tim insisted on coming along to double-check the security, which only intensified Michelin's desire to be alone with Lucky.

“I've already sent Danny over to your place. He'll make sure everything's set for you. No more unexpected disturbances.” Tim escorted them into the hotel like he was auditioning for the Secret Service—eyes sweeping around the lobby, insisting on waiting for an empty elevator, and talking to the security guy outside the entrance to the party suite like he was handing over the president.

With that kind of thoroughness, why hadn't security managed to keep Steve out? Of course, it wasn't like Michelin had expressly told Gloria or Tim or anyone else to keep Steve away, and not even Jennifer knew the full story there either. For all that he loved to see and be seen, Steve usually stuck to New York and L.A., and his love of high-profile socializing kept him from running into Michelin's more humble circles in L.A. Michelin was sure Steve's publicist was already spinning his appearance here—
Steve Brewer lends support to newly out ex–band mate . . .

Because of course the guy couldn't just tweet or Instagram like the other A-listers lending support—he had to go the route designed to maximize exposure for himself, even if it meant braving the less familiar Nashville scene to do it. A headline was a headline, and even better if he shit on a bit of Michelin's happiness to get it. Fuck. What a mess.

“You want me to fake food poisoning if that snake tries to talk to you again?” Lucky asked while they waited for Tim to give them the all-clear to enter.

Michelin laughed, long and low. Simple as that, his irritation at Steve's appearance fled. With Lucky, even unpleasant things had the potential for a shared joke, and for an instant, Michelin almost wished Steve would seek him out again, just so he could watch Lucky slice, dice, and roast him.

Almost.
Michelin wasn't quite that crazy or quite that drama-hungry. What he really wanted was to laugh about Steve after one of his dinners with Lucky back at his house, dog at their feet, food long since eaten.

“There you are!” Right on cue, Gloria arrived to whisk him around the room to greet yet more people he
had
to make small talk with. At some point, Lucky wandered off to go find a restroom, leaving Michelin with some producers who were sending out feelers for a country themed reality show and wanted Michelin's input for his “strong track record of viewer appeal” and his “mainstream, liberal appeal.” There was a strong undercurrent of “nab the gay cowboy for ratings” to the whole discussion, but Michelin
did
enjoy judging the reality competitions and said to send the materials on to his business manager.

He looked around the crowded room for Lucky, finally spotting him with two attractive blondes over by one of the huge windows overlooking the Nashville skyline. Michelin recognized one as a young woman who had almost won one of the reality shows singing country standards but lately had been making pop inroads with a new single. Lucky was deep in conversation, and he made both young ladies laugh.

Pride, strange and unbidden, welled up in Michelin's chest.
That's my guy.

Only he wasn't, not really, and longing mingled with the pride until a good part of Michelin wanted to march over there and kiss Lucky stupid, claim him for everyone to see. Even walking at his usual sedate pace, his steps felt new urgency, and when he reached Lucky's side, he pulled the same trick Lucky had used and wrapped an arm around him from behind.

Lucky made a surprised noise as he tilted his head to meet Michelin's eyes. His eyes were full of questions. Oh wait. Michelin didn't usually do this, did he? It was almost always Lucky who initiated contact—touching Michelin's arms and shoulders in casual conversation, brushing kisses and staging hugs for photographers.

“There's my guy.” Lucky beamed at him as if he had a direct line to Michelin's wish a minute earlier, and Michelin didn't even care how much of this was for their audience, it warmed him straight to his boot heels.

“Hey, you,” he said, locking gazes with Lucky, trying to soak up more of that warmth percolating between them.

“Ruby here was just telling me about the coolest thing.”

Ruby. That was the reality show runner-up's name, and if Michelin recalled, she was trying to use it as a singular moniker like Cher. She was younger than Lucky, very early twenties most likely, and the awestruck way she looked at him made Michelin feel decidedly ancient.

“I was just telling your boyfriend about the gala benefit for the new LGBT teen shelter in L.A. They asked me to perform!”

“Congrats.” Michelin tempered his enthusiasm, pretty sure he knew what was coming next.

“The organizer said she reached out to your business manager after your announcement last week, but that they hadn't been able to connect with you yet.”

“I'm sure he's got a stack of stuff for me to look at,” Michelin said smoothly. “And I'm pretty booked—”

“This is a really big deal. HRC and Trevor Project and a bunch of other organizations are pitching in to raise awareness of how many homeless teens are LGBT, and the concert will be televised, too.” Ruby's blond curls shook as she spoke, her southern twang getting more pronounced the more worked up she got.

“I'll see what my manager has to say when I get back to L.A. We're usually a bit picky about what charity gigs I do, mainly because of time—”

“I think this sounds like an amazing cause.” Lucky spoke up. “You should really think about doing it. Like Ruby was telling me, you could inspire a lot of people by going.”

“I was so excited to hear your news last week,” Ruby said with big, earnest eyes. “I was havin' such a shit month—” Her friend wrapped her arms around Ruby and hugged her tight. “What with all the country stations refusing to play my new single and not getting some summer festival invites I was expecting.”

“I thought you were going more pop? Is that why they're refusing to play you? Not country enough?”

“Thank god the pop listeners seem to like the song, but I think it has a bit more to do with the fact that I'm singing about kissing a girl. The die-hard country stations don't want anything to do with that.”

“Oh.” Michelin paid a bit more attention to the friend and how she was leaning on Ruby, chin resting on her shoulder.
“Oh.”

“Yeah.” She grinned at him. “It's like that. And when you came out, I was so happy . . . felt like a message to me to stop complaining about the flak and to stay true to myself. I'm lucky, you know? My little indie label believed in me enough to cut the album. And your announcement reminded me how important it is to be myself. You need to do the concert so other young people get your message.”

Your message. That made it sound like Michelin was a preacher man with an agenda when all he wanted to do was sing his music. He didn't want to be on a stage with other LGBT musicians, proclaiming some
message
for people. He wasn't a banner waver. But Lucky and the girls were looking up at him all expectantly and he couldn't exactly articulate how much he didn't want to do the concert.

Instead he said, “I'm right sorry that you lost some gigs. But this pop thing, that could be good for you. Why don't you call my manager yourself, first of the week, or have your manager—”

“That would be me.” The friend finally spoke up. She had maybe a year or two on Ruby, and Michelin felt like an old grandpa armed with a whole slew of reasons why sleeping with your manager was a terrible, terrible idea. But the two of them seemed so happy, he just handed over his manager's card.

“Give him a call. Tell him I want to see what you could work out with Embellish and Stand Out. Maybe get in on some of their gigs or vice versa.”

“They touring with you this summer?” the friend, who was taller with shorter blond hair and a deep southern drawl of her own, asked.

“Eh . . . no.” Michelin wasn't fond of her shrewd gaze. “They're more pop and this tour's more of a country thing . . .” That and he was pretty sure Gloria and his label would have kittens if he hitched himself too closely to someone getting banned on country stations. Dread kept bubbling up in his gut—at least he wasn't stupid enough to sing about kissing boys, and all his songs had a classic country sound. That and he had one of the largest, oldest country labels behind him. Hopefully, that would be enough to save him from the Ruby treatment.

“Okay.” Ruby's easy smile got a bit strained. “I'd like to see what we could set up. But, really. Think about doing the fund-raiser. Stand Out's already on board—you'd have lots of friends at the concert.”

His argument with Gloria from two weeks ago came filtering back to him.
If you surround yourself with gay groups and the gay agenda, all you're going to be known as is the gay country singer soon enough. It'll marginalize you.
For the first time, he could see exactly how that would happen.

I'm not going to be able to perform with my friends for a while.
The thought sobered him, but even as he nodded at Ruby, he knew he wouldn't be doing the concert.

“I'll see,” he said. “We should probably get going, though. We can talk more later.”

Lucky frowned at him. Michelin frowned right back. What the fuck? Did Lucky need him to drape himself in rainbows to help the cause? Michelin had a whole career on the line here, and Ruby was a great reminder of what happened when you crossed outside what country could tolerate.

“I'll text you about the video,” Ruby's young manager said to Lucky as they left.

“The video?” Michelin asked Lucky as they walked away.

“Yeah. I'm not sure if it's going to pay much, but she wants to brainstorm choreography for her next video, maybe use me and some of my friends as backup dancers. We're going to do lunch back in L.A. and see if we can set something up.” Lucky sounded more excited about this than anything else he'd mentioned in days.

“Good for you,” Michelin said absently, trying to spot the fastest way out of the room. Clumps of people with drinks were every few feet—the suite was way fuller than it had been when they arrived. Once upon a time he wouldn't have noticed the close quarters—would have relied on his old friend Jim Beam to make him more social than he really was. Ever since getting sober, he'd come to hate these sorts of after parties.

“Yeah.” Lucky smiled up at him. “I can't wait. Seriously. I miss dancing so much. Even a short break sucks. I'll be relieved when Carlos says I can come back to the club, but the video with Ruby—that's my favorite kind of gig.”

“I'm happy you connected with her.” Michelin's chest did this weird squeeze. He'd been self-absorbed all damn week, totally forgetting that Lucky had a career on the line here, too, forgetting how much Lucky was sacrificing to help
him.
And it didn't matter if Michelin's stomach knotted up like one of those macramé plant holders his mama liked so much at the thought of Lucky back at the club, men's hands all over . . . no. He couldn't think about that.

But what he
needed
to think about was how amazing Lucky had been all day—all week, really—putting up with Michelin's moodiness and the obligations of Michelin's schedule. He had a life beyond this farce, beyond Michelin, and somehow seeing him excited about that life did strange things to Michelin's insides.

Rumble. Rumble.
Seemed like Michelin's insides weren't the only ones in upheaval. Lucky's stomach gave a loud grumble as they reached the door.

“Sorry.” Lucky gave a sheepish smile. “Somehow we didn't have dinner, did we? And there seems to be far more booze than snacks at this thing.”

“Fair enough.” Michelin was distracted by how the light caught Lucky's dark hair, how it made his tan skin gold, as if he were a work of art the track lighting was spotlighting. Just like that first night, Lucky was mesmerizing, and Michelin's tongue felt too big for his mouth.

“Is there any food back at your place or should I try to scavenge something here—”

“Not here.” Michelin didn't want to risk losing Lucky's shininess to the crowd again. He wanted him all to himself.

“Okay. Do we need to tell Tim or Gloria where we're going?”

“I'll text them.”
Where we're going.
A little over a week ago, he'd been on one path. Then he'd met Lucky and for a few short minutes, he'd thought he'd been on a different road, one that got derailed by this whole mess.