All Note Long (20 page)

“Fine.” Lucky handed him a stack of onion pieces for the skewers. “You listen to
Gloria,
and not your boyfriend or your oldest friends.”

“It's not like that.” Michelin's face drew up tight, like he'd accidentally touched the grill. “And I don't want to fight. Not now.”

“I don't like fighting either.” Lucky stopped chopping long enough to rub Michelin's back. It would be too damn easy to let this be the issue that tore them apart, and never tell Michelin about the music video. The problem was that Lucky didn't want
either
issue to end them. He might find Michelin's inaction infuriating, but he loved the guy who'd ordered red bell peppers for their kebabs because he knew Lucky loved them, the guy who woke up in the middle of the night to write the songs that haunted Lucky's dreams, the guy who kissed Lucky like a drowning man and who surrendered to him in passion so beautifully. There was so much to love about Michelin. The real problem was that perhaps the man himself didn't believe it.

“So, changing the subject, I've finally got a lead on a decent paying gig.” Lucky chose each word as carefully as if he were picking winning combinations on Words with Friends.

“That's terrific. And I've got an idea on how you can make more money, too.” Michelin gave him the same winning grin he'd greeted him with, but something sour bubbled up in Lucky's gut.

“Oh?” Lucky tried to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“Yeah. That's where I was tryin' to head earlier. Jennifer was here. She's getting closer to her due date. She needs me to find a new personal shopper and stylist, at least for a bit, and probably permanently.”

“There's a guy at my gym who works as a stylist. Want me to see about getting his name for you?” Lucky fiddled with a skewer, not wanting to meet Michelin's eyes.

“Nah. See . . . I was thinking about
you.
You could do Jennifer's job. You've got a great eye for clothes, and you seem to enjoy shopping. Travel with me all summer and not have to worry about funds. And if you're one of my assistants, Gloria can't really argue about having you along. It's win-win.”

“Win-win,” Lucky echoed, voice as weak as cell phone service up here in the hills. “So you want to
pay
me to travel with you this summer? And be around as your stylist, not your boyfriend?”

“Well, what we do privately isn't really anyone's business.” Michelin jabbed a skewer through a pepper without glancing over at Lucky.

“But it's sure as heck my business. And I can't be on your payroll all week and then warming your bed at night.”

“It wouldn't be like that.” Finally looking at Lucky, Michelin's eyes were all cloudy. And shifty, like it pained him to hold Lucky's gaze.

“Oh? How would it be?”

“Henry pays Jennifer. I don't even know exactly what she makes. He handles the credit card she uses for all her purchases for me. He'd pay you.”

“With your money. Which would make you my boss, and I've
told
you that I don't sleep with my boss. And I sure as hell don't sleep with guys looking to pay me to avoid the sticky situation of having to actually
claim
me as a boyfriend.”

“Of course I want to claim you. Things are just a bit complicated right now—”

“Making me your stylist won't exactly uncomplicate them. You really think Gloria's going to go for this?”

“If we keep it discreet—”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Lucky's voice was loud enough to send the dog cowering under the picnic table. “Discreet? Michelin. You're
out.
Discreet flew the coop around the time you started dating a go-go dancer . . . Oh wait. That's what this really is, isn't it. This is a way to clean me up. No more sexy dancing.”

“I love your dancing.” Michelin's voice was too sure, too steady to be truthful. “I don't want you to change for me. But you've said yourself how hard it is to make a living right now for you. And this would let you leave the club behind—”

“Because, deep down, you're
not
okay with go-go dancing.” Lucky kept his tone flat. He'd known that. No guy he kept around ever was truly okay with the go-go dancing or even the sexy dancing in videos or show boy revues. And every last one of them wanted to believe Lucky was dancing because he had no other choice. No one wanted to see him as a serious professional dancer.

“I'm fine. I think you're selling yourself a bit short, though. Working for tips like that. And if you liked styling me, we could see about getting you some other clients, grow—”

“Get a real job, you mean? Grow up, leave the dancing to the kids?”

“That's not what I'm tryin' to say. At all.” Michelin sounded more than a little irritated. He slapped the skewers down on the grill with a sizzle. “But if you're broke, why keep going at it?”

“Because I'm a fucking dancer, Michelin. Did you stop singing when you were broke? What if you'd stopped before you got your big break? Huh?”

“My daddy would've lived instead of dyin' of a broken heart, Mama would have still had the ranch, and I wouldn't have to go through life feelin' so damn selfish. What if the big break never came? Think of that. Sorry, but true. Most artists starve—”

“And that would be their fucking choice. Not up to you to rescue me. And I'm not going to be broke much longer. I landed a great gig today. I'll be able to pay my bills
and
do the idea for the Vegas revue.”

“That's . . . great.” Meat taken care of, Michelin sank into one of the picnic chairs, stretching a hand down to pet the dog. His eyes were glossy and unfocused, as if Lucky were some distant point on the horizon instead of three feet away. “What's the gig for?”

Lucky didn't need to take a breath or summon up courage to answer. Things had already gone to shit. They couldn't get much worse. “The Grind Father. He's a rap star. And Steve Brewer.”

S
teve Brewer had been the best part of Michelin's teenage years, the reason he drank in his twenties, and now he was about to ruin Michelin's thirties without even being in the room.

“Steve wants
you
in a music video? Why?” Oh, he knew the words were all kinds of wrong as soon as he said them, but Michelin couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice.

“Because I'm a dancer and it's a hip-hop video of some kind?” Lucky's well-groomed dark brows were practically touching his hairline. “Because he wants to get you all riled up, I'm sure. And it's working.”

Michelin pushed to his feet, strode to the grill to check meat that didn't need checking. “Why do it then? If you know it's an attempt to be a wedge between us?”

“Maybe because I'm adult, and it's a shit ton of money that I need. He
wants
you mad and me weirded out, but we're not required to react like some sort of puppets for him. I'm choosing to be a professional, go dance, and pocket his cash while flipping him off.”

“And if I say no, I'm not comfortable with that, you're going to do it anyway?” Michelin paced in front of the grill and prep counter. No way could he sit.

“If I didn't need the cash so badly—”

“I'm giving you a way to not need his money!”

“By being your glorified kept boy!”

“Look. You want to make this video, you want to be in that Vegas revue so bad, let me pay for it—I know people. I can make it happen for you. You don't need Steve's cash.” Michelin should have insisted on this course of action last time Lucky had brought up the video. What would be pricey for Lucky could be as simple as Michelin making some calls.

“I can't do that. I can't guarantee being able to pay you back—”

“I don't want you to pay me back. I want you to not take Steve's money, not go find out whatever joke he's trying to play. I don't want you mixed up with him. I don't trust Steve—he's got other motives here besides hiring a dancer. You need a video so goddamn bad, I'll provide it.”

Lucky shook his head sadly as if there was some bigger point Michelin was missing. Michelin wasn't sure what that was. All he knew was he loved Lucky and that he didn't want him mixed up with the sort of mind fuck he knew firsthand Steve liked to deliver. It didn't matter how great a dancer Lucky was. Steve had an agenda going on because he
always
had an angle, and he didn't much care whom he hurt along the way.

“Look. You want to pay me back? Take the stylist gig while you wait to hear about the Vegas show. Vegas doesn't work out, you stay on.”
Stay with me.

“I can't do that.” Each of Lucky's words stung like a slap.

Michelin had been expecting that reply, but he still had to lean heavily on the prep counter next to the grill. All he could do was mouth the word, “Why?”

“I'm a dancer, Papí. Not a stylist. Jennifer is a majorly competent
professional.
She's not your best friend who happens to be ‘good at shopping.' She's a pro. And so am I, and I don't think you really get that. Or respect it.”

“I respect it plenty—”

“Yeah? If I'm still dancing at The Broom Closet next month? Next year? You still going to want to be with me? If I'm the guy starring in the Vegas revue, you gonna want to be with that guy? Or if I get another shot at an underwear ad, you gonna be okay with that? Me dancing around in some commercial?”

“I don't know.” God, his head throbbed. Michelin had to rub the base of his neck. “I don't know, okay? But I would try—”

“You would
try.
This is who I am. It's not some burden to deal with or to throw money at, hoping it becomes a non-issue.”

“Not wanting you to take Steve's money doesn't mean I don't see you as a professional.”

“Doesn't it? You don't trust me to make my own decisions or to handle myself.”

“I think you're better than that, okay? I think you're better than taking that bastard's money, performing for
him.”

“Oh, Papí. The only one I ever perform for is me.” Lucky patted his cheek.

“I . . .
People
will talk. Old gossip will get dug up, little whispers.”

“Why are you protecting him?”

“I'm not.”

“Yeah. That's right. You're protecting
you. You
can't handle the gossip. Hell, Michelin, there's this huge groundswell of support for you right now, and you can't handle
that.
You're in a position to make real change, but oh no, people might get upset. Well, fuck people.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Sure it is. But not for you. And that's what I mean about the dancing. You're not really wanting a professional dancer boyfriend. It would be easiest on you if I agreed to be some sort of assistant, get on your payroll, stay quiet and in the background while you get to make your music.”

“Yes. Okay. Yes. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I want you to be
honest.
Even if that means admitting you don't want me.”

“Wait. What? I
want
you.”

“No, you don't.” Lucky shook his head slowly. “I'm
loud.
I wear bright colors. I listen to hip-hop at top volume. I dance go-go. I twerk on stage for strangers. I'm a viral video waiting to happen. I'm not what you need right now.”

“You could be.” Michelin's throat felt gouged out.

“No, I couldn't.” Lucky stretched up, brushed a kiss across Michelin's cheek. “I can't be that guy for you. All I can be is me, and right now that's not enough.”

With that, Lucky headed for the sliding glass door, but he stopped halfway into the house, whistled sharply for the dog, who crept out from under the table.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving. I can't be here right now.”

“I mean with the dog.”

“Is she your dog? You ready to adopt her, give her a real name, get a collar?”

“I . . . I . . .” Hell. Words had poured out of Michelin earlier. Stupid words. Misguided words. Purely wrongheaded words. And now he couldn't find the words that mattered. The words that would stop Lucky from leaving. “I don't . . . can't keep her. Wrong lifestyle.”

“Then get the
right
one.” Lucky huffed, then patted his thigh. “Come on, Lady. Let's go.”

The dog looked from Michelin to Lucky and back again, cautious expression like she would rather crawl under the coffee table than listen to them argue more.

Be the man.
Michelin squared his shoulders, took a breath. “Go on, girl. Go with Lucky.”

And then
he
was the one to leave, stalking back out to the grill so that he didn't have to watch Lucky round up his and the dog's stuff. He pulled the meat off the grill before he set fire to the hillside, tossing it straight in the trash. No way could he eat it now.

He sank into a patio chair and rested his head in his hands. He stayed there through the rustling sounds coming from the house, through the rumble of Lucky's car's engine, through the gut-piercing silence that followed. He stayed through the sun dipping and a breeze kicking up.

* * *

“Luciano Santiago Ramirez, why are you on my porch with that poor dog?” Lucky's mom opened the door to his childhood home with a frown, but stood aside to let him and Lady in. “And why can't you call your poor mama instead of showing up this late? We just had pizza. I would have saved you some.”

“I try not to eat pizza, remember?” Lucky bent to kiss her on the cheek. “And I didn't exactly know I was coming here.”

That was true. He had driven around for a couple of hours, spurred on by both the fight with Michelin and an angry text from his landlord that the paparazzi were back. Great. The #FreeMichelin movement had reached his front door, even if the man himself couldn't give a shit.

He'd stopped to let Lady run at a dog park only to realize that he was in his old neighborhood, not too far from his parents. His car knew what he needed if he didn't want to admit it. He had totally, one hundred percent, expected Michelin to claim the dog and demand she stay with him. Lucky had been angry and pissed and more than a little hurt, and he knew calling for the dog was childish, but he'd seriously expected that to be the moment Michelin finally put his foot down and said the dog was his. Because maybe he didn't really want Lucky, not truly, but he loved that dog and he
needed
the dog.

But he'd let Lucky take her, and now Lucky was stuck—stuck looking like the terrible guy who took Michelin's dog from him, stuck not being able to go back to his studio, stuck with this awful, hopeless feeling that the best thing in his life had slipped through his fingers. The worst thing was not knowing whether what they'd had had been real at all. Had Michelin ever truly seen the real Lucky or had he only seen some projection of what he'd hoped Lucky could be? He'd had moments when he'd been so sure they'd connected on some deep level, transcending all their differences, all the celebrity bullshit. But now he wasn't so sure.

His parents' house should have been full of comfortable familiarity—it was a two-story contemporary in a good subdivision that they'd moved into when Lucky was in high school. The open floor plan was designed to welcome family and friends for all the gatherings his parents hosted, and usually he felt happy simply looking around at the decor full of family memorabilia. As usual, the drone of the TV came from the family room.

“Tomas, Lucky's here,” his mom called to his father, who called back a grunted greeting. He wasn't going to leave his recliner or his show. That was okay. His dad never knew quite what to do with Lucky anyway, and he certainly wouldn't be much help in the present situation. His parents' dogs swished around his feet sniffing Lady like a long-lost friend, all wagging tails and happy yips before Lucky shooed all three dogs into the yard.

“I'm going to make you a sandwich,” his mother declared in a tone that left no room for disagreement, heading for her big, open kitchen. She twisted her long, curly, graying hair up into a sloppy knot with a clip, a movement Lucky associated with every meal and snack she prepared. After Michelin's cozy house, his mom's kitchen felt almost too wide. He knew better than to argue with her about the food, letting her putter around in the fridge while he took a seat at the breakfast bar. “I've got some of that roast beef you like from the deli.”

His mom did the accounting for the Argentine market and catering company that her parents had founded, and while she and his dad tended to do more quick and instant food now that they were empty-nesters, she prided herself on feeding family who dropped by. No way was Lucky leaving without eating something, regardless of the fact that his stomach felt like crushed glass.

He watched his mom fuss with splitting and toasting the end of a baguette and getting out the chimichurri from the deli counter that he always loved. He could put that sauce on anything. He'd made a version of it for Michelin one night, slathering it over steaks Michelin grilled. The memory of the cozy dinner made his chest ache.

“Eat.” His mom slid him the plate and took the stool next to him. “Now tell me what's the matter. Boy trouble?”

She knew him well. He nodded around a mouthful of sandwich. Swallowing, he said, “Kind of.”

“
Luciano
.” Her stern brown eyes commanded him to spill.

“Okay, okay, Michelin and I broke up.” He summarized the fight for his mom, even knowing she probably shared some of Michelin's opinions about the dancing. He had to tell
someone
before his chest imploded from all the pain.

“And you took the dog?” She shook her head. He'd known that would be the part she dwelled on. Hell, it was the part he was struggling with the most.

“I can't force him to keep her.”
Or me.

“
Oh, Luciano, of all my boys, you always had the most pride.”

“That's not a bad thing.” He hid his defensiveness in another bite of sandwich. “I mean, what do you want me to do? Give up dancing like he wants?”

“Did he really say that? From what you said, this is a situation where a little compromise from
both
of you could save things. And I know he's this big-shot celebrity and you're this stubborn
burro,
but neither of you are going to make a relationship work unless you learn how to talk.”

“We talk. We said lots.”
Too much, maybe.

“Estúpido.
It's not about how many words come out of your mouth. It's about what comes from your
heart
and what actions you back it up with.”

“I don't want to give up dance, Mama. I think I could love him, but
no
guy is worth my career.”

“I don't think you need to give up your career.” For once his mother didn't use the implied quote marks that both his folks had a tendency to use when they talked about his dance. They were supportive, more so than a lot of parents would be, but as far as treating it like a serious thing, the whole family struggled. “But a little less pride and a little more flexibility might not kill you.”