All Note Long (8 page)

“Y
ou're a lot of trouble,” Lucky groused at the dog as he reached for more shampoo. No way was Lucky using his pricey John Allan's shampoo on the beast. He might have a total soft spot for dogs—and an even better eye for telling when someone desperately needed one—but he wasn't insane. Luckily, Michelin stocked his pool house with the same sort of generic products that populated his kitchen. Lucky didn't know why, but he found that trait of Michelin's rather endearing, as if the man had never fully escaped his modest country roots.

Good thing he had the economy size shampoo, because they were on rinse number three and the water was still turning brown. Lucky had realized after the first round of soaping that his jeans and sweater were toast and now he was down to his briefs. He'd had to hop into the long shower stall with the dog, trying to keep the spray on the mutt and not his peacock-striped boxer briefs. When he had cleaned out his locker at the bar, he'd been surprised how many of his favorites had migrated to the bar. He might be stuck wearing the clothes Michelin's stylist sent over, but at least he had his own underwear.

Lather four and Lucky was able to ascertain that other than the scratches, the animal didn't seem injured, only painfully malnourished and dehydrated. She had drunk two bowls of water and eaten some leftover steak before they started the bath, and still she kept sniffing the air as if looking for food.

“We'll find you some more food in a minute.” Lucky started the rinse and, miracle of miracles, the water was running clear. Finally.

“I can help with that.” Michelin lounged in the doorway to the shower room, exactly as if he'd been there watching Lucky wrestle the dog awhile. He held a stack of towels and a bowl, which he started to set on the floor—

“No! Don't!” Lucky said but it was too late. The dog bolted from the shower, spraying Lucky with foam and water in her eagerness to reach the food, which smelled like chicken and rice. Not that Lucky had a chance to inspect it before the dog gulped it down.

“Hell.” Sticky with soap and dog hair, Lucky stepped under the spray. His boxer briefs were shot anyway.

“Don'tcha own any real underwear?” Michelin asked before carefully turning back toward the door. There was that guy again, the one too shy and polite to watch as Lucky peeled the soggy underwear off and soaped up.

“This is my ‘real' underwear.” Lucky laughed. He tossed it out of the shower. “And I collect it. The designer stuff is just so much more fun and comfortable. What do
you
wear?”

There was a pause during which the only sound was the dog licking the bowl. “Boxer briefs.”

“I mean what brand?” He couldn't resist ribbing him a bit more. Lucky would bet good money that Michelin also owned some tighty-whities and was mentally reaching for the part of his underwear drawer he thought would be the least offensive to Lucky.

“Not sure. Used to get 'em in six-packs at Big Mart, but now lately it's whatever the stylist sends over. And I gotta tell you, it's a weird feeling . . . someone else buying your drawers.”

Lucky laughed so hard he dropped the soap. “Dude. I am
so
taking you shopping. You would look boss in some C-IN2.”

“Thought you have no interest in seeing my underwear,” Michelin said smoothly.

Caught you, didn't he?
“I'm just doing you a service for the rest of your gay life. Trust me. An underwear upgrade will go a long way to helping you get laid.”

Lucky rinsed off, then grabbed a towel from the hook outside the shower, trying to shake the bitter taste in his mouth at the idea of Michelin getting naked with anyone else. Not that he was getting naked with Lucky either.
Fuck me. Even my brain's gone loco.

He tucked the towel around his waist, then exited the shower to find Michelin carefully drying the dog with some of the towels he'd brought in.

“You know, for a guy who doesn't want a dog—”

“I don't. And I brought some alcohol and antibiotic cream out, too. Want me to hold her while you doctor her nose?”

“I see how it is. I get to be bad cop.”

“Hey, this is your project.” Michelin handed over the items and got a good grip on the dog. She immediately relaxed into the well-practiced hold.

“You've had dogs before,” Lucky observed while he made quick work of cleaning the scratches, hating how the dog whimpered.

“Oh yeah. Always had at least three ranch dogs growing up. They were my best friends.”

God, they were too close like this. Definitely too close for Lucky to be in nothing more than a towel. Michelin smelled like evergreen and Lucky had to shift away before his body betrayed him.

“But you've never had one in L.A.?”

“I travel too much.” Michelin's eyes clouded over. “Wouldn't be fair to a pooch, and I'm not one to go for those pocket puppies in the fancy purses.”

“That you aren't.” Lucky laughed. He finished with the dog's wounds and dropped a kiss on her head. “What shall we call her?”

“Oh no. You are not tricking me into naming her.” Michelin shook his head. He loosened his hold on the dog, who proceeded to lick Lucky with some sort of misplaced doggie gratitude.

“Fine. I'm calling her Lady until I find her a home and real name.”

“Why don't
you
have a dog?” Michelin asked.

“Oh, I will eventually.” Lucky settled back against the wall next to Michelin, loathe to let this companionable talk end. “Right now, I'm in a tiny WeHo studio walkup, and like you, I go for bigger dogs. I love a dog I can run with. My parents have Cesar, who I found in high school. He'll always be my big bambino.”

Lucky didn't add that his mom had been having a rough time with her older kids moving out. Cesar had appeared at the perfect moment. Lucky had a knack for finding the right dog for the right person. Even when that person swore up and down that he most definitely didn't need a dog. Lady was a good size dog, around the same size as Cesar, who was some sort of shepherd mix. Now that she was clean, Lucky could tell she was more of a spaniel-retriever cross with thick golden fur, floppy ears, and big brown trusting eyes.

“Hey, speaking of, this hanging with you and not having my car thing is starting to suck. Think you could run me to the closest store? I need to grab some chow before Lady eats all your scraps.”

“Already on it. I needed some more food with you here for another night. Sent in an order to my grocery delivery place, and I included a small bag of basic chow.”

“You know—”

“A
small
bag. Just enough until you either find her a home or take her to the shelter.”

Lucky let that comment slide. Shelter wasn't happening, and as for the other . . . well, Lucky was crossing his fingers. Instead he channeled Gloria, pitching his voice higher. “Michelin is
remarkably
independent.” Laughing, he returned to normal. “BS. You're just good at online shopping and delegating via phone.”

“That I am.” Michelin's laugh sounded a bit strained. He dug in the pile of towels he'd brought and came up with a stuffed bear. He teased Lady with it for a few moments before tossing it to her.

“Okay. Now you're trying too hard. What's really up?” Lucky stood up. He really needed clothes for any sort of serious discussion.

“It's just a bear. Ever since my single ‘About a Bear,' people give them to me wherever I go. I usually box 'em up for the children's hospital, but this one was in the hall closet.”

Lucky snorted. He hadn't seen it at first, but Michelin's face was tight with tension and his hands had a subtle tremor. The man hadn't come with the dog stuff out of pure helpfulness.

“I need pants. And you need to tell me what's the matter.” He motioned for Michelin to follow him across the patio back to the guest room. Both Michelin and the dog followed him, the dog dragging her new toy along.

“Nothing's the matter.” The mere fact that Michelin had followed Lucky called him a liar. He turned while Lucky pulled on a pair of pants, but that didn't stop him from remarking on them. “What the heck are those? Boxers with legs?”

“Yoga pants. Dudes can wear them, too.” Lucky yanked the neon yellow pants into place. “Man cannot live in denim alone.”

“You complaining about my wardrobe?”

“Nope. Just taking notes. Gloria says we need to shop together. I'm making you a list.” Lucky winked at him, then called the dog over so that he could throw the toy for her. “Now dish. Something's bugging you.”

“I don't want to bother you—”

Lucky fell back against the bed laughing. “All of this has been one big bother for both of us. But right now, I've got no job to get to, and I'm supposed to be practicing my boyfriend skills by hanging out with you. Trust me, the more we talk, the easier the in-public stuff will get.”

Lucky wasn't so sure that
anything
could get Michelin to relax in public. However, as tightly wound as Michelin was right then, someone needed to get him to open up. Michelin had sought him out for a reason, but Lucky sucked at playing twenty questions to figure out why.

“Fine.” Michelin sank into the huge oversize chair in front of the windows in the guest room, snapping his fingers for the dog to bring him the toy. It was a small room and the chair Michelin picked was almost touching the bed. The whole space reminded Lucky of a very clean, very sterile spa room—peaceful and cozy but without much personality. It lacked the lived-in feel of the rest of the house, underscoring that Michelin didn't have many guests.

After several minutes of playing with the dog, Michelin finally spoke. “I read the comments, okay. That's all. I read the fucking comments.”

“To the article?”

Michelin nodded.

“
Never
read the comments. Ever.” Lucky wanted to reach across and touch Michelin but he wasn't sure how that would be received. The chair and its footstool were angled in such a way that it wouldn't be hard to rub his shoulder or pat his knee, but Michelin's jaw muscles were so tight, Lucky feared he might shatter on contact. “But I told you—social media's been really positive. And that'll pick up steam after the interview airs.”

“I know. I went to look at the tweets from the guys I mentor and stuff. It was stupid. But I just wanted to see the positive stuff you mentioned.” Michelin petted the dog's head with long, strong fingers and hell if Lucky didn't wish he was the recipient of the contact.

“Oh fuck. It's my fault.”

Michelin shrugged. “Not your fault that I clicked the comments to the article or looked at the negative stuff on social media. It was stupid.”

This time Lucky couldn't resist reaching out and rubbing Michelin's arm. “It wasn't stupid. It's normal. But you have to focus on all the love people are sending you. Ignore the couple of haters.”

Michelin shook his head sadly as if he hadn't heard Lucky. “It's funny, man. The worst ones aren't the ignorant guys. It's the smug ones. The ‘I always knew' crowd.”

“Oh yeah.” Lucky groaned. He could see how hard that would be for a guy who'd thought he'd done such a good job keeping everything on the down-low. “It's not the same thing at all, but I hear you. Because I'm a dancer, every time someone figures out I'm gay, they just nod all knowingly, like there was never any question.”

“How the fuck do you handle that?” Michelin leaned back in the chair. The dog took that as an invitation to heft herself up, body on the footstool and her head in Michelin's lap, and instead of sending her to the floor, he rearranged them both until they were amicably sharing the chair. Michelin's blood pressure seemed to dip visibly with every stroke to the dog's head.

“I don't. If I focused on it, I'd never dance again,” Lucky admitted. “If I let that kind of bias get me down, I would have quit
years
ago. So I just tune it out. Same as you've got to. They're full of self-superior shit.”

“I just thought . . .”

“Look.” Lucky sat up straighter, put a firm hand on Michelin's knee. Time for the tough love. “You also have to admit to yourself that if you let it bug you too much . . . you're being a bit homophobic. Caring so much about whether you look or act gay or not says that, deep down, you're not okay with it. So for me, I tried to make my peace with the stereotypes.”

“I don't know if I ever can,” Michelin admitted in a whisper. “And I don't know how to deal with them dissecting every little bit of my life, of my past, and hell, even my songs. There's people in the comments looking for the ‘gay messages' in the songs—”

“Don't. Read. The. Comments.” Lucky squeezed his leg. “That'll all die down. You'll see. Just focus on the stuff you can control and on not caring so much.”

“Wish it was that easy.” Michelin's eyes drifted shut as he petted the dog. Poor guy probably hadn't slept a wink last night. The dog snored with her head still on his lap and Michelin seemed soon to follow. Lucky quietly got off the bed and drew the blinds in the room. He didn't really like the part of him that felt strangely protective of Michelin, that wanted to go track down these commenters and give them hell for making him feel bad about himself. And Lucky really didn't like the part of himself that wanted to give Michelin a giant hug, hold him until he forgot all about the stupid people.