All Note Long (9 page)

“It'll all work out,” he whispered, hoping like heck he was right and not simply saying what Michelin needed to hear in order to sleep.

“Y
ou sure the dog will be okay?” Michelin asked as he finally found a parking spot big enough for the truck. He was
not
looking forward to this Beverly Hills outing with Lucky. Hell, just leaving the dog behind at his house had made him all jumpy.

“You're awfully concerned for a guy who keeps asking for hourly updates on the hunt for an owner.” Lucky adjusted his shades as they exited the truck.

“I just don't want to return to my couch chewed up or my floor piddled on.” Those were empty worries—in the last few days the dog had proved herself to be an even more exemplary houseguest than Lucky, mainly just eating a massive quantity of chow and sleeping. Only negative thing Michelin could really say was that she'd gnawed the bear to tatters. “There's a pet store around here if I remember right. We need to get her some toys.”

Lucky laughed. “You sure you don't want to give her a better name—”

“
Mutt
can take the toys with her to her new place. Just savin' my furniture from bored dog in the meantime.”

“Suuuuure.” Lucky drew the word out. “And what sort of treat do I get if I behave with this shopping?”

Michelin gave him some serious side-eye. Lucky knew as well as he did that this outing was another chance to get some “candids” up on the gossip sites. The photographers would snap them going into the high-end men's suit shop and run with whatever rumors they wanted to read into that. Reality was that this meeting with Michelin's stylist had been planned for weeks—he needed something for his release party in Nashville, which was “country black tie.” He seriously had no idea what that meant, but Gloria and the rest of the label team were responsible for the shindig.

“Walking into a place that sells tuxes is going to have the gossip sheets calling us as good as engaged,” Lucky observed as they walked into the store. Sure enough, he spotted two guys with cameras hanging out on the sidewalk.

“They already are.” Michelin stifled a groan. Reaction after the interview aired had been largely positive—lots of other celebs and music stars wanting to go on record as supporting him. But the one thing no one had counted on was how much people loved Lucky and how invested they seemed in their “love story.” Gloria said this was an excellent sign that people were choosing not to care about the
GoZZip
article, but it made Michelin all itchy to have random people squeeing over the two of them as if they were puppies and sharing pics like trading cards.

“Michelin! Lucky!” Michelin's stylist, Jennifer, greeted them inside the store. She was his age, and he'd known her since his Speed Kills days when she was a makeup artist on one of the late-night talk shows. Speed Kills had been a popular musical guest on those sorts of shows—enough rock to be edgy for the late-night crowd, enough pop to be universally appealing, and the backing of a huge studio machine getting them nonstop publicity. The label had signed them as teenagers in large part because of their wholesome looks, and stylists had only played that up.

But Jennifer had always seemed to see who he was underneath the veneer the studio slapped on them. He'd been one of her first clients when she'd moved into styling, and he counted her as a friend as well as the best shopper he knew. “I've already set aside a pile of things that I'm sure you'll
love.
We've got a private room this way.”

She led them toward the back of the store, past several respectful clerks who nodded at them. The store wouldn't open to the public for another hour or so. As always, Jennifer had arranged the maximum privacy for him to get fitted. Her curly dark hair was held back with a gold band, and she looked ready to work the showroom floor herself in an elegant pink suit that showed off her baby bump. Lucky, being Lucky, knew all the right compliments to tell her as they entered the “salon” area, which Michelin had been in before—a room with a lot of mirrors, a rack of things Jennifer had hand-selected, and chairs for people to sit in with two changing rooms off to the side.

Today was a bit weird, though, because there were two racks—one for him and one for Lucky. While Lucky thumbed through his choices, Jennifer started narrating her picks for Michelin.

“So this is a charcoal suit with a dove gray western shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons—those are cream. And we'll leave the collar open or pair it with a skinny tie to match your black cowboy hat.”

Michelin nodded like the details really mattered to him. “Why are we thinking gray?”

“It's still within your palette, but a bit lighter for spring, a little fun and photogenic to match the publicity, but I've got black here, too. This is a darker black with a charcoal shirt.” She held up another combo for him.

“I'll try that one on.” Michelin took the suit and went to the dressing room. When he emerged, Jennifer gave a little clap, but instead of the appreciation Michelin had been expecting, Lucky's eyes narrowed as if he were thinking too hard.

Michelin refused to be disappointed. Lucky had made it clear enough that they were going to be friendly comrades in this charade, nothing more. And so what if Jennifer and all his other female friends claimed no one could resist a man in a suit? Apparently Lucky could.

You might have more luck in some of those colorful drawers he favors so much.
Michelin told that little idea where to stuff it and gave a spin for Jennifer.

“Michelin? What color is this?” Lucky was still looking at him like he was some strange new breed of catfish he wasn't quite sure was edible. He held up a combo that Jennifer had set aside for him—dark pants and vest.

“It's a blue shirt.”
I think.
The color was just a bit too dark for him to be certain.

“I mean the pants.”

“Greenish.” Michelin flat-out guessed.

“It's a reddish brown,” Lucky corrected. “And I've suspected something for days now. You're totally color-blind, aren't you?”

“Not totally. Reds and greens and dark colors are hard, that's all.” Michelin wasn't sure why it mattered to him that Lucky had figured this out, but it did, and he felt a massive blush coming on.

“That's why all the black, right? Black when the photographers can see you and mismatch city when you need to go incognito?”

“You got a point?” The hair on Michelin's neck bristled like the dog when he corrected her a bit hard. She was still a skittish thing. “And I can see some colors just fine. Like those loud neon things
you
love so much.”

“You're in a style rut. No offense, Jennifer.” Lucky gave
her
a winning smile.

“None taken. I totally agree.” She shared a smile with Lucky that could only mean trouble for Michelin. “I thought I'd nudge him with the gray, but what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking . . . This fit is all wrong.” Lucky came up behind him and grabbed two fistfuls of jacket, pulling it corset tight and making Michelin just as tetchy as an old schoolmarm.

“Michelin hates tight,” Jennifer said. “I can't get him into anything close fitting other than occasionally a soft t-shirt.”

Lucky made a clucking noise. “That's got to change.”

“You guys. I'm right here. And you're not going to wrap me up like a sausage just because y'all think that's what the trend is.”

“Here's the deal.” Lucky pulled the jacket all the way off him and returned it to the hanger. “This is your first major social appearance since your announcement. People are going to be watching.”

“And?”

Lucky held up the blue shirt in front of Michelin. “And you've got this hot, younger boyfriend now. People are going to expect to see that influence on you.”

“Such a good point.” Jennifer nodded as enthusiastically as if Lucky were the one paying her fee. “People are going to want a younger, hipper Michelin. A little more . . .
forward.
”

Michelin knew what she really meant: gay. People were expecting to see a
gay
version of him. Which was why he needed to stick to the tried and true. “I'm happy with the black,” he said to thin air as the other two were already back at the racks, their heads together.

He returned to the dressing room to change into his own clothes, but he hadn't been in there two minutes when there was a knock. “We've got the perfect thing.” Lucky said. “Can I slide it over the door?”

“You cannot.” Still in his boxers, Michelin carefully returned the black suit to its hanger. “I'm taking this one.”

“He usually only tries on one outfit,” Jennifer said in hushed tones to Lucky.

“Fine. I'm coming in.” Lucky gave him zero warning before the door opened and he slithered in, quick as Lady snatching a pork chop, shutting the door fast.

“I'll give you two a minute,” Jennifer called. “Let me know when you're ready for me to see.” Her heels clicked away from the dressing area, leaving Michelin half dressed in the tiny space with a grinning Lucky.

“
Hello,
black boxers. I knew it.” Lucky looked him up and down with a sort of naked appraisal that made Michelin want to snatch up his shirt and hold it in front of him. “And you have a seriously rocking body. We need to show this off. Jennifer's been too soft on you.”

“Jennifer is one of my closest friends. She knows what I like—”

“
Aha!
But sometimes what you like isn't what you need.”

Lucky put his hands on Michelin's shoulders, holding him still as he manhandled Michelin into a blue shirt. He knew it was blue because it was
bright,
not the muted tones he usually favored that were harder to tell apart. “Now you still get some black, okay?”

Michelin nodded, keeping his back to Lucky, because, oh fuck, his proximity was having an effect on Michelin's lower half and Lucky's hands smoothing the shirt into place didn't help any either. Michelin focused on doing up the shirt buttons. “It's too tight.”

“It is not.” Lucky fiddled with some hangers behind Michelin. “And it's soft, like you like.”

That was true. It felt like extremely high-end sheets. “It's too bright.”

“Stop being such a baby.” Lucky shoved him into a black vest with colorful embroidery. “And see? Black. And not a constricting suit coat.”

The vest was close fitting as well and the combination of the two items gave an impression of colorful country—not necessarily too trendy for Nashville, but it still made Michelin nervous, this much color and the look-at-me details. Lucky was blathering on about silver boots and slim fitting pants and his hands kept petting Michelin like he was the freaking dog, but all Michelin could think about was his reflection in the mirror.

“I hate it,” he said baldly. He couldn't strip the vest and shirt off fast enough. “It's not me.”

“Good.” Lucky laughed. “I've got another option. This one's the compromise between Jennifer and me. Close your eyes.”

Michelin complied because that was the effect Lucky always had on him—Lucky made a suggestion, like offering him a soda or rescuing a mutt, and next thing he knew he was hopping to. But this time he hadn't calculated the effect of Lucky's hands on his with his eyes tightly shut. The whole world zeroed down to just the feel of Lucky's slightly rough, long fingers against his collar, then snaking down his front to button him.

Lucky whispered commands. “Raise up. Step. Arm in.” Each went straight to Michelin's dick and, try as he might, he couldn't keep his erection at bay. He was at least half hard and Lucky had to have noticed, but he didn't say anything, just kept fussing with Michelin. He did, however, most notably leave the fly undone.

“Okay. Open.” Lucky's hands were still on his shoulders.

“Holy fuck.” Michelin blinked at the mirror. This shirt was a classic western cut, not as trendy as the blue. It was a subtle heather shade, and to his eyes, it was the same color as the huge lavender plants his mama had loved so much. It had an airy texture to the weave, which made it feel looser than its body-hugging silhouette. They had paired it with a silver hat and silver boots and slim-fitting pale silver pants with a shimmer to them. And he looked at least ten years younger. And hipper. Smarter. More
him.

He did up the pants, just to get the full effect. He turned a little and Lucky beamed. The smile went deep down to the sole of Michelin's boots, warmed him from the toes up.

“It's purple, right?” he asked softly. His mama always called that shade her favorite, but Michelin's eyes registered the tone as more of a bluish-gray.

“Yeah, but so's your album cover,” Lucky countered. “Some sort of winter sunrise, right? This totally matches.”