All Note Long (13 page)

“Hey, Lucky?” Michelin led him into the hall, trying to keep his voice casual, not let on how his chest was pounding.

“Yeah?”

“There's a late-night breakfast spot not far from here. They've got killer potatoes. You want to go?”

Michelin held his breath as Lucky paused a long moment, considering. Lucky licked at his lips. His eyes went solemn and dark. He had to know as well as Michelin did that this wasn't about some hash browns. Right? All damn day, Michelin had had to be on—had to be the superstar everyone was expecting, had to hand-deliver memories and grease the palms of future connections. Not one single move all day had been uncalculated except for that hug with Lucky. And right then, that was all Michelin wanted—more hugs and more conversation like that. More to the point, he wanted a reset back to that moment at the club when he'd been an average guy, someone a guy like Lucky might want to share some time with.

“Who's paying?” Lucky said finally.

Oh man. Lucky had just mentioned his lack of work. His funds had to be tight, yet if Michelin had figured out nothing else about him, he was a man of pride. Any other friend, Michelin would just get the bill and no one argued . . .
Friend.
That's what was at stake here. Lucky wouldn't agree to be friends unless Michelin could get beyond his insistence at footing the bill. Money had fucked things up between them from the very start. And suddenly, Michelin wanted Lucky's friendship—and all the risks that came along with it—more than anything else.

“I reckon we could split.” Michelin spoke slowly to try to counter the Pony Express level thrum of his pulse. Was he seriously asking his fake boyfriend on a very real date where he was promising to not pay? And if he said no . . .

A slow smile crept across Lucky's face. “Lead the way. Do you need to stop and switch to one of your incognito disguises?”

Michelin laughed. “If we were in L.A., yeah, but I've been going to this place for years, since before I got my condo here even. It's the most humble greasy spoon in the world. They couldn't care less what the name on the card says.”

“Me either.” Lucky's eyes grabbed hold of Michelin's and oh fuck, Michelin needed a piece of paper. Like right that damn minute, because there was an entire album's worth of lyrics swimming between the two of them. If they were getting a second chance at a first date, Michelin didn't want to miss a note.

A
weird energy permeated the air in Michelin's truck, and Lucky coped by not saying much on the quick trek to the diner. He supposed this might be a good time to ask Michelin about the inspiration for his album and whether he was aware of the gay undertones people might try to read into the music, but his instinct said that such a conversation would cause Michelin to pull away from him, ruin this fragile peace between them, break the possibility of... whatever was happening here tonight.

Michelin hadn't been kidding about the diner being a dive that didn't distinguish between truckers, weekend revelers, and celebrities. The narrow parking lot held Michelin's tricked-out ride and a few trucks that had even more bling than Michelin's, several motorcycles, two big rigs chilling around the side of the building, and a smattering of older-model American cars.

Michelin's gesture of asking Lucky for breakfast food same as the night they met had made Lucky woozy. His head swam like the time his cousin Mario had sent an outside shot arcing right into Lucky's head during a soccer game. Only this was a blow of sweetness, a shot of lust right to the part of his brain that should keep him from making mistakes. Now instead of wary, he was all jumpy with anticipation.

If they were in West Hollywood, Lucky would have slung a proprietary arm around Michelin on their way into the place, wouldn't have thought twice about making it clear they were there on a . . . date. Date, right? As ill-advised as it was to go beyond the narrow confines of their agreement, Lucky couldn't help but hope they were about to break a few more rules before the night was through.

But they weren't in L.A., and Lucky had seen enough today to learn that things really were different in the middle of the country, so Lucky played it über-casual with the guy he'd been hanging on all week.

The diner was a low-slung white building with a flat roof and a black-and-white sign that seemed to have been plunked right in downtown Nashville by a 1940s time machine. Inside, black-and-white signs covered the turquoise walls around the counter, advertising specials. One of the dozens of block-lettered signs ominously proclaimed, “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason.” Lucky put another half a foot of space between him and Michelin and shoved his hands in his pockets.

In addition to the cracked red leather stools lining the counter area, black-and-red table and chairs lined the bank of windows in the front of the place. Michelin grabbed them a table at the far end of the row, about as private as it got at a place like this. Signed pictures of country music legends were crowded around above the windows and on the side walls. To distract himself from the fact that his Argentine gay ass could be denied service any second, Lucky started looking for Michelin's picture. He saw pics from several people who had been at the party and on the plane.

“Coffee?” An older server with gleaming platinum hair had a steaming carafe in her hand and plunked two cups in front of them.

“Yes, ma'am.” Michelin's country drawl, the same one that came out on stage, was in full force.

“Oh, well, hi there, sugar.” The server did a double take and her bright lips curved into wide smile. “Been a while since you were in.”

“Been back west. Just here for the weekend. My friend will have some coffee, too.” He indicated Lucky with a casual gesture, since the waitress seemed content to just bask in Michelin's awesome for rest of her shift. Lucky knew the feeling.

“Oh of course, sugar.” She filled Lucky's cup before returning her attention to Michelin. “You want your usual?”

“I do, but let's give my friend here a minute.”

This wasn't quite “meet the family” but Michelin bringing him to a place where he was this much of a regular and agreeing to let Lucky pay his share felt significant somehow.

“I'll have what he's having. And orange juice.”

“You're gonna regret that,” Michelin said as the waitress went away with their orders. “When I come to Nashville for work, I let myself go all the way southern. The condo building has an amazing gym, but I swear I see way too much of it with what I eat out here.”

“Maybe you can show me the gym tomorrow.”

“I gotta double check Gloria's itinerary with the flight times, but yeah. There's a killer pool, too. You'd love that. If we don't have time this trip, next time . . .” Michelin seemed to realize what he'd just said and rubbed his jaw.

Next time.
Next time Michelin came to Nashville, Lucky would be back working at The Broom Closet, but it was a very tempting little fantasy to imagine a world where their friendship stretched on longer than the expiration date on the creamer in Michelin's fridge. He couldn't give Michelin the sort of soft smile he wanted to right then, so he nudged him with his shoe under the table. Eyes meeting Lucky's, Michelin nudged back.

I know. This is all strange and new to me, too,
Lucky said with his eyes.
It's okay if you're weirded out.

I do want a next time.
Michelin's eyes were every bit as firm as his magical voice could be.
But I'm really out of my depth here.

Let's float together. Figure it out as we go?
Lucky bumped ankles with him again, sparks shooting up his leg as Michelin returned the contact.

A flush crept up Michelin's neck and Lucky withdrew his foot. Damn. If a little bit of footsie could make Michelin blush, what could Lucky accomplish with his mouth . . .

“At the party . . . I mean . . .” Michelin coughed and cleared his throat. “You were gonna tell me about your dancin'?”

Lucky really shouldn't love it so much that he could make Mr. International Superstar so flustered. But he did, almost as much as he loved the first genuine interest Michelin had shown in his dancing career.

He told Michelin how he divided his time between go-go work and auditions, and he tried to convey the high of landing a good music video gig or getting to headline a revue as a show boy. Through it all, Michelin paid rapt attention and asked good questions. He even said he'd check out Lucky's YouTube page. Too bad they weren't really alone, or Lucky would pull up his favorite clips on his phone.

“So those jobs . . . the videos and stuff, no one touches you? You just dance without the . . . tips?” Michelin's long fingers drummed against the chipped table.

“Generally. But the tipping doesn't bug me, and sometimes it's downright fun.”

“I guess.” Michelin picked at the chip. “I don't like no one touchin' me without an invitation.”

“And here I've been loving on you all week.” Lucky tried not to get defensive and launch into his “go-go dancers are neither sex workers nor strippers and even if they were, they still need respect” lecture.

“Not
you.
” Michelin colored again. “Nothing you do annoys me. It's more strangers, you know? All up in your personal business? How do you deal with that?”

Damn it. Lucky really was going to have to dust off the lecture. “I love dancing. Love showing off. Love choreographing my own moves. Love the reaction from people. Love the interacting with the audience. I don't get off on it, though—it's not a sexual act for me any more than singing is for you. So I deal with the touching and tipping the same way, as a professional. Just part of the gig.”

Michelin nodded. “I hear you. And I've seen you practicing—you're ridiculously talented. I just don't like picturing—”

“Here you go.” The waitress set down the food, giant platters with chicken fried steaks and gravy, over-easy eggs, and breakfast potatoes.

Lucky waited until she returned to the counter area before speaking, keeping his voice low. “I get it. I do. I've never had a boyfriend be totally cool with the dancing, especially not go-go.”

Michelin's foot tapped his, making Lucky look up from his food.

“Hey now. I don't wanna be lumped with all them.” Michelin's eyes crinkled but his mouth was solemn.

“Not that big of a group,” Lucky admitted, trying to hide how pleased he was that Michelin wasn't running from the label and that he wanted to distinguish himself. “And anyway, if I win the Vegas contest to get a spot in their revue, I may not need to go-go again for a good long time. The winning videos get guaranteed slots in the revue—it's like a high-stakes version of the usual audition process. But first, I have to get the video made. They're looking for high production values—not like my homemade stuff that I toss up on social media.”

Michelin pushed his food around the plate. Lucky didn't like his furrowed forehead. Not a good sign.

“I could—”

“Don't ruin tonight. Please.” Lucky cut him off before Michelin could offer him cash or some other kind of assistance. “I want to do this on my own.”

“I can respect that.” Michelin cut his steak into neat strips. His jaw stayed tense and he didn't meet Lucky's eyes.

“What is it with you and money, anyway?” Lucky asked, attacking his food in a much more haphazard fashion. He'd been wondering about Michelin and money all week. “I mean, I get it that you're loaded. But you've got like a . . . complex about giving.”

Michelin was silent for a long time, chewing slowly. He took a swallow of coffee, and Lucky was about to tell him to forget the question when he finally spoke. “I don't really talk about this with anyone, but . . . when I was sixteen, my friends and I formed Speed Kills. Felt like we were the only rockers in eastern Oregon. Not much of anything out there in the high desert, really. We had a surprising amount of success with local fairs, our alt-rock sound was getting decent buzz, even for a group of kids. And we needed cash for a demo album. I didn't have a part-time job like some kids because I was needed on the ranch. If I wasn't at school or practicing my guitar, I was helping my old man.”

Lucky nodded. He could empathize. “I had a similar deal, actually. My dad and his brothers own a large remodeling business. I worked summers for them, and worked after school some at the Argentine butcher shop and catering company my mom's family owns. She's an accountant, but she made us all spend time working for Abuela and my aunties. Between the family businesses and dance, I was plenty busy.”

Michelin's head tilted as he studied Lucky as if it hadn't occurred to him that they could have that much in common. He nodded. “Yeah. That sort of deal. Anyway, we needed money, and finally my parents decided to front us the cash.”

Lucky wasn't sure what to say, so he nodded. “That was nice of them.”

“They were stupid proud of me and my music.” Michelin shook his head. “But then that winter, beef prices tanked, and mama got real sick with diabetes, and cash got super tight.”

“That wasn't your fault.”

Michelin waved Lucky's words away. “Maybe not, but the album money didn't help any. They lived too close to the bone for years, and two years after Mama got sick, Daddy ended up having to sell our ranch to my uncle, leaving my parents as renters on the land they sweat for.”

“I'm sorry.”

“By the time Speed Kills was bringing in the big money, it was too late to help my folks—Daddy died of a bleeding ulcer when I was twenty-three, and Mama insisted on staying right there in that house and wouldn't let me buy the land back from my uncle. Just getting her to let me pay her medical bills was a
project.
”

“Ah.” Lucky was starting to get a better picture of Michelin. He tried to help everyone else because he hadn't been able to help his folks, and he had the control freak thing to boot.

“And they raised me to give back. Even when the ranch was going under, they still tithed to the church. My daddy used to say, ‘You don't ever stop giving back and you don't ever forget where you came from.' And I try damn hard not to.”

“He'd be proud of you now, that's for sure. Look at what you've done with helping Stand Out and Embellish get their starts.”

“Not sure about that.” Michelin shrugged. “Helping out younger musicians is important because it keeps me remembering what it was like to be hungry and how damn hard it is to make it in this industry.”

Lucky hated seeing the usually confident Michelin unsure of his worth. “You worried about what your parents would think about this past week?”

Michelin nodded sharply as he speared his egg way harder than needed. “Guess that's been on my mind. Mama knew. We had a talk about it years ago. She was the one who brought it up.”

“No kidding? My mom was the one to bring it up to me when I was like fourteen. Gave me the most awkward safe sex lecture ever.”

“We didn't talk about
that.
” Michelin dipped a home fry in the egg yolk. “Just more that there wouldn't be any grandbabies and that she loved me anyway, no matter what the pastor said.”

“Well, that's something. And if she loved you like that, she'd be okay with you coming out publicly.”

“Maybe. Daddy wouldn't have understood, but that's water that ain't gettin' back in the bucket.”

“Yup. It's like with the protesters—you can't think too much about other people. Just be you and sing your music. Everyone who counts knows what a good person you are.”