All Note Long (21 page)

“I'm plenty flexible,” Lucky grumbled as he finished his sandwich, then put the plate in the dishwasher for his mother. “So can the dog and I crash here tonight? I don't want to stick you with her again, but you guys have the yard . . .”

“You are always welcome here.” His mother came over and bussed a kiss on his cheek. “Even when you are being
burro estúpido.
”

“Thanks, Mama.” He laughed at her words. She'd called him a stubborn idiot and a pigheaded donkey often enough for him to not take offense. Like Lucky, she tended to only use her Spanish when worked up about something or when talking to one of the older relatives.

Later, when he was upstairs in his old bedroom, rap posters exactly where he left them and the same glow-in-the-dark star spread that had seemed so cool when he was fifteen, he kept replaying the day in his head. He was
not
going to grovel to Michelin. It didn't matter what his mama said. There wasn't really much room for compromise. But knowing that didn't stop him from thumbing aimlessly through his phone, composing and deleting messages until he fell into a restless sleep.

K
eep your hands busy. Bad luck's nothing a little hard work can't outrun.
Every one of Michelin's mama's sayings kept running through his head. It didn't matter what the cause—the crops failing, his daddy drinking more than he should, the tractor throwing an axle, Hazel Shortwright wearing the exact same dress to church
and
talkin' too much to Daddy—his mama always solved her sadness with a good project. Closets got cleaned out. Fences got painted. Flower beds got weeded. And she never, ever dwelled on something so trivial as her feelings.

Wouldn't she be mighty proud of Michelin sitting here on his couch with his cell phone on a Wednesday night, re-reading the same message for the hundredth time:

If he changed his mind . . . Lord, he'd done changed it fifty times on Monday night alone. And not just about the dog, much as he missed her. God, it would be so easy to request Lucky bring him the dog. But then what? He wasn't fit as a dog owner or a boyfriend. Wasn't right for either of them. She deserved an owner who was always around. And Lucky, he deserved someone who could find the right fucking words. Do the right thing. Because, Lord, whatever that thing was, Michelin had missed it by a mile.

Smug bastard. His mama might have kept busier than her demons, and Michelin got his need to take on new projects from her, but he got the urge to drink his troubles away from Daddy, who hadn't met a bad day a tumbler of whiskey after dinner wouldn't cure. “Functional” alcoholic, that's what the therapist Jennifer had hooked him up with had called it. And that's what the therapist had said he was becoming, too. But she made sure too that he understood there was nothing functional about drinking himself to sleep each night. And if Michelin had done that to forget that his best friend and lover went and married some nineteen-year-old he'd known all of a week, well, then he too could be dead at fifty like his daddy. With the therapist's help, he'd seen that he was well on the road to being an alcoholic. Period. Full stop. No “functional” added to pretty up the truth.

And here he was in his living room, lights not even on, just sitting with his phone. He knew what came next if he let himself keep the pity party up, so he forced his thumb to click away from Lucky's text, pushed send on the call he knew he had to make before he went in search of what the deep recesses of pantry might hold.

“Bro! Been wondering when we'd hear from you.” Rob sounded all relaxed. Michelin could picture him on the couch with a lap full of babies.

He couldn't get the niceties out, couldn't make small talk about the kids. Could only get to the chase. “I-I-I need a drink. F-f-first time in two years I'm this tempted.”

He'd been tempted when the coming-out story first broke, but he'd had . . . distractions.
Lucky. You had Lucky.

“Where're your shoes?” Rob's warm voice woke him up a bit with the familiar question.

“In the hall closet. Ain't been out today.”

“Well, get a move on, go find 'em while we talk.” He heard Rob drop his voice, say something to someone in the room.

Michelin's gut twanged with deep shame that he was taking Rob away from the family. “Sorry.”

“No such thing. Hang on a sec. Okay. I'm out on the porch. Getting my boots on, too. Seems like a good evenin' for a meeting. I'll get my sorry ass into town, and you head onto that later meeting you always liked. We'll text afterward that we went, like always.”

“You don't gotta do that.” Michelin put his damn shoes on. Rob wasn't his sponsor, nothing formal as all that. But Rob had been several years sober when Jennifer and the therapist convinced Michelin it was time to dry out, and they'd talked some in those early months, mainly about crappy-ass genetics. Lot of times they didn't even talk, simply texted that they were heading to a meeting. They never once talked about Steve and
why
Michelin was struggling so hard. So many musicians had a problem with drinking that no one ever looked beneath the damn cliché. Even Jennifer, she
knew,
but they never talked about it either.

Thus, Rob 'bout blew Michelin's mind when he said, “We gonna pretend this ain't about that guy of yours?”

“That . . . that was p-pretend. Like I said.” Michelin grabbed his keys and headed for the truck.

Rob snorted, and there was the sound of his old Chevy's engine turning over. “Got you on speaker now, and that sounds even more like bullshit in stereo, brother.”

Michelin sighed in defeat.

“I seen the pictures, man. Griselda, she makes sure I see all your gossip. And you, my friend, are crazy in love. No fakin' that.”

“I don't l-l-love him.” Michelin didn't start his own truck. His hand shook too much to get the key in the ignition.

“All right. Straight shit comin' here. I saw a picture of you guys in L.A. last week. And the last time I saw that look on your face you were hanging around with that Steve Brewer.”

“You knew?” Michelin's words had little more than breath behind them.

“Don't be an idjit. Of course I knew. Used to run around with you two enough, didn't I?”

Michelin made an inarticulate noise.

“And that crick's dried up and we ain't gotta talk about the mess he left you in. But maybe that's our problem—neither of us are talkers. I done let you stew too many years.”

“I talk to Lucky,” Michelin whispered, surprised he got the words out.

“See. That's real good. But Griselda says she saw you and your dancer boy are quits. Doesn't take your smarts to see why you're craving the sauce. And that's not even gettin' into the shit your label's putting you through—”

“Whatcha know about that?”

“I know they ain't doin' right by you. All those radio shock jocks and podunk stations havin' a tantrum, label needs to get real with them. They got leverage—they just ain't using it for you. Ditto Big Mart. If Griselda can say we're gonna drive another hour to avoid shopping at Big Mart, then by God, your label should be doin' the same.”

“You guys are doing that for me?” He knew full well that it was an hour drive to the nearest Big Mart from their tiny eastern Oregon ranching town, and it really was the only game in town for the whole county.

“Us?” Rob snorted. “Bro, you really gotta get on Facebook. Whole damn family's boycotting. Joinin' with all them big city liberals with a Target on the corner. We ain't letting them represent and fight your fight. We gotta show up.”

Fuck.
Michelin let his head hit the steering wheel. That was exactly what he was doing. Letting others fight his fight. Or hell, pretending there wasn't a fight. Pretending he wasn't a part of some
movement.
If everyone would keep quiet . . .

Only it turned out the only one keeping quiet was him.

Hell. Lucky was right. And Michelin knew what he had to do. He had to find his damn voice.
But how?

Michelin try to switch the call to the fancy hands-free setup in the truck, but the radio popped on instead. Familiar female vocalist singin' about big-city lights . . .

That was Ruby's voice. Good lord, could his mama have sent him a clearer sign how to get his hands busy?

“I gotta make a call,” he said to Rob.

“No. You don't. You're about late for that meeting, and I ain't heard you put that truck in gear yet.”

Michelin nodded to the empty truck, backed out, and headed for Sunset. “I'm going.”

He owed Rob—owed
himself—
a meeting. He'd lied to Lucky when he'd said he didn't do meetings. He hadn't realized yet how much his bones were gonna come to crave telling Lucky every truth inside his soul. Right then, even more than a drink, he wanted to tell Lucky about Rob, their dads, how Jennifer helped him because she'd seen enough drinking problems with the ex-rocker she was married to before he got healthy—all of it. Every last truth he had to tell, he would if it would get him Lucky back.

* * *

“I'm not sure I'm up for a big event,” Lucky said into his phone as he locked the house behind him. Heading to a dancing gig from his parents' house after doing chores like feeding the dogs made him feel all of nineteen again. And Ruby trying to make him go out on Saturday night didn't help matters either.

When he'd called The Broom Closet to beg off Friday for the music video shoot, Carlos had called him a diva and a big distraction and told him to take the whole weekend. Bye-bye, extra cash. Good thing this video gig paid decently. He'd paid his rent and utilities for the month, but barely. One would think all this notoriety would lead to lots more work. One would be dead wrong. People wanted to gape at Lucky, get his picture for their Instagram accounts, but pay him? Nah. No one was lining up to do that.

Even Ruby, God love her, wasn't calling wanting him to work the fund-raiser tomorrow. She had extra guest tickets and wanted him to come and bring a few friends, help make sure they had a full house for the taping. And sure, Lucky had plenty of friends who wouldn't mind chilling at a concert raising money for homeless youth. They all knew someone who'd been on the verge.

“I'm going to leave the tickets at the will-call window for you. And I expect to see you at the after party. No excuses.” She might be tiny, but Ruby's words packed a punch.

“Okay, okay.”

“Look, I know you're all sad about Michelin, but you gotta put yourself out there. Have some fun.” Ruby softened her voice, going all maternal on him. She'd pried the whole story out of him earlier in the conversation, and like all happily coupled people everywhere, she thought of herself as having all the answers for the brokenhearted.

“I texted him. Twice.” Lucky's frustration finally bubbled over as he got into his car, cranked the AC. Guilt about the dog situation had driven him to reach out. It was the right thing to do, but damn if Michelin hadn't maintained his radio silence.

“I know,” Ruby soothed. “You can't
make
him reach out.”

“I miss him. Why do I miss him so much? We weren't together that long.” God. He needed to banish the whininess. He needed to be ready to dance as soon as he arrived at the studio.

“Sometimes only the heart knows the truth.” She let out a little squeal at odds with the dignity of her words. “Ohmigod! I've had the best idea for a song. I gotta go! Need to write this down before I forget!”

“Go to it,” Lucky laughed.

“And you'll come tomorrow?”

“I'll come.” It was easier than fielding her messages and pleas for the next forty-eight hours. Right then he needed to stay focused on dance.

* * *

Two hours later, though, and the last thing he wanted was to focus on dancing. Ordinarily, he loved meeting with the choreographer, finding out what the musician envisioned, and learning the routine. Sometimes he had a week to rehearse, but these quick one-day shoots were becoming more and more common as people wanted more content to toss up on social media on the cheap.

But what Steve Brewer and the Grind Father—whose real name was DeMarcus and who moved around the room with no fewer than five people on his heels at all times—wanted was a spoof of a strip club. Only not really a spoof, because it wasn't a humorous song. More like every bad stereotype of go-go dancing, including the insinuation that sex work was absolutely on the table. And from what Lucky could tell, he was included because homophobia was all kinds of funny.

This was why Lucky liked working with drag queens and lesser-known hip-hop artists—they generally got the narrow line between funny and offensive, and they were more likely to treat Lucky as an equal. The pay might be shit, but at least he didn't feel dirty and cheap before filming had even started. The choreographer who'd been working with the dancers and extras called for a break right as Steve and DeMarcus returned to the set. DeMarcus and his entourage started chatting up the female dancers while Steve somehow ended up next to Lucky over by the coolers holding water and the snack tables.

“Hey, you.” Steve used Michelin's favorite greeting for Lucky, making his teeth hurt from how tight his jaw clenched. He didn't care whether one picked it up from the other—he loved that soft hello from Michelin, but the same words out of Steve's mouth made Lucky need to kick something.

“Mmm.” Lucky made a sound to acknowledge he'd heard, but he wasn't about to return the greeting with the lightness it demanded.

“So are the rumors true?” Steve took a drink from a bottle of water. “You and your country sugar daddy on the outs?”

“I don't talk about my business. I just came here to dance.”

“And dance you are.” Steve's lewd gaze would be distasteful even from a Saturday night drunk eying Lucky at last call. Middle of the day, on a gig he'd been assuming would be grope-free, the look made his skin feel like he'd rolled in the surf all morning.