All Note Long (22 page)

“Why'd you recommend me for this gig?” There wasn't a point in pretending that wasn't how it went down.

“Me?” Steve's eyes went too wide, his voice too innocent. “I was surprised to see you here today.
Pleasant
surprise, mind you. Maybe you're getting a good rep.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“Maybe.”
Ha.
Lucky didn't believe that for a minute.

“So did the choreographer explain the end of the video to you? The little joke?”

Acid rose in Lucky's throat. He wasn't going to like this. “No.”

“We'll be in the alley. Escalades lined up. Strippers slipping out, one by one. Implication's going to be that the tiny guy in the entourage in the video paid you to blow him. It'll be hilarious.”

“Hilarious,” Lucky echoed. “But it's not really a funny song.” Not that that would make it okay. Not even remotely.

“Nope.” Steve's blue eyes narrowed, his tan face going all knowing, daring Lucky to object.

Lucky saw the bait dangling, but seized it anyway. “I won't do that. I'm not a sex worker. Dance, sure. But I can't do that ending.”

“Too bad.” Steve examined his perfectly buffed nails. “No ending, no video, no money.”

Lucky took a deep breath. “Why do you want to humiliate Michelin so bad?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean. We had a vision for the video. You fit it. Simple as that. Not my business if his . . .
taste
fits the bill.”

“I don't.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don't fit the bill.” That screaming sound? That was Lucky's bank account protesting his ego. But his mom was wrong—Lucky didn't have an excess of pride. He had exactly the right amount. “I'm a dancer, not your whore. And even if I was a sex worker, I still wouldn't be down with being the butt of your joke.”

“He's not going to want you back, you know?” Steve kept up that bored tone. “He can't handle the spotlight. Can't handle anyone else having it either.”

“I don't care if he wants me,” Lucky lied. “I have to live with me, too. And I can't do your video. Because it wouldn't only embarrass him by bringing up that nasty gossip about him and me, it would demean me. And no money's worth it.”

“Your loss.” Steve snapped his fingers, summoning the director over. “Daniella. We're going to need a new
hooker
cast pronto.”

Lucky gathered up his stuff, headed for the parking lot. His phone buzzed, but he didn't answer it. He knew it would be the booking agent giving him a piece of her mind. His insides felt all squishy, his dream of the Vegas revue slipping out of reach.

Unless . . .

Unless he dealt with that whole pride thing and asked for help. It wouldn't get him Michelin back—nothing might—but it wouldn't hurt to try his mother's advice.

B
y Saturday, Lucky still hadn't decided exactly
how—
or who—he was going to ask for help. But the more pressing question was what to wear to the fund-raiser and who to bring. Ruby had given him five tickets, and if they were as hard up for audience members as she made it sound, he felt honor-bound to mobilize his peeps. However, once he, two of his besties, and two cousins with nothing better to do arrived at the iconic Club Aikon theater, they found the line to get into the venue three blocks long. The marquee on the front of theater had a big “sold out” sign next to the benefit concert name. Ruby had grossly overstated the need for live bodies, but the cause was good, and his friends were so excited that it was hard to stay irritated at her. The red carpet area set up on the side of the building was hopping, too—a steady stream of celebrities and notables.

Of which he was decidedly not. Their tickets were for the second-floor balcony with a better view than he could afford on his own, but no VIP lounge access or anything like that. His moment as the hot gossip was officially over, although Michelin continued to burn up the news, especially on Lucky's favorite LGBT news outlet. People were
pissed
at Big Mart. Too bad the man himself hadn't been able to summon any public outrage.

Lucky tried to push Michelin from his thoughts as his group followed the crowd in. Their upper-center balcony seats had a great view of the stage and the lower level. Other than the standing-room-only pit in front of the stage, the whole main floor had been arranged with round tables that probably went for big money for the celebrity and corporate sponsors. His friends and cousins had a great time spotting different celebrities making their way to their tables.

“Zo-my-god. It's the Stand Out guys!” His friend Hal about lost his glittery overshirt trying to get a better glimpse. Hal had gone full-on glam with glitter shirt and heavy guyliner. Uri had followed suit, choosing leather pants and a mesh t-shirt with carefully styled punk hair. Lucky hadn't been able to summon that kind of fashion energy, tossing on an “Achievement Unlocked” marriage equality shirt and tight black jeans.

“The guys from Embellish are with them.” Uri joined Hal in craning his neck like some strange species of bird. Hell. Now, Lucky felt a fresh twinge of pain. Michelin's mentees and friends were here. He should be here, too.

“Are they performing? I love their latest video.” Lucky's cousin Enrique—his very, very straight cousin—got all four of the rest of them staring at him. “What? I like a cappella. I'm allowed. Chill, guys.”

As it turned out, both Embellish and Stand Out were on the program. Not surprisingly, Ruby was the only vaguely country artist on the list. And she went a bit more pop when it was her turn to perform, singing her upbeat song about kissing a country girl and another about hunting down big-city lights. After her second song, she switched guitars, talking to the audience as she did so.

“So, I've got a treat for you next. We've got a surprise guest. And when he called and asked if I could help him debut
two
new songs for y'all, my butt about hit the floor.”

The audience laughed, but the air in Lucky's lungs took on an Arctic chill, raising goose bumps on his arms.
Could it be?
Behind her, two of the Embellish guys swapped places with the girls who had been singing background vocals for Ruby, and Lucky lost the ability to breathe altogether, existing on hope alone.

“And I gotta tell you, I don't fangirl for many, but I've been literally pinching myself all day that I get to sing with . . .
Michelin Moses.
”

“Dude! Your boy!” Lucky's crew about killed him with the elbowing and head rubbing and hooting as the rest of the audience went nuts with applause.

Michelin took the stage with long, easy strides, but only Lucky could spot the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his jaw. The man who usually seemed to come into himself the second the spotlight hit was nervous. Unlike most of the performers, including Ruby, who had gone for club wear, Michelin was in his favorite pair of boots, cowboy hat, black jeans, and white shirt with the black vest with rainbow embroidery he'd rejected a couple of weeks back. Lucky's throat got all thick remembering their dressing room kiss.

Ruby moved back so that Michelin had the center microphone. The crowd continued roaring until he gave a “settle down” gesture.

“I'm honored, y'all, really. Didn't expect such a reception, joining up last minute like this.” More applause interrupted him. “You guys like surprises, huh?” He laughed. “Well, I hope you also like opening up your wallets because this is a fabulous cause, and I'm real pleased to be here supporting it.”

He started strumming lightly, and Lucky knew him well enough to know he was using the guitar to quiet his nerves, keep his voice so free and easy. Michelin continued, “People keep calling me a hero for coming out, but they're wrong. It's kids like the ones the shelter helps who are the real heroes. Fact is, I did something that I should have done a decade ago. But the kids? The ones living their truth even when it means not havin' a place to sleep? That's the real courage.” The audience gave a huge round of applause and cheers.

“Sure, I've pissed off a few people, but I can take it. And all y'all who have been angry on my behalf, looking for somethin' you can do—you can do this. You can support these kids. As my mama used to say, you give what you can, then you give a little more. So I'm asking you to give a little more.”

Michelin paused a minute, looked behind him at the band, seeming to look for some sort of signal. “And I've spent a couple of weeks now sayin' I'm not angry. And I'm done with that. I'm pissed as heck that there's still so much work to be done in this country. And I'm real sad that some people I thought might have my back had the door instead. And this song, it's about all that. Being angry about bein' angry and givin' even when it hurts.”

Lucky still wasn't sure what all the fascination with country music was about—most of it was too slow for his tastes. But no one,
no one
could tell a story with a song like Michelin, his distinctive timbre painting a stark picture of oppression and bullying. And he hadn't been lying—it was angry as fuck. And Lucky
loved
it. All the passion he'd wanted Michelin to show about the discrimination and hate coming his way had bubbled up into one of the most beautiful songs Lucky'd ever heard.

As the song finished, the energy in the venue was absolutely electric, and Michelin got a huge standing ovation. More than one person had to wipe away tears, too. Hal and Uri both gave loud sniffs as they applauded. Michelin gave the crowd a moment, then made the “settle down” gesture again.

“I gotta give a shout-out to Ruby, Lucas, and Cody for giving me such great background vocals on almost no notice. And if you liked the song, look for it on iTunes next week—they're still playing me.” The crowd laughed along with him. “All proceeds benefit the shelter.”

Michelin took a deep breath and fiddled with his guitar strap. “Everyone keeps asking me what's changed since I came out. And I kept insisting that nothing's changed. Not one bit. I'm still me. I started singing country because I was tired of trying to make my voice fit genres that weren't really me. And me, I'm just a cowboy from eastern Oregon. Coming out didn't change the fact that I like my boots broke in, my truck ready to tow, my music slow and rambling. Singing my songs lets me be that guy, the one I am deep down where it counts.”

“We love you,” someone shouted from the audience, and Michelin gave a tight smile.

“I love y'all, too. I'm just a cowboy with a guitar, but I'm also gay. And I'm done pretending that don't matter any.”

Lucky joined the crowd in wildly cheering that one.

“And as for what's changed . . . well, this next song is one I set to writing a few nights back. And I realized . . .” There was a long pause, and Lucky could sense the nerves creeping in again. The spotlight, Michelin's usual happy place, wasn't doing its trick. “I-I-I don't have to worry about pronouns anymore.”

A confused silence greeted him, and even Lucky couldn't quite follow Michelin's logic.

“My whole songwriting life, I've had to be so careful with pronouns, you see. Write about girls, even if I didn't quite get them that way.” That got a laugh from the audience.

“Write a really good he-done-me-wrong song, better hand that off to a female friend to sing. Use ‘you' whenever possible. Stay vague. I switched things after I wrote, more than a few times. And after I wrote this song . . . it hit me. I can sing it just as I wrote it. I don't ever have to worry about pronouns again, if I don't want to.”

Lucky joined in the boisterous applause even as Uri and Hal practically attacked him with their ribbing. “It's you. It's about
you.”
They hissed in his ears, twin snakes of doom.

“And this song . . . I couldn't quite decide what to call it. So we'll call it ‘The Lucky Song.' See if it sticks.”

Oh
shit.
His friends and cousins were
never
letting him live this down. Lots of people dreamed about having some famous singer sing a song about them, but the reality wasn't as romantic as the fantasy—reality was more than a little embarrassing and awkward, wondering what private stuff was about to be aired, having to share a deeply personal moment with two thousand strangers.

But then something shifted. Maybe it was a particular note in the song or maybe it was the way Michelin drew out a low note, but all of a sudden it was as if they were back on the sofa in Michelin's Nashville condo, only the two of them, Michelin singing right to him.

He didn't have to wonder anymore what it would be like if Michelin turned the full depth of all his feeling on Lucky because it was all there in the song. Naked and raw, full of longing and wonder, it was possibly the most personal song Lucky had ever heard.

The full force of Michelin's bravery hit Lucky as the song ended. Michelin had put himself out there, not as a gesture to woo Lucky back, but to share himself with the audience. For the first time, Michelin was sharing
all
of himself with his fans, and they returned his gift with an eruption of applause as the song ended. As the applause went on and on, the rest of Embellish as well as the guys from Stand Out filtered onto the stage behind Michelin, and Ruby's backup singers returned as well.

It took Michelin a few tries to speak over the noise of the crowd. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Finally, I've got some of my friends here to do ‘Graduation Day' with me. Shout-out to Trevor and Lucas for getting us a new arrangement. This one goes out to all the kids wondering if there's a place for them. We're here to tell you there is. There's a place for all of us. Sing along if you know it.”

Michelin started the song, but he let Ruby, Cody from Embellish, and the short blond lead from Stand Out each take a verse. Hal, Uri, and Enrique about wet themselves cheering for their favorites. Lucky hadn't realized he'd memorized some of the lyrics until he found himself joining in the final refrain, the whole theater swelling with the song. Chills raced down his spine—it was one of the neatest things he'd ever witnessed.

Michelin and the other artists gave a wave as they exited the stage. Somehow there were still more acts, but Lucky couldn't focus on the rest of the show. He kept waiting to see if Michelin made his way back to the main floor to watch the show like the other groups, but he didn't. He
needed
to be with Michelin. Right the hell now. Finally, he dug out his phone. It was a long shot that Michelin had his turned on, but he had to try.

I'm here. You were amazing,
he texted. Eloquent he wasn't, but now all he could do was wait.

* * *

The performance wore Michelin out. He took off his hat and collapsed into a chair in the crowded dressing room area. Multiple acts and performers meant space was at a premium, but he still managed to find a corner to hide out in. Did Lucky come? He'd managed to push that thought from his head while he was performing, but now that he was done, it was all he could think about. Ruby said she'd hooked him up with last-minute tickets, but that was no guarantee he'd really shown up. Michelin had had to sing as if Lucky were there, trust that his words would reach the right ears. And at a certain point, he'd realized that this wasn't about Lucky.

Oh sure, he wanted Lucky back with an intensity that made his bone marrow ache. But the performance wasn't about Lucky. It was about himself. About embracing his true self, truly one hundred percent coming out. Not dancing around it. Not pretending the larger movement had nothing to do with him. Not acting like he could quietly slink around the edges of the community. No, he'd needed this performance to remind himself that he couldn't hide any longer, to remind himself that he didn't really sing for himself. He sang for the kids who needed his songs, for the people with open hearts who wanted his story. He sang for the fans—
all
the fans, including those new ones who had discovered something in his music that he hadn't even seen himself.