All Note Long (5 page)

“What does Alcohol and Beverage Control want with you? And the cops?”

“Oh, I'm sure you're on their list of people to talk to as well. But suddenly they're giving more credit to past complaints about the club, and they're all up in my grill about lewd behavior and dancer regulations and all sorts of shit I don't have time for.”

“Hey, it's not my fault that those guys last summer were selling something on the side.” Or that Carlos turned a blind eye to a lot of that crap and played very fast and loose with the ABC regulations about lewd behavior. Wasn't Lucky's fault that some former employees had made some complaints to both ABC and OSHA, in addition to the dudes who got busted for soliciting. Carlos didn't exactly run a quality establishment, but Lucky couldn't deny that the tips were among the best in WeHo.

“No, but you were certainly vocal enough about it, weren't you? But now Mr. I'm-not-an-escort has been caught raiding the cookie jar for a little Hollywood cash. And now I've got people implying I'm some sort of pimp. At least the other guys had the decency to complete their transactions away from here.”

“It's not like I want this attention! And I was not selling!”

Carlos ignored his protest. “And I've got paparazzi trained on the entrance, which is
not
good for business. Some of our clientele like discretion.”

“I'm sorry.” He wasn't really, but Carlos looked as mad as Lucky had ever seen him.

“Hah.” Carlos snorted. “And doesn't matter. I already told the authorities I'd can you for the solicitation.”

“I wasn't soliciting! And you can't fire me for something I wasn't doing!” A desperate clang built up in Lucky's chest, like an old teakettle about to go off.

“Yeah? Why did you have him in the employee changing room? Huh? Want to explain those pictures to me in a way that can get the authorities off my ass?”

“I can make this all go away with a convincing story. Trust me.”
Gloria's little spiel rang in his ears.
“Neither of you looks great right now.”

Jobless, out a buttload of cash that he desperately needed for his video, and insisting on telling the truth—or lying to help a guy who thought Lucky was little better than a hooker and who couldn't even be bothered to return Lucky's call or come see him himself?

If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.
Lucky's high school English teacher had a poster with that Mark Twain quote on it, and he'd seen it every day for two years.

“I was getting him a drink . . .” Lucky trailed off as the fire door behind Carlos opened. He was about to warn Carlos, who wouldn't have noticed a spaceship landing in the bar unless it was populated with ABC officials. But he regrouped as he recognized the tall figure coming through the door, even though Michelin was wearing another stupid beanie and a too-big sweatshirt in a hideous shade of rust. A split second look at Carlos's face told him that the truth wasn't saving his job. And here was the universe sending him a clear sign that his teacher's poster was full of crap. “Because he's my boyfriend,” Lucky amended.

If you're going to lie, at least be convincing.
That piece of advice was direct from his cousin Enrique. “I've been seeing him a while and he needed the soda I had in my locker—”

“Ha.” Carlos laughed. Actually chortled. “That's a good one. You? Dating a big music superstar? You can barely get parts in those two-bit drag queen music videos. No way is someone like that dating someone like you. Nope. Not buying it. You're still fired.”

It seriously burned that Carlos was totally willing to believe that two bills was Lucky's going rate, but didn't see him as rich-and-famous-boyfriend material.

“Hey,
sweetie,
” he said over Carlos's shoulder. “I'm just trying to clear up the big misunderstanding from last night.”

Carlos swiveled his head to discover Michelin over his shoulder. Carlos was at least a foot shorter than Michelin; he looked up at him with nothing less than awe, especially once Michelin removed his hat. “You . . . you guys are seeing each other. For real?”

“Totally.” Lucky was proud that he didn't cross his fingers behind his back as he nodded his agreement.

“You're full of it,” Carlos said to Lucky before turning toward Michelin. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Michelin said mildly. “I'm sorry for all the inconvenience this has caused. You'll get a call from my financial manager Monday to see if there's anything we can do to . . . smooth things out as you deal with the hassle of the press.”

Michelin didn't sound at all like the shy, fumbling guy he'd been last night. Yet another sign that Lucky had been played but good. And of course Michelin was looking to solve Carlos's beef with cash.
Welcome to life with a sugar daddy.
As soon as they got alone, Lucky was going to put down some rules about this shit, but right now he just nodded.

Carlos looked thoughtful, as if the adding machine in his head was trying to decide what Michelin might be good for. “All right. It was a . . . miscommunication. And I look forward to that call. But, Lucky, I'm still not sure what to do with your rule-breaking ass.”

“You can't fire me. I need this job.”

“You're not firing Lucky.” Michelin's words were spoken with the firmness of someone with the cash to back them up, a fact that burned Lucky up. His words should carry just as much weight.

Carlos sighed heavily. “Fine. Leave of absence. You can't deny you're a giant distraction right now. And all the . . .
smoothing
in the world can't rid me of the paparazzi out front or the ABC breathing down my neck. Leave of absence until the stuff with the authorities blows over.”

“That sounds fair,” Michelin answered for Lucky.

“It is not—”

“You're about to be very busy,” Michelin said in that mild but firm tone of his that probably had the rest of his minions hopping to do his bidding.

“I'll leave you two . . .
lovebirds.
” Carlos snickered as he headed back down the hall. “And Lucky? Clear out your locker.”

After he was out of earshot, Michelin took a step closer to Lucky and lowered his voice. “Thank you for agreeing to this—”

“Oh, Papí, I haven't agreed to shit yet.” Lucky shook his head. “And we're going to get one thing straight right the hell now. You don't speak for me.”

Lucky might be about to make a bargain with the devil, but he was going to make certain he got something out of this deal and that he got to keep his self-respect. There were some things Michelin just wasn't getting, no matter how much cash or charm he ponied up.

L
ucky's plan to seize some power wasn't going particularly well. After he got his stuff, he found himself whisked out the back exit to Michelin's car. Instead of the ubiquitous black Escalade that celebs seemed to favor, Michelin had a tricked-out four-door Silverado High Country pickup with tinted windows.

“Nice truck,” Lucky said before Michelin shoved him and his duffel into the backseat like some sort of surly kid. Gloria occupied the front passenger seat and gave him a nod like she'd been expecting him.
Am I that predictable?

“It was a gift from one of the tour sponsors. Like it way better than my old Escalade,” Michelin said as he swung into the driver's seat.

Lucky snorted. “Figures. All you celebs have an Escalade phase.”

“And you'd know so much about ‘us celebs' because . . .” Michelin didn't sound annoyed, more like curious, but Lucky clammed up because no way in hell was he talking about Walter right then.

“Where are we going?” he demanded as Michelin pulled into traffic. “And shouldn't you have a driver? Bodyguard? Someone so you don't have to mess with navigating this boat?”

“Michelin doesn't like staff,” Gloria answered for him. “He's got security on retainer for big events, but otherwise, he's remarkably independent.” She sounded like she was talking about a strange dog breed that she needed to sell Lucky on.

“Boat's in storage. And I like driving,” the man himself added. “You said you needed to negotiate this . . . bargain. So we're going back to my place.”

“We need to keep a low profile until our plans take off,” Gloria soothed. “There will be plenty of time to be seen later.”

“Wasn't asking for a photo op.” Lucky leaned back against the soft suede seat. It cradled him like one of those massage chairs at the mall. “I just like to know what's what. I don't like being shoved around.”

“Noted,” Michelin said dryly. “Now I'm gonna make sure we're not being tailed by paparazzi and you can make a list of demands or whatever for when we get to my place.”

Michelin's tone said that he'd had enough talking for the time being, but Lucky still smarted at being told
again
what to do when he'd just told Michelin to knock that shit off. Gloria got busy on her tablet, and Lucky dug out his phone. He so wasn't touching the mountain of text messages yet, but some quick Internet research could give him the leverage he needed.

Lucky wasn't surprised when they headed for the hills—Michelin was exactly the type to seek the privacy of a canyon estate, well off the grid of the closer-in Hollywood mansions. Even though they weren't that far from his own West Hollywood place, it felt like a different state, with scenery more fitting a nature preserve than a busy urban area. Neither Michelin nor Gloria was paying Lucky any attention, so he took a good look at the surrounding terrain. Michelin drove up a narrow access road into the secluded Runyon Canyon area. A gate was tucked into an unassuming gray concrete privacy wall, and Michelin hit the access code. An even skinnier twisty driveway took them to a low-slung dark brown mid-century home hugging the rocky cliff face with a ton of trees on the other side.

If Michelin had neighbors, they were nowhere to be seen—the house felt as isolated as if it were plunked down in the middle of the desert, not ten minutes from Hollywood. The massive truck took up most of the garage, and once out of the vehicle and walking through a long breezeway to the house itself, Lucky got a better sense of the place's size—or lack thereof.

It wasn't a glitzy Hollywood compound like the type featured on reality shows, and honestly, Lucky's parents' place probably had more square footage than this quietly rustic bungalow with deep eaves. Something about the place made him expect a pack of dogs to come running up to greet Michelin, but there was only another access panel waiting at his side door.

Michelin hit the code then held the door open for them. They came in on a sunny hallway between a dining area and a kitchen and—

“Oh. My. God. The view.” Lucky did a full-on
House Hunters–
worthy swoon. The house itself might be small and not exactly what one would expect for a superstar, but the wide-open view of the winking lights of downtown L.A. visible from every window declared the place far, far out of the price range of ordinary folks. The view, combined with the humble exterior and homey interior, made Lucky think of people like John Wayne, not music icons.

A small smile tugged at Michelin's mouth. “It's something, isn't it?”

“Yeah. But you need a dog.” Lucky tried to regain his dignity after the Muppet flail over the view.

Michelin's smile did a weird wobbly thing and he scratched his jaw. “Maybe,” he said, and looked away. Gloria brushed by both of them to go sit on one of two leather couches arranged opposite a stone fireplace to take in the view. Everything in the room was some shade of brown—reddish brown floor tiles, light brown couches, cream rug and pillows. Comfortable, but, man, it needed some art or
something.
Especially with Michelin and Gloria not saying anything, the space was just too quiet.

“How is it that I've got photographers and wannabe interviewers camped out in front of my place and you don't have a media storm here yet?”

“You're probably easy to find.” Gloria took a sparkling water out of her giant purse. “Michelin is the master of secrecy. And that's going to work in our favor for once.”

“Sit.” Michelin motioned that Lucky should sit next to Gloria while Michelin lowered his big frame onto the couch. “This house isn't in this name, for one thing. I have a decoy place I use for business functions. It's an investment property, really, but the paparazzi's all over that. Gloria had the security guy I've got on retainer drive the Escalade over there. That'll keep them busy for a few hours.”

This
name. Now Lucky was curious, but he was also stuck on the fact that a guy could own a second mansion just for “investment purposes.” Now that was slick.

“Speaking of finding you, what's your real name? I can't keep callin' you Lucky if we're going to do this thing.”

“Sure you can.” Lucky leaned back against the couch. If Michelin got to keep his real name a secret, then so did Lucky.

“What do your friends call you?” Gloria asked encouragingly.

“Lucky.”

“And the guys you . . . date?” She might as well have made air quotes around “date” for all the credibility she gave the word.

“My
boyfriends
call themselves lucky. Me they tend to call ‘Oh, god, please.'”

Michelin chuckled uncomfortably, but whether it was at Lucky's joke or at the fact that Gloria looked like she just made out with a tube of wasabi was hard to say.

“No offense, man, but so far you've pretty much wrecked my job, my bank account, the place where I live, and my day. No way am I giving out my family name for this shit to fall on them, too.”

“Fair enough. What do you mean bank account—”

“Rule number one of this fake boyfriend business. You do not own me. You do not offer me money to fix my issues—”

“Define fix,” Michelin said at the same time that Gloria shuffled some papers.

“Michelin will be covering
suitable
clothing for your press engagements, food, travel arrangements, and he's prepared to offer a reasonable compensation for your time,” Gloria explained in patient tones that had Lucky wanting to toss something through the huge picture windows in front of them.

“Lady.” Lucky took a deep breath so that she wasn't the thing he tossed. “You're not the one I need to talk to. You want me to play boyfriends with your guy here, he's the one I need to talk to. Not you. And we've got some
personal
shit to cover.”

“You really want to talk to him alone?” Gloria ignored Lucky and talked directly to Michelin. “I was prepared to handle all the details for you—”

“Either I talk directly to my
boyfriend
on a regular and recurring basis or no deal.” Lucky could talk legalese just as well as either of them, and it was time they understood that.

“Why don't you work on the media stuff in my study?” Michelin suggested wearily. “I'll handle Lucky.”

Lucky waited until Gloria
click-click
ed her way down the tiled hallway before speaking again. “Rule two. You don't ‘handle Lucky.' I'm a person, not a golden retriever and not a problem. I'm not the one who caused this mess.”

“You've got a lot of rules.” Michelin pulled off his hat and sweatshirt and stretched, and it was like
boom!
Insta-superstar. Tight black t-shirt showing off a surprisingly muscled chest and arms, and those piercing blue eyes looking every bit as distinctive as they did in the publicity photos Lucky had found online. He was glad he'd managed to articulate two of his biggest rules, because this version of Michelin was way more intimidating.

“You know, this isn't exactly a picnic for me.” Michelin rolled his broad shoulders. The smile lines around his eyes looked more weary than they had last night. “I didn't ask for the shit storm any more than you did.”

“I get that. And it's worse for you, I know.” Lucky wasn't discounting that Michelin was in a truly sucky position. And it was one that he'd tried hard to avoid. “Neither of us deserves this. I'm just trying to make sure I don't get any more screwed by the situation.
Both
our careers are on the line here.”

Michelin nodded slowly, as if he was really understanding for the first time that Lucky
had
a career at stake, too. And that simple look of compassion went a very long way to defusing Lucky's indignation over being dragged into this mess, but he still had one more rule to get out. “And I'm not sleeping with you.”

“Now that one I was expectin'.” Michelin's voice went more country when he laughed or smiled, and Lucky had to admit it was pretty darn charming. “I fucked up last night. You're not a hooker, and I don't expect you to do more than what Gloria needs for the cameras.”

“Damn right I'm not.” Lucky didn't want to let on how much Michelin's seemingly sincere apology meant. “But I mean it. If you're paying for what I wear and what I eat, I'm an employee. And I don't fuck my bosses. Not ever. A real boyfriend—heck, a real
friend—
pays his share. And you need to decide which I am—boyfriend or employee.”

Lucky stomped on the ember inside him that kind of wanted Michelin to choose boyfriend. He did
not
want to be Michelin Moses's real boyfriend. Hell, he wasn't even sure he wanted to be friends with the man who had gotten him into this whole mess.

“Employee isn't the right word.” Michelin rubbed his jaw, which had approximately the same level of stubble as his almost-smooth head. “But you're not paying for anything. That's
my
rule. And I wasn't expecting any funny business anyway. This is a practical business arrangement to save both our asses.”

“Glad we're in agreement,” Lucky said, even if he wasn't, not really. The absolute last thing he wanted was to be someone's kept man, even just for show, even temporarily. Even if it could benefit his career.

“Good.” An unreadable expression flickered across Michelin's face, something akin to disappointment. Bile rose in Lucky's throat, but he swallowed it back. No sense in getting worked up over letting someone down who didn't think much of him anyway.

He proceeded to tell Michelin exactly what forms of PDA he was okay with when the cameras were on them. And a whole of host other “rules” designed to keep his dignity. And if he hated himself a bit for setting the rules, well, he might as well get used to it—this whole damn endeavor was sure to be one big self-loathing shower. And he'd learned his lesson about not asking up front for things he wanted. If he was going to get screwed, it was going to be on his terms.

* * *

Michelin pushed up off the couch and walked to his window. The spring dusk was giving way to night, lights of the city twinkling below them. He needed to not look at Lucky for a moment. Kid—and Michelin would do well to keep thinking of him that way—was one hell of a shrewd negotiator. Not that he had expected Lucky to be warming his bed tonight, but Lucky was so . . . clinical as they hashed out the rest of their agreement that Michelin's gut kept clamping, same as it had when he'd bought his first used truck way back at seventeen. He'd known then, same as now, that he was giving up too much, wasn't asking for enough, and that he was trapped with few other options.

The hard truth was that he needed Lucky. Gloria had made that clear over and over through the course of the day. They had to try to smooth this over or the label was done with him and his album would be orphaned, an asterisk next to his list of songs as his few remaining fans waited futilely for the album to drop. He wouldn't be the first artist to have an album tied up for years and years, and if it took appeasing Lucky to avoid that fate, well, then Michelin was all in. Reluctantly, but he'd give the kid whatever he wanted.

“All right. We're all set.” Gloria breezed back into the room. “Exclusive article is going live on
Out
in a few hours, then Monday you'll be sitting down with Katie Remmington for an in-depth interview. That's a huge coup—major network, prime slot, short notice. So wonderful.”