What starts as a ruse for Jalen and Trevor ends up with them truly “accidentally in love” by the midpoint of the book.
“Fix You,”—Coldplay, covered by Straight No Chaser
This was the black-moment song for Jalen, and it totally represents his wonderful caretaking nature and how desperately he wants to save Trevor from himself. But as in the song, Jalen must eventually accept that only Trevor can rescue himself—all he can do is love him.
“Jar of Hearts,”—Christina Perri, covered by Sam Tsui
This was Trevor’s black-moment song, and there are several great covers out there. Sam has a similar range to Trevor, and his raw cover totally evokes how empty Trevor feels when he thinks he’s lost Jalen.
“I Won’t Give Up,”—Jason Mraz, covered by Straight No Chaser featuring Jason Mraz
The reunion song. Trevor and Jalen both had to go through a lot of growth to get to this point, and now that they’ve reached it, they’re not giving up on each other ever again.
“Heartbeat Song,”—Kelly Clarkson
The moment I heard this song, I knew Stand Out! would have to cover it, and it became one of the defining theme songs for the book for me. It represents all the exuberance of Trevor and Jalen falling in love, but for me, it’s also about Trevor embracing loving himself and loving his voice. Trevor taking lead on this song is a major step in his growth as a person and a musician.
Backstreet Boys Medley,—The Exchange
The scene on the bus with the group doing a medley was inspired by dozens of videos of flash-mob type impromptu singing and lip syncing. From hockey teams doing “Call Me Maybe” to a cappella groups surprising subway riders with “Pour Some Sugar on Me” to this adorable car singing video, impromptu videos are some of my favorite YouTube guilty pleasures.
“How Will I Know,”—Whitney Houston, covered by Sam Smith
When I heard what Sam Smith did by stripping this song down and making it a haunting ballad that showcases his unique range, I knew I wanted to have Stand Out! do something similar. The song itself also represents all of Jalen and Trevor’s doubts that what they have may not be real.
“Kerosene,”—Miranda Lambert, covered by The Exchange
As Stand Out! came together as a group, I wore this video and track out. I imagine this song as all the potential of Stand Out! realized—Trevor and Jalen both sharing part of the lead, showcasing Trevor’s amazing range, and celebrating the group as a whole.
“Story of My Life,”—One Direction, covered by Home Free
This is the other song that really encapsulates how I see Stand Out!—multiple leads, deep ability to transcend genres, and incredible emotional connection to both the audience and the music. And the song itself really seems suited for Jalen and Trevor’s journey, how at times Jalen feels like he’s giving an awful lot, but by the end of the book that giving nature is rewarded with a mutual happy ending where he receives as much as he gives.
“On My Way Home,”—Pentatonix
This song is a great ending song for the book—the high range is perfect for Trevor’s voice and the message of finding a home together is really what has happened both for Trevor and Jalen as a couple and musically for the group as a whole.
Don’t miss the Portland Heat series by Annabeth Albert or the first Perfect Harmony novel, Treble Maker.
And keep reading for a special sneak peek at Michelin’s story, All Note Long, coming in August 2016 . . .
Chapter One
Michelin Moses had no business at a gay bar, especially not one as notorious as West Hollywood’s The Broom Closet. And the line to get in totally underscored that—the vestibule was a long narrow tunnel filled with kids out to enjoy their Friday night. Babies really. Fresh-faced young things who probably didn’t even need to shave jostled one another in the tight space, laughing and joking as they admired one another’s clubwear and gossiped about who was fucking who.
Not that Michelin was listening in, but the space was so tiny it was hard not to. He didn’t have clubwear to ogle. He had please-for-the-love-of-fuck-don’t-notice-me clothes. And the idea of openly pointing to another dude in line and announcing to one’s friends, “Oh yeah, I hit that last weekend” was so totally foreign that he couldn’t help but gape a bit. The plexiglass walls of the tunnel gave off weird shadows—neither the lights outside the club nor the dim track lighting along the bottom edge of the tunnel were enough illumination.
He tugged at the collar of his Henley shirt. Fuck. It was hot in here. Too small. Too tight. Not enough air. Shut up. He was not claustrophobic. If this line ever moved, he’d feel better once he was inside the closet.
If that’s not a metaphor for your whole damn life . . .
“ID please.” Finally, the line reached the bouncers who were taking ID. Michelin couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had to stand around like this, show ID. At least unlike these nineteen-year-olds with their fake identification, Michelin’s Oregon driver’s license was likely to hold up. The bouncer was a huge guy—so tall and jacked that Michelin felt for the tiny stool that held him up—with surprisingly small, delicate hands.
He held the card aloft before finally handing it back and nodding. “Okay, cowboy. Enjoy your night.”
At least he hadn’t laughed outright at the name. That was something. Shoving his license back in his wallet, he stumbled a bit coming out of the tunnel.
“Watch it,” someone barked behind him.
“Sorry,” Michelin mumbled. Hell, he couldn’t even successfully enter the closet.
“This your first time here?” a kid to his left asked—short little guy with far more bravado than brains. Michelin made a noncommittal response but the kid grabbed his sleeve, his eyes going soft and hooded. “How about you be my daddy for the night? We can make sure it’s your lucky night.” The kid winked.
Ugh. Getting lucky wasn’t even remotely in the cards for his night.
“No thanks.” He pulled away from the kid, scanning the cavernous space for signs of the private party room his friends had promised. And oh holy hell, knowing in the abstract that this place had go-go dancers was a far cry from actually seeing said dancers dispersed through the place on platforms and cages and even something resembling a trapeze. Gleaming bronze skin and tiny shorts everywhere he looked.
Fuck the private room. I need a soda. Something to relieve his suddenly parched throat. He turned toward the main bar area and ran smack into one of the elevated platforms with a dancer. Two platforms flanked the opening of the club, directing the stream of traffic toward the bar, sort of like how a different sort of joint might have large statues. Only instead of works of stone or ice, this . . . piece of art in front of Michelin was all man.
And what a specimen he was. The dancer probably wasn’t much older than the kids waiting to get in the club, but there was nothing juvenile about his tall ripped body or that juicy bubble butt that he worked to perfection the way Michelin’s guitar player did a solo—each muscle working in concert with the others, each wiggle carefully choreographed for maximum appeal. Said butt was encased in a pair of shorts. Or at least Michelin guessed that one would call them shorts—they were longer than underwear but not by much and made of a clingy, silky red material. The stitching did things to the guy’s package that shouldn’t be legal.
Those muscular legs and that smooth oiled chest also needed outlawing. The dancer had completed his look with thick, chunky combat boots, sunglasses, and a necklace with a medal on it. The boots and glasses upped the hotness factor to supernova, giving him an untouchable appeal that made it no surprise that he had a fair-size crowd around his platform. Right as Michelin completed his muscle-by-muscle catalog of the guy, the dancer’s glasses slipped, revealing chocolatey eyes. His eyebrows went up, and the message he sent Michelin was unmistakable: you gonna stay there all night?
Oh fuck. Michelin was blocking the line of traffic and, more importantly, blocking access to the platform for the patrons who wanted to
slip tips in the guy’s waistband.
Should he? He shoved a hand in his pocket, considering. Did he dare risk touching a piece of that gleaming skin? The lights reflecting off the dancer’s body totally made Michelin think of caramel dripping off flan—rich golden tones only enhanced by the contrast of the shiny black combat boots and his closely cropped black hair.
What the fuck was the protocol in a situation like this? Hi, I’m sorry I’ve been eye fucking you for the last ten minutes; here’s a five? He’d never even been to a straight strip club. Hell, he avoided most bars like the plague. Two people shoved around him to stuff money in the dancer’s shorts, their arms briefly trapping Michelin in place. Coming here had been a giant mistake, just like Gloria had warned him.
“You can’t go to that party! Gossip is already high about you mentoring two gay groups—”
“They’re not gay groups. They just happen to have gay members,” Michelin said wearily, already tired of this latest publicist the label had shoved at him.
“Whatever.” Gloria flipped her bony wrist. “They’re a risk you can’t take right now.”
“It’s no big deal. There will be straight people at the party.” Michelin didn’t bother with the other-straight-people pretext. Gloria knew the drill. “There’s no risk in celebrating a friend’s birthday.”
Except now, looking at the dancer, Michelin knew how wrong he’d been. This place was risk personified, and that dancer was the embodiment of everything Michelin denied himself. He was a triple pour of top-shelf whiskey and Michelin couldn’t stop thinking about the heady rush touching him would bring. He should turn around now. Get back to his truck now, before he really embarrassed himself—
“Mi—Boss! There you are!”
Oh thank you, small mercies that Lucas stopped himself before he said Michelin’s name. Still, Michelin turned toward him warily. Play it cool, he tried to tell Lucas with his eyes.
Lucas nodded just slightly. Message received. Like everyone else in the club, Lucas was just a kid in his early twenties, but at least he was one of Michelin’s favorite kids, especially because he was here to lead Michelin away from the temptation that was the dancer with the sculpture-worthy ass.
“The party room is back this way.” Lucas motioned with his hand. “Follow me.”
“Babe!” A familiar rangy figure with a punk haircut draped himself over Lucas. “You found him.” Cody had a smile for Michelin, but his affection was all for his boyfriend. Michelin’s stomach cramped as he followed the two of them to the rear of the club. Happiness practically rolled off them, their movements totally in sync with each other. Once Michelin had thought he might get to know what that was like, but those days were long past.
“Don’t even think about doing anything now. You’ve got too much riding on this year. Don’t be foolish. You’ve got the number-one country song in America right now. Don’t mess with your momentum.” Gloria’s voice rang in his ears. Nope. No way was Michelin ever getting what his friends shared. No sense pining for it either.
With any luck, Michelin could say happy birthday to Jalen, make a round of greetings to the other musicians he was mentoring, and get the hell out of Dodge. Preferably without running into the dancer again. He didn’t need another reminder of how little he fit into this world—or how much he wished life was a bit different.
The door to the changing room swung open while Lucky was in the middle of pulling his red shorts off. Fucker. Just as Lucky was about to curse aloud, his boss’s face appeared in the doorway, not some random patron.
The four long hairs in Carlos’s comb over were sticky with sweat, and he mopped at his round face with a handkerchief. The A/C never worked as well as it could in this part of the club. Carlos didn’t bother looking away while Lucky collected the money from his shorts and pulled loose the bills that had stuck to his skin.
Working the entrance had been a pretty lean shift, punctuated by the adorkable tall dude in the slouchy beanie who looked at Lucky like he wanted to devour him with a spoon. Slowly. But then, he hadn’t tipped and had looked a bit like a lost kitten in a room of dogs until some guys dragged him away. Yeah, when a nontipper was the highlight of the shift, it wasn’t exactly a great set at all. Lucky’s combat boots and sunglasses were already back in his bag. Next up was his football ensemble—unlaced white pants, cleats, and a smudge of black makeup under his eyes.
“Lucky and Rod, you’re working the party room next.” Carlos finished mopping himself to make the demand.
“Aw. Really?” Rod looked up from taking a swig of the mineral water he carried everywhere. “It’s a twenty-first birthday party right? I’m really not up for teaching a bunch of frat boys stripper manners 101.”
Lucky nodded. Young guys. Old guys. Everyone tended to get more handsy in the private party room, and Lucky got damn tired of being the rule enforcer in there because Carlos rarely gave them adequate security in the private lounge. Tonight was one of those nights when he just wanted to dance. Just get him in his cage, get him in his zone, let the club tunes wash over him until it was his turn at the main stage. He lived for his main-stage slots. His music. His choreography. But it wasn’t his club. It was Carlos’s. And that meant that if Carlos wanted to push them toward the Kmart tippers, he could.
“The last twenty-first birthday party you made us work had shit for tips. Can’t you get Julio or Dwayne to do it? They’re newer,” he reminded Carlos. Private parties were so damn unpredictable—sometimes he could rake in the dough, while other times it was a total waste of time. The main stage was pretty predictably good on a busy Friday night. He wasn’t in the mood to pass up a main-stage slot and have to babysit a room and play keep away with my dick for two hours.
“Nope. You guys to start. We’ll let them switch you out later.” Carlos made it sound like he was doing them a huge favor. “And Lucky? Not that.” He motioned at Lucky’s football pants. “Give them a nice show, huh?” Carlos, while not the worst boss Lucky had ever had, had definite opinions and ideas about Lucky’s wardrobe choices.
And while Lucky wasn’t the least bit shy, he did bristle a bit as he dug in his bag for briefs instead. Something about Carlos demanding it always made Lucky feel fifteen, with his abuela clucking over how tight his jeans were and never being happy with his fashion choices for Sunday dinner. Nothing was ever good enough for either of them unless they picked it themselves, and even then, they’d find issue with how he wore it.
So, fine, he’d wear his favorite Andrew Christian cosmos “twerk” briefs with the cock sock he most certainly did not have to pad no matter what that bitch Dwayne said last week. Rod pulled on a jock. Carlos nodded approvingly at Rod and sighed heavily at Lucky.
What the fuck? Why did Carlos always have to act like Lucky had taken a crap in the middle of the club? He wore a jock plenty. This was why he needed every main-stage show he could get—he needed to perfect his routine and collect the cash to make his entry in the Vegas or Bust contest absolutely killer. Then he could dump Carlos and this club and focus on the next step for his future. But not until he had enough socked away.
He dug his boots back out, laced them up, locked the rest of his crap back up, and grabbed his water bottle.
“Let’s make it rain,” Rod said as they made their way to the party room. He thought he was so cute. Like Rod Iron was any better of a dancer name than Lucky Rain.
Things were hopping in the private lounge, with a good-size crowd. The lounge had a small bar along one wall, a number of seating areas, and a dance-floor area that made ample use of mirrors and smoky lights to look bigger. At least Rusty was working the bar for the space. The older man worked the door some when he didn’t tend bar. He’d keep things running smooth. The space had two dance platforms, but Rod headed straight for the couches, where a mixed crowd of women and not-so-young men lounged, snagging one of the movable low tables to dance on. He winked at Lucky as he started twerking. The mixed crowd was totally Rod’s thing; he was heteroflexible, and h
is bachelorette tolerance was better than anyone else’s in the club. And if the ladies didn’t bring the cash, he could be guaranteed to find the high roller of the group.
Lucky’s nose for cash wasn’t nearly as good, and he had nowhere near Rod’s tolerance for solicitation and groping. Lucky was a professional go-go dancer and a showboy. He didn’t do lap dances, and he sure as shit didn’t do escort work. If he didn’t need the guaranteed cash of his go-go shifts, he’d focus all his energy on stage shows and music videos and going to backup dancer auditions, but ever since he’d lost out on the underwear modeling contract, income from those avenues had been sporadic at best. Which was another reason he needed to win the Vegas or Bust contest.
The house DJ dropped a sick beat, and some of Lucky’s frustrations fled. He was here to dance, not bitch. It didn’t matter what else was going on in his life; dancing was the one thing he could count on. He had the best life in the world, and a few financially tight months couldn’t change that.
Moving his hips to the rhythm, he claimed the platform that divided the other seating area from the dance floor. It was ideally suited to catch traffic heading to the bar or to dance and to work the party crowd. Lucky took advantage of the sturdy pipe ringing the platform to hang upside, do a few reverse crunches. That was a good attention getter. Hey, bitches, you’re about to get Lucky. Prepare your wallets because ain’t no better dancer in WeHo.
Flipping back upright, he started dancing in earnest, surveying his crowd. Damn it—mainly male couples. Those seldom panned out as quality tippers. And these were young couples, all cuddled up and looking like they’d be content to nurse their drinks until it was time to go home and fuck like bunnies. They were also deep in conversation with one another, which was another sign of a lousy shift. And oh, hey there, Mr. Adorkable.
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