Or himself when he showered at home. Couldn’t even glance at his face in the mirror in his tiny bathroom in his West Hollywood studio. Nothing was going to wash off the stink of this day. But at least he was done with Michelin Fucking Moses. He wouldn’t get the cash back, but at least he could put this mess behind him and pass the hell out in his own bed secure in the knowledge he’d done the right thing.
And that plan worked just dandy until he checked his text messages over coffee Saturday morning, and his whole world went to hell with a single headline.
* * *
Ring. Ring. Ring. Michelin fumbled for the phone on his nightstand. His head throbbed like he had a massive hangover, but all he really had was a case of not sleeping till close to dawn. And his eyes were too bleary to focus on the touch screen, so he just hit “talk” without bothering to check who it was, mainly to shut the ringing up.
“Yeah?” Michelin didn’t have much greeting in him.
“It’s not my fault. I swear to God, it’s not my fault.” A vaguely familiar voice trembled with a rapid-fire delivery that had Michelin struggling to keep up.
“Jalen? What’s wrong?” Michelin stretched and rubbed at his face. Fuck. He was not set for crisis management this morning.
“Not Jalen. Lucky.”
“The stripper?”
“Dancer. But that’s not important. Look, I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, and I really don’t want to deal with you and your shit, but I just needed you to know that this is not my fault. It’s Dwayne and Rod, and even though I think you’re a piece of work, I wouldn’t screw anyone, so please don’t fucking sue me—”
“Lucky?”
“Yeah?”
“Take a breath and slow the fuck down, okay? What’s not your fault?” Michelin sat all the way up, the sheets pooling in his lap.
“You haven’t checked your messages today?” Lucky sounded inexplicably relieved.
“No. Just now waking up,” Michelin admitted. He held the phone out so he could flip to the messages screen. Holy fuck. Fourteen missed calls from Gloria alone and . . . one hundred forty-five text messages?
He didn’t think a hundred forty-five people had this number. He did not want to click any of those, and he definitely did not want to deal with Gloria. His fake hangover gathered speed and nausea rocked his body. It wouldn’t take much for him to hurl like he had a belly full of cheap vodka.
Rap. Rap. Rap. And there it was, the cherry on the crappy wake-up sundae, in the form of insistent pounding on his front door. Only a handful of people had his gate access code, and he had a strong feeling which one this was.
“Hold on a minute,” he told Lucky, then pulled on a pair of jeans and made his way downstairs to the door. He looked through the peephole, and not too surprisingly, discovered Gloria clutching a stack of papers, the phone that always seemed surgically attached to her person, and a large coffee. She wore her platinum hair swept up on her head and her face was obscured by giant sunglasses, but there was no mistaking the pissy set of her mouth.
“I’m gonna have to call you back,” he said into the phone. “My publicist is here.”
“Just remember. Not. My. Fault,” Lucky said before disconnecting.
Michelin took his time disarming the security system and opened the door, wishing not for the first time for a big ol’ sloppy ranch dog who would jump up on Gloria and smother her with dog kisses. He’d pay good money to watch that. But instead, he had no buffer against her shrill tone.
“Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my calls?” Gloria stowed her phone in her huge leather purse. She was less publicist and more company-provided warden. Two months ago when his new single released in advance of the new album, the record label had strong-armed him into accepting Gloria’s “assistance.” She had a long track record of getting number one records for country music stars; she had an aggressive plan for getting him “synergy,” relentless energy, and absolutely zero tolerance for objections.
“Sleeping.” Michelin rubbed his face. “Could you give me a second to shower and put on a shirt?” He felt much too bare to deal with whatever crisis she’d brought to his door. Unlike him in yesterday’s jeans, Gloria wore an immaculate white pantsuit and gold pumps and looked ready for lunch at Spago. Her heels clicked against the dark tiles of his foyer as he led her into the living room, intending to leave her there while he shook himself more awake.
“In a minute.” She shoved the papers at him. “Exactly how do you want to spin this?”
The papers were printouts from GoZZip and other rumor websites, and the first headline told Michelin everything he needed to know:
Did Michelin Moses buy sex from L.A. ’s hottest gay stripper, Lucky Rain?
“Oh fuck.” He collapsed on his couch, all thoughts of a shower gone.
“There are pictures,” Gloria helpfully pointed out, one bony pink-tipped figure jabbing at the page, like Michelin couldn’t see perfectly well for himself.
First shot, him holding out two hundred bucks. Second shot, him dropping the money on Lucky’s bag, Lucky looking up with an unreadable expression—seconds before he’d turned into an angry bull and advanced on Michelin. Of course the camera didn’t show that. The vagueness of the shot made him look more purposeful than pissed off.
The next shot was them making out against the lockers, his hat gone and his face fully visible with Lucky kissing his neck and grinding against him. This photo was followed by one of Lucky whispering in his ear as he showed Michelin out, guilty expressions on both their faces. And the pictures were accompanied by quotes from two “sources” and included a pic of him earlier in the club with his friends. His “well-known, out and proud” friends, as the article emphasized.
“The order of the pictures is all fucked up,” he mumbled. Because of course it was. “That’s not how it went down.”
“Oh?” Gloria perched on the arm of the sofa next to him. “Pray tell, how did it go down when you had sexual relations with an infamous stripper in one of the city’s most notorious gay hookup joints?”
“We-we-we . . . didn’t . . .” Oh hell. He couldn’t speak again. And did it even matter that there were no orgasms? The pictures presented in that order told a pretty damn convincing story.
“Word is that they got high five figures for those photos. And the story’s already rolling. By Monday, it’ll be everywhere, all major outlets.” Gloria pushed away from the couch. “I warned you.”
“And I told you I wanted to quietly come out.” Michelin was proud of his ability to get a full sentence out. Their argument yesterday seemed years ago now. He’d had yet another magazine feature for the new article, and lying to the writer about his love life again had zapped all his energy. He didn’t want a parade. Didn’t want a press conference. He just wanted to stop lying. And it wasn’t that he had some burning desire for a relationship. But begging favors of female friends to be his “dates” for awards shows and the like got really old, as did the last several years of simply going it alone, a strategy that the label had made no bones about hating. “Bring a date to a show. Something small. No announcement. No interview. Something low—”
“Low-key? You call being caught with a stripper—”
“He’s a dancer.” Michelin wasn’t sure why he corrected her, but Lucky’s insistent face flashed before his eyes.
“Escort. You think you’re the first sugar daddy he’s sold the goods to? Kid might be YouTube famous, but he’s not a saint, that’s for sure.” Gloria paced back and forth in front of him.
“Hold up. He’s famous?”
Gloria removed her sunglasses for the apparent sole purpose of rolling her eyes at him. “Lucky Rain is a hot commodity on YouTube with his twerking videos, has been in a half dozen small-budget music videos, and works at a notorious gay bar,” she recited from a page of notes. “And now, will be forever known as the guy who outed Michelin Moses.”
“Wait. He didn’t take the pictures.” The angl
e was totally wrong for where Lucky’s phone had been on the bench while they were making out.
“Don’t be naive. He paid one of his little friends to do the dirty work while you fucked.”
“No.” Michelin couldn’t say why he was so certain, just that he was. Lucky had been so pissed about the money, so adamant that he wasn’t selling sex. Michelin had known he’d screwed up the moment Lucky advanced on him full of outrage at the mere idea that Michelin might want to pay him for his company. Goddamn Carter and his stupid advice. And Lucky had been genuinely freaked out on the phone. “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud.”
“Michelin. Do you ever think of yourself first? You’re destroyed and you’re worried about some kid who’s probably laughing all the way to the bank. What were you thinking?”
“Home fries.” Michelin leaned back against the supple leather of the couch. “I was thinking about home fries. And not wanting to eat alone again.”
“Oh my god. You were really thinking that stripper could be your boyfriend?” Gloria could not have looked more shocked had Michelin presented her with a gold engagement ring on bended knee. And Michelin hadn’t been thinking that. Not exactly. More like that Lucky was a nice guy who made him acutely aware of how damn long it had been since he’d been touched.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Gloria was already rolling ahead. “Wait. That’s it. You like this kid, right? And somehow you’re sure he’s not in on the take?”
“He’s not. And he’s . . . okay.” Michelin said the last bit cautiously, sure he wasn’t going to like what came out of Gloria’s mouth next.
“Did you set this up? Because I have to say, you’re not freaking out half as much as I expected.” Gloria’s eyes narrowed at him.
“I don’t freak out.” Except when he did. Like when confronted with the hottest guy he’d ever seen, in a club he’d had no business being inside. But she didn’t need to know that. Just like she didn’t need to know that inside he was a wreck. This was a moment he’d feared for close to two decades—ever since he was sixteen and played his first show—and now that it was here, he wanted to toss himself in a bottle and then back in bed, in that order. I’m not ready.
He’d thought yesterday, briefly, that he might be. The burden of lying seemed so heavy, especially when Gloria wanted to cut him off from the few people whose company Michelin actually enjoyed. Michelin managed without the entourage that had seemed so necessary when he was first starting out—he had a business manager he communicated with almost solely via text, a stylist he saw before each big appearance, and a financial wizard who dealt with him through lengthy emails and mercifully short phone calls. And Gloria. Couldn’t forget her. But none of them compared to the brief pleasure of being in the company of the younger guys, living vicariously through their excitement and discovery. And she’d wanted to take that away from him. So he’d rebelled for a moment. Let himself think about stopping the lies. But deep down, he’d known it was impossible.
Except now he had to deal with the absolute worst case scenario, and all he could think was, be careful what you wish for.
“Your album drops in two weeks. We have to fix this.” A small, brittle smile appeared on Gloria’s face. “And I think I know how.”
Chapter Four
@MichelinFan4Life: ZOMG. Did you see the GoZZip article? Did you? In deep mourning here. It can’t be true, right?
@MrsMichelin4Ever: I refuse to believe dirty rumors. Refuse.
@CountryTidbits: Someone’s got himself in hot water. Somehow I’m not surprised.
“You want Lucky Rain to be my boyfriend?” Michelin was on his second cup of coffee, and he still wasn’t quite sure that he understood Gloria’s plan. He’d demanded time to shower and eat while she made phone calls. They were in his dining area, Gloria on her tablet with her phone on a fancy little stand in front of her. She’d been typing and texting ever since he’d made her stop pacing and sit at the table while he made some coffee.
“Right now the story is up on GoZZip and a few other sites, but it hasn’t hit the major outlets. Judging by news cycles, absent terrorism or a big hurricane on the east coast, you’ll be the biggest story by Monday morning.” She spoke with the sort of finality of a news anchor describing a fifty-car pile-up.
“So you’re saying I should be praying for a natural disaster?” Michelin took a long swallow of the extra dark roast he had shipped down from Seattle.
“I’ve already checked the weather. Twice.” Gloria gave a dismissive wave. “No. What I’m saying is that we preempt the news cycle. Get you a story going up tomorrow on one of the biggest LGBT news outlets, with a sit-down interview with someone big a couple days later. Create a tidal wave of press that covers the story and spins it our direction.”
“Explain to me again how Lucky fits into this?” He pushed some eggs around his plate, certain he wasn’t going to like her answer. Sitting here with Gloria felt weird. He wasn’t used to eating with other people. Wasn’t used to other people in his space, period.
“We’ve got the fact that you’re well known as a total hermit. No one can argue with you if you say you’ve been seeing this dancer a few weeks now. And you guys got frisky on his break, someone photographed your tender moment, and the money part is a huge misunderstanding and smear campaign by people who don’t get that love is love.” She smiled broadly, exactly like a woman who’d spent the last hour sucking down Gay PR 101.
“And you think this will . . . do what exactly?”
“Give you a bit more respectability. Like those politicians who marry the mistresses they were caught cheating with. All’s forgiven for a great love story.”
“But I’m still going to be gay. And out. And the conservative fans are still going to hate that.”
Michelin hated that that mattered to him. But it did. It was why even as he’d toyed with the idea of coming out, he’d known he never would, or at least not any time soon.
“They love you.” Gloria’s tone was encouraging, but somehow less than convincing.
He loved his fans right back, something he tried hard not to show too deeply. But he loved the eighty-seven-year-old grandmas who saved up to come to his Lincoln show and he loved the gun-racked Texans who packed the stadium for his Dallas show and who waited three hours afterward for autographs. When his first country album Hard Water dropped, these blue-collar folks were the ones who embraced him most, who shot the album up the charts. Visions of their fan mail flashed through his head, the fans telling him how they played his music at tailgating parties and graduations and family reunions.
And those small-town fans, those were the ones he was most likely to lose. His heart contracted. They wouldn’t see him as one of them anymore, even though, truth was, he’d gone country to sing the most authentic music of his career, to finally be the musician he wanted to be and not be packaged by the label like his rock band, Speed Kills, had been. He’d lost the entourage he’d surrounded himself with for his failed pop solo career. He’d been so proud of himself for finally making the changes that broke him out of a decade-long trance. He’d written the music for Hard Water. He’d overseen every step of the production. Hell, even the photograph on the album cover was of the old well on his uncle’s property. He was country, but he wasn’t sure country had a place for him.
And here was Gloria, trying to spin things when all he wanted was a nap. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. Boyfriend. No boyfriend. It didn’t matter. His days at the top of the country charts were over.
“That’s a nice try. But I don’t think we want to rope the guy into my mess any more than he’s already being smeared by it. I say we just issue a simple, ‘Yup. Gay’ statement on Monday and then just let the chips fall—”
“Michelin. I don’t think you understand me.” Gloria leaned over to tap the area of the table closest to where Michelin was sitting. “You don’t pay my salary. The label pays me. And you don’t come up wit
h the plan here. You follow the plan. And Stu Wockman himself says either we clean this mess up or they’re not releasing the new album.”
“What?” He dropped his coffee mug with a clatter against the counter.
“They’ll cite technical issues or some such for the delay, but they aren’t going to put anything behind your release if you don’t find a way to come out of this with some positive PR of some kind.”
“How do we do that? People are going to—”
“That’s my job. Trust me. And you might be my first gay country singer, but, honey, I rehabbed Billy Huggins’s reputation after that DUI that injured a minivan full of Girl Scouts. I’ve got this.”
Michelin nodded because, really, what choice did he have? He believed in Cold Sunrise, every bit as much as he had Hard Water. And Cold Sunrise was the album he was dedicating to his mama, and he couldn’t let it languish just because the label wanted to play hardball. If the record label thought he needed some spin on this whole mess, then he’d take a whirl in Gloria’s washer.
“I guess the real question is how are you going to convince Lucky?”
“Leave it to me.” Gloria winked at him, which reminded him of all Lucky’s winks last night. It was entirely possible that the two of them matching wits and carefully timed winks might be the highlight of this whole damn mess.
* * *
Lucky was no stranger to shit days, but this Saturday was on track to make his top five list. First, his landlord was having kittens about the paparazzi camped out on the lawn. Then Lucky had had to dodge said cameras and questions just to get to his piece-of-shit car to get to work. Not to mention all the texts from angry family members, curious friends, and random contacts who all wanted to make their opinions on the GoZZip article known.
And now he was at work, and he knew there were more paparazzi lurking around, waiting for some drama or a few pictures of him shaking his ass. And ordinarily he didn’t mind club goers who ignored the “no pictures” signs, but tonight he was in a mood and so didn’t want to deal. And no surprise, both Dwayne and Rod had called in sick, which meant a condensed rotation with fewer breaks for the rest of them. Carlos had been nowhere to be seen, but Lucky had a feeling a smackdown was coming from that corner, too.
All Note Long Page 4