“Got it?” Gloria asked as she finished outlining the plans.
“Yup.” Lucky was exhausted just thinking about the next few days. They’d film the Katie Remmington interview tomorrow, then some “candid photo ops” Gloria was planning revolving around shopping and eating together, and later on in the week, Michelin had some prescheduled stuff surrounding the album release. And there would be the album release party in Nashville next week that Lucky would be expected to attend as they played this little charade out for what Gloria called a “respectable length of time.”
“So I’ve got some calls I better make,” Michelin said as they finished their strangely homey little late supper. Michelin had that I’m-done-with-socializing tone again. “Can you take Lucky back home, Gloria?”
Gloria gave a delicate little cough, making the hairs at the back of Lucky’s neck go all prickly. I’m not going to like this one bit.
“He can’t go back. His place is still staked out by the paparazzi. We need the illusion of a couple in love. That means you guys spending lots of time together. I thought you were clear on that?”
“You mean Lucky’s supposed to stay here?” Michelin’s tone suggested that cockroaches as house pets might be more welcome.
“You have a guest room, right?”
“Hey, doesn’t Lucky get a vote? I want to go back to my place.” It wasn’t that late at night—ordinarily he’d still be dancing right then—but he was exhausted. He wanted to crawl into bed, watch some bad TV, and forget about this whole thing for a while.
“You could both go to your other place,” Gloria suggested, totally ignoring Lucky’s protest. “Give the gossip hounds a pic as you pull in. That would boost your profile—”
“Here is fine.” Michelin rubbed his temples. He looked as exhausted as Lucky felt. “Yeah. I’ve got a guest room. This will only be for a few days?”
“We’ll work something out,” Gloria soothed. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the two of them were acting like divorced parents trying to decide where to stash the ornery tween.
“I’ll be fine at home,” Lucky said firmly, even though he wasn’t in a huge hurry to dodge the paparazzi and their questions again. Not to mention his landlord was sure to be having kittens with the media presence.
“Gloria’s right. If we were really in a new relationship, one of us would be sleeping . . . not at home.” Michelin colored slightly, a small hint of the shy guy he’d been last night. “And we’re already here. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
Seeing as how Michelin’s house had a definite hermit vibe to it with the remote location, multiple levels of security, and rustic decor, Lucky figured that Michelin didn’t do sleepovers anywhere short of a six-figure tour bus or five-star hotel, but the way he just assumed Lucky would be the one to compromise still grated.
Lucky opened his mouth to protest, but Michelin held up a hand.
“Look. I’ve got to call my family. Probably should call some of the people who work for me, too, like band members who didn’t know and the guys I mentor. I hate making calls. Hate. But it’s the right thing to do, not let people read it in some headline. And I know this is a hassle for you, but can we just do this thing the way Gloria says?” He looked so darn weary and downtrodden that whatever protest Lucky had died in his throat.
Instead he reached out and patted Michelin’s arm. He wanted to hug him again. Something about the man made Lucky even more of a touchy-feely guy than he usually was. “Okay. How do you feel about email? You could write an email. Send it out to your list. Tell them you don’t have time for individual calls. They’ll understand. Call only the most important people.”
“That’s brilliant.” Relief was apparent on Michelin’s face.
“I’ll read it over if you want. If you need help—”
“I got this.” Michelin’s expression buttoned up tight again. “Let me walk Gloria out, then I’ll show you to the room.”
“I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” Gloria promised. Or maybe it was a threat. How was it that just yesterday Lucky’s life had seemed to be on track? And now he didn’t even get to sleep in his own bed. But whatever, at least he wasn’t the one who had to inform the people closest to him that he’d been living a lie. Lucky could give the guy a couple of nights in his guest room.
He grabbed the dinner dishes, put them in Michelin’s space-age-looking dishwasher, then wiped the counters down, same as he did for his mom every Sunday night after dinner with his folks. Heck. He had his own awkward phone calls to make later, too. “Hi. I can’t come to dinner tomorrow because I’m dating this superstar and he’s about to be next week’s biggest story.” Yeah, that was going to go over well. Nothing short of a communicable disease was enough to convince his mom and abuela that family events were optional.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Michelin said from the doorway to the kitchen. He held up Lucky’s duffel. “I grabbed your bag from the truck. Figured you might need it.”
“Thanks.” Lucky took the bag and followed Michelin back through the living room and down the hall past the small room that seemed to serve as an office. They entered a very ordinary bedroom with a nicely made queen bed and—
“Holy crap. Your guest room has a pool.” He strode across the room to the glass sliding door. The room did indeed open onto a small pool set amid rocks with a tiny brick pool house at the far end. Wicked cool. Even with all the views from the other rooms of the house and the brick patio that ran the length of the house, there had been no hint that this little oasis existed. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so terrible. “Can I swim?”
“I don’t know. Can you?” Michelin rubbed his jaw. His face stayed deadpan, but his eyes twinkled with the sort of humor Lucky hadn’t seen very much of. The side of Michelin with the dry sense of humor didn’t come around very often, but when it did, Michelin got infinitely more appealing. It made him seem more like Lucky’s friends—able to give and take a joke—and less like Mr. Big-time Superstar.
Lucky grinned at him. “I was on the swim team in high school, and I’ve got like three Speedos in my bag. And a life guard whistle.” He’d noticed that Michelin liked his football costume last night, and he couldn’t resist teasing. Just a bit. He still wasn’t sleeping with the guy, but pushing his buttons was a bit of fun Lucky’s night desperately needed.
“In that case, knock yourself out.” Michelin’s eyes darted to the duffel he’d set on the bed. Oh yeah. He was interested in Lucky’s lifeguard costume.
“Join me?” Lucky was going to swim no matter what, and he should have been craving some alone time after the ups and downs of the day, but instead found himself reluctant to say good night to Michelin.
Michelin was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. For an instant—just a flicker, really—there was such naked longing in his eyes that Lucky almost forgot that Michelin wasn’t the shy, lonely guy from last night and that he had just made a bargain to keep his hands to himself. If he touched him right now, if he urged Michelin to let go and join him in the pool . . .
No. You made a business agreement. Stick to it. No sense in getting sentimental.
“Suit yourself.” Lucky didn’t wait for a response, going over to search for a swimsuit in his duffel. He didn’t want to look at Michelin and let his face reveal how much he’d been hoping for a yes.
“I hope you sleep well. Help yourself to any food in the kitchen.” Michelin’s words were too formal, spoken like a guy who seldom had guests but had been taught the right thing to say. Lucky’s hand clenched around his swimsuit. He hated this situation for both of them and hated invading Michelin’s privacy.
“Michelin?” Lucky turned back toward him.
“Yeah?” Michelin said warily, exactly like a man way too used to people wanting favors.
“Nothing. I just hope your phone calls go well.” There was a lot more Lucky wanted to say, but the thin line of Michelin’s mouth and the hard set of his jaw didn’t exactly invite a mutual b
itch session about how much the situation sucked, and the polar chill in Michelin’s blue eyes said too much sympathy wasn’t going to be received well.
“Thanks.” The man left the room with the same unreadable expression on his face.
The pool was crystal clear and the absolute perfect temperature. Lucky dove in and settled into some laps. But later, while taking a breather, he glanced up and saw a shadowed figure watching him from the master suite perched atop the house. The glassed-in room probably had some of the best views in all of L.A., but all Lucky could think about was how closely it resembled a glass fortress, Superman isolated from the rest of the world, watching over the city with hungry eyes and a lonely heart.
* * *
In the end, Michelin reluctantly took Lucky’s advice and sent a terse, “Hey there’s going to be this article about me, and I’m sorry for not telling you first” to the people he considered friends and the relatives who would be sharing the article with each other on Facebook long before they talked to him directly.
After he shut down the laptop, because no way could he handle reading any replies tonight, he called his cousin Rob. He and Rob had been born two days apart, and while he’d been close to all the cousins growing up, he and Rob were brothers in every way except blood. He paced his bedroom suite, making circles between the bed, the sitting area, the bathroom and back again, heart hammering as he filled Rob in. He wasn’t sure he could bear it if Rob turned away from him because of the impending scandal.
Typical for him, Rob made a lot of “mmmhmm” noises and let Michelin ramble. Rob was up late walking the floor with their new baby, Maria. He could hear little baby gurgles while he told Rob about the story about to break, and that was a special kind of hell, one he could never tell anyone else about. Last time he’d visited, Rob’s daughter Jane had been the baby. Michelin had taken a nap on Rob’s couch with her on his chest and given her a bottle while her mama made them all tamales. His chest had been so tight, he was surprised the rest of them couldn’t hear it creak with all the want. He’d had a manager once who’d suggested that Michelin marry a nice girl, give her a giant prenup, get himself some Viagra, have a couple of kids, and never worry about rumors again.
Michelin fired him on the spot. Sure, he’d taken female friends as dates to events for years, things that were more about photo opportunities for both of them, but he wasn’t going to actually date or marry someone. Even if his heart did break a little every time he talked to Rob and heard the kids whizzing around in the background. Rob and Griselda had four now. A full house. Michelin’s dad was one of six siblings, his mom one of five, all ridiculously procreative people, filling up their tiny county. He knew one of his mama’s greatest sorrows was that he was an only kid, and he’d seen how wistful she got around Rob’s brood in particular.
Just one more thing Michelin had never been able to give her. And now she was gone, and he was here, telling Rob the absolute minimum about the story and the interview scheduled for tomorrow.
“Never heard you say the words,” Rob said in between making shhing noises to the baby. “But I knew. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” That they’d never had to have this conversation was something Michelin was grateful for. He’d known that Rob had guessed, probably two decades ago if they were honest, but they just danced around the issue. But he’d known before he picked up the phone that he wasn’t going to shock Rob.
“You need me to run interference with rest of the family until this blows over?” Predictably, Rob guessed the real reason for his phone call.
“Yeah.” Michelin wasn’t too proud to admit that he needed that. They’d all been so thrilled when he’d returned to his country roots. He had no illusions that he’d be the subject of family gossip, most of it not pleasant, for a while. Oh, they wouldn’t disown him, and they weren’t the type to say ugly things to his face, but the rumors and judgments would still swirl. “Only thing is, I’m not sure this is gonna blow over. People aren’t going to let this go, Rob. Doesn’t matter even if the nastier part of the story stays buried. The fans aren’t going to treat me the same.”
Because it was Rob and they had three and a half decades behind them, he could voice his biggest fear without needing a giant shot of whiskey to do it. He leaned against the desk in his sitting area, letting the corner dig hard into his thigh while he waited for a reply.
“Fuck the fans,” Rob said firmly. “You’re still my brother. Same as yesterday. And you’re still the guy who wrote ‘Graduation Day’ and ‘Sunday Afternoon Party’ and the rest of the songs that have become anthems for Redneck Nation. All those kids using you for their senior class song—they’re not going anywhere.” Rob sounded far more convinced than Michelin felt.
“Here’s to hoping.” He turned toward the bank of windows that overlooked the valley below—and the pool to the eastern part of his property. Lucky was swimming smooth, graceful laps, churning through the water. Watching him was more soothing than pacing, more reassuring than even Rob’s words.
“This . . . thing with the dancer—is it really only for show?” Rob sounded more curious than judgmental.
“Yeah.” He watched as Lucky hoisted himself out of the pool, and even though it was way too far to see his eyes, Michelin swore he could feel those chocolaty depths meet his own, swore he could sense the questions in Lucky’s head.
“Darn.” Rob laughed. “I was going to tell you to bring him on up here. Griselda would love the chance to cook for you, and she’s waited a decade now for you to bring a date around. Kids miss their uncle, too.”
“I miss them bunches.” Michelin’s throat went all tight. He knew Rob was simply saying the right things—trying to bolster him back up and let him know he was still family. But the same way his heart felt soft and tender, almost bruised, around Rob’s kids, he got a bit of an ache thinking about bringing someone back home. Once upon a time...
He’d been a naive kid. And he wasn’t ever going to be that stupid again. Even with him going public about being gay, he still wasn’t sure he could ever trust his heart enough for a real, lasting relationship, the kind Rob and Griselda had.
However, damn if he didn’t stand there a long time, watching Lucky swim and wishing for things that could never be.
Chapter Seven
@CountryOnMyMind: Not the first, won’t be the last, but still disappointed in the Michelin Moses news. Thought dude was a stand-up guy who had family values.
@StandOutJalen: Stop everything and read this. Congrats@MichelinMosesOfficial on speaking your truth!
@CodyRiversOfficial: Ignore the haters,@MichelinMosesOfficial! Proud to count you as a friend and mentor.
@EmbellishOfficial: We love you @MichelinMosesOfficial and are proud of you for sharing your journey!
The interview with Katie Remmington was not going well. Michelin had done enough press junkets ever since the first Speed Kills album to know when things were going off the rails in a big way. He knew he had a reputation for polite but monosyllabic answers and that tended to frustrate reporters. But over the years, he’d developed a working relationship with a few people, a sort of mutual understanding that got him decent press and the reporters longer quotes because he could relax enough to be sure he wouldn’t stutter or clam up.
That wasn’t the case with this interview.
First off, Katie Remmington was a huge deal with her own show on a big network, and her set alone intimidated Michelin. White shag rug, white leather couches, and discreetly placed white tissue boxes, all seeming to convey the message that this woman wouldn’t stop until she had people crying and the audience convinced she’d gotten to the “truth.” Least bit of dirt would leave a smudge on her pristine veneer, and hell if Michelin didn’t feel like a dusty teenager fresh off the ranch sitting there.
Gloria was over the moon that Katie had wanted the exclusive TV interview with Michelin, but he would rather have his toenails removed one by one than go head to head with the reigning Queen
of Pain Porn. The label had been given to her by a competing network because of her remarkable ability to wring the emotions from a story, and right that minute, Michelin had to agree with the title.
She hadn’t made him cry, but as soon as the cameras started rolling, she had transformed from a sweet grandmother greeting him in the green room to the hard-nosed interviewer with all the Emmy awards.
And he’d transformed back into the tongue-tied kid who couldn’t trust his own freaking mouth.
“So tell me more about your relationship with Lucky Rain? What appeals to you about him?
“I-I-I . . . uh . . .” Michelin looked around helplessly. This was the third take on this particular line of questioning. Katie wanted an expansive answer. Gloria, who stood off to the side, wanted the long answer they’d rehearsed over and over that morning. Lucky, who stood next to Gloria, probably just wanted this over with. He wasn’t there to be interviewed. He was there, along with the manager Michelin rarely saw in person and Michelin’s stylist—his tiny entourage—solely to add cred to the boyfriend thing. All four of his people watching him flounder sucked. He should have insisted on coming alone.
“Cut,” the director yelled.
“If you can’t talk about this, we’re going to have to scrap the feature. My viewers like a conversation. And right now, frankly, you’re bad TV.”
Gloria bustled over while Katie glowered at both of them.
“Water?” Gloria offered. “You comfortable enough? You could unbutton your shirt collar.”
“I’m fine.” Each word took monumental effort to get out, and this was without the cameras pointed on him. His hand moved restlessly against his black denim–clad thigh.
“You’d do a lot better if they’d give you a guitar.” Lucky had left the others by the cameras and come to stand next to Gloria.
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