Michelin laughed despite himself, because Lucky was exactly right. On stage, the second the roadie handed him his guitar, all stage fright dropped away. He could converse with his audience, make them laugh, but the second he was off stage, the crowd felt oppressive again.
“You’ve got this, though. Really.” Lucky crouched next to Michelin’s chair and held out his phone. “Look at the reaction to the article. You’ve got supportive tweets pouring in from around the world, and people saying they can’t wait to see the interview.”
“Not helping.” The pressure of the audience inside Michelin’s head multiplied. People wanted to see him witty and charming and he just wasn’t. Even so, he smiled at Lucky. Something about him being nearby and trying to get Michelin relaxed did help, way more so than Gloria’s hovering.
“How about this?” Lucky held out a can of soda.
“That might.” Michelin popped the top and took a long swig.
“New plan.” Katie clapped her hands together. “I liked the idea of focusing solely on you for the segment, but you’re about thirty times more relaxed with Lucky here. And I don’t have all night. Let’s get Lucky miked up and have him join you on the sofa.”
An hour ago Michelin would have objected, both because he didn’t want to drag Lucky more into this mess, and he didn’t really trust Lucky not to make things worse. But seeing as how things were already terrible, adding a dose of Lucky couldn’t hurt.
“Is what I’m wearing okay?” Lucky asked as a tech handled getting him miked up.
“It’ll have to do,” the director said ominously.
“You look great.” Michelin wasn’t lying there. Michelin’s stylist had sent over clothes for both of them, and Lucky had emerged for the ride to the studio in tight jeans, a cream-colored close-fitting light knit shirt that perfectly contrasted with his tan skin and dark hair, which he’d styled to show off its wavy texture. He looked like something out of a magazine spread on effortless weekend living, while Michelin had relied on his stylist to get him in the same sort of clothes he’d worn the last two or three years for pressers: vaguely western shirt in some dark shade, black jeans, and boots.
Katie Remmington conferred with her producers while Lucky got a quick work-over from a makeup person, but too soon they were rolling film again. Lucky settled a bit closer to him on the couch than Michelin might like.
“So, Lucky, tell us about your relationship? What drew you to Michelin?”
And then Lucky proceeded to spin such a fairy tale that Michelin darn near fell in love with him himself, the way Lucky was talking about Michelin’s smile and his cooking and his dry sense of humor, and selling the whole lust-at-first-sight thing like whoa and damn.
Lucky bantered back and forth with Katie with such ease that Michelin almost forgot they were being filmed.
“Did you feel the same way, Michelin?” She finally lobbed a question at him again.
“Yes.” At that moment Michelin had such fervent gratitude for Lucky’s acting skills that it wasn’t hard to play along. “I knew I found a winner.”
He shot Lucky a smile he meant only for him, but Katie’s little “awwww”said the camera caught it, too.
“So any future plans for you two?”
Michelin could feel his throat tightening again. Fuck. They hadn’t rehearsed this question. Right as he was about to try to force a reply out, Lucky reached over and patted his knee.
I’ve got this, Lucky’s eyes said.
I’m not sure I can trust you, Michelin’s gut said, but he nodded. Anyone whose lies made Michelin feel this good inside, all warm and cozy like he was part of this awesome story, was not to be trusted.
“Just enjoying each and every day. You can’t rush these things.” Lucky managed to make such a vague reply sound utterly sincere. “I can’t wait to see where the road takes us.”
Me too. Michelin found himself nodding along before he remembered again that this was entirely for show.
“That’s a wrap,” the director said, and Katie came out from behind her desk.
“Finally. We got some useful stuff there, gentlemen.” She shook their hands, then winked at Michelin. “You’ve got a keeper there. Better make him stick around. He makes you look good.”
I wish I could. Michelin nodded at Katie even as he told his thoughts to find a new avenue of obsession. Hadn’t he just seen Lucky lie with absolute conviction about Michelin’s better traits for thirty minutes?
He waited until they were on their way back to the truck to say as much to Lucky. “You’re a dang fine actor. And you’re great with the cameras.”
Lucky gave him a bemused smile. “Thanks. I think. I had a bunch of public speaking classes in college. Always loved them.”
“You went to college?” Unfortunately, Michelin couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice because Lucky absolutely skewered him with a steely look.
“Graduated with a 3.5 GPA from Cal State Long Beach. Double majored in dance and business communication. Got a full-ride dance scholarship. What? You think all go-go boys have GEDs and trouble adding up their tips?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to assume.” Michelin took his time getting in the driver’s seat because yes, he had thought that dancing in a bar was a job people got when they had trouble getting other work. And truth was he’d barely squeaked out a high school diploma himself.
Lucky hefted himself up into the passenger side of the truck with more force than necessary, landing with a plop in the seat. “Where’d you go to school?”
“Didn’t go to college,” Michelin mumbled as he started the truck. “We’d been playing fairs and events around the state for the last two years of high school. Finally got a record deal the summer after graduation. Never looked back.”
That wasn’t quite true. Every time he had to meet with his financial manager and ask him to explain things a second or third time, he thought that perhaps he should have paid a bit more attention in math class. And simple computer stuff took him a ridiculous amount of time. Just writing the email to his contact list had been painfully hard. And now it made sense why Lucky had offered to help him. He’d written real stuff before, not just social media status updates. Michelin had never really given a lot of thought to the background of strippers—dancers—but Lucky busted down every last one of his assumptions.
And if he was honest, Lucky had been doing that since they met—he was smart, articulate, funny with a quick wit that got all Michelin’s jokes. And apparently he had ambition to rival Michelin’s own. A plan for his future and a fancy degree to back it up. And he was infinitely more comfortable with all this media attention than Michelin—savvy in a way that Michelin wasn’t, even with two decades of experience being in the public eye.
Feeling weirdly inadequate, Michelin flipped the stereo on. Some Eddy Arnold was exactly what he needed and Lucky could just stuff it if he didn’t like classic country. But Lucky stayed quiet until Michelin was keying the security code to his gate.
“Wait. Michelin. What’s that?” Lucky pointed to a lump near the privacy fence.
The lump struggled to its feet. The dustiest, skinniest dog Michelin had ever seen approached the truck on wobbly legs. Of indeterminate breed, it seemed to be held together with fur and dirt.
“Leave it. I’ll call animal control—” Michelin might as well have saved the air, because Lucky was already out of the truck, his ever-present water bottle in hand. Lucky crouched down, pouring a slow stream for the dog to lap at.
“We gotta get you a bowl,” Lucky said to the dog. “No collar, huh? And looks like someone tangled with a kitty.”
The dog sported several nasty scratches along its muzzle. It might well have other wounds, but it was hard to guess under all the filth. It looked like it had been outdoors for weeks on end.
“Seriously. We can call Animal Control—”
“Look how dehydrated she is! She might not live until they finally make their way here. Trust me. I know how long the wait times
are for animal control when it’s not an emergency. And the pound isn’t going to keep an animal in this rough shape.” Lucky shook his head mournfully.
“I do not need a dog.” Michelin could already see the direction the wheels in Lucky’s head were turning. He was going to stand firm on this, even as his stomach clenched with sympathy for the poor creature.
“Oh, of course you don’t,” Lucky said cheerfully as he hefted the dog into his arms, totally ignoring his pristine sweater. “Trust me. I’ve done this before. I’ll clean her up, get some food into her, take the cutest pictures you’ve ever seen, and one of my friends or family will have themselves a new dog by the end of the week.”
“She’s not getting that dirt on my truck seats.” Michelin resigned himself to the dog being Lucky’s project for the afternoon, but he had to assert some control somehow.
“It’s not that far to the house.” Lucky gave him a mock salute as he shouldered what had to be thirty pounds of canine. “I’ll do the washing in the pool house bathroom. And yes, I’ll clean it up afterward. She won’t be any trouble. You’ll see. And just like me, she’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
Michelin snorted as he got back into the truck. “I think you’re both likely to be a passel of trouble before long, but climb up in the back with her.”
“Thanks.” Lucky gave him a huge grin as he swung up into the bed of the truck.
No trouble. No trouble at all. Somehow Michelin sincerely doubted that.
Chapter Eight
“. . . Trouble in Paradise already? From the looks of this parking garage photo, Lucky Rain and Michelin Moses were having quite the discussion . . . In related news, who can’t wait for the Katie Remmington interview to air? We’ve got some exclusive pics of the pair on set!” —GoZZip
“You’re a lot of trouble,” Lucky groused at the dog as he reached for more shampoo. No way was Lucky using his pricey John Allan’s shampoo on the beast. He might have a total soft spot for dogs—and an even better eye for telling when someone desperately needed one—but he wasn’t insane. Luckily, Michelin stocked his pool house with the same sort of generic products that populated his kitchen. Lucky didn’t know why, but he found that trait of Michelin’s rather endearing, as if the man had never fully escaped his modest country roots.
Good thing he had the economy size shampoo, because they were on rinse number three and the water was still turning brown. Lucky had realized after the first round of soaping that his jeans and sweater were toast and now he was down to his briefs. He’d had to hop into the long shower stall with the dog, trying to keep the spray on the mutt and not his peacock-striped boxer briefs. When he had cleaned out his locker at the bar, he’d been surprised how many of his favorites had migrated to the bar. He might be stuck wearing the clothes Michelin’s stylist sent over, but at least he had his own underwear.
Lather four and Lucky was able to ascertain that other than the scratches, the animal didn’t seem injured, only painfully malnourished and dehydrated. She had drunk two bowls of water and eaten some leftover steak before they started the bath, and still she kept sniffing the air as if looking for food.
“We’ll find you some more food in a minute.” Lucky started the rinse and, miracle of miracles, the water was running clear. Finally.
“I can help with that.” Michelin lounged in the doorway to the shower room, exactly as if he’d been there watching Lucky wrestle the dog awhile. He held a stack of towels and a bowl, which he started to set on the floor—
“No! Don’t!” Lucky said but it was too late. The dog bolted from the shower, spraying Lucky with foam and water in her eagerness to reach the food, which smelled like chicken and rice. Not that Lucky had a chance to inspect it before the dog gulped it down.
“Hell.” Sticky with soap and dog hair, Lucky stepped under the spray. His boxer briefs were shot anyway.
“Don’tcha own any real underwear?” Michelin asked before carefully turning back toward the door. There was that guy again, the one too shy and polite to watch as Lucky peeled the soggy underwear off and soaped up.
“This is my ‘real’ underwear.” Lucky laughed. He tossed it out of the shower. “And I collect it. The designer stuff is just so much more fun and comfortable. What do you wear?”
There was a pause during which the only sound was the dog licking the bowl. “Boxer briefs.”
“I mean what brand?” He couldn’t resist ribbing him a bit more. Lucky would bet good money that Michelin also owned some tighty-whities and was mentally reaching for the part of his underwear drawer he thought would be the least offensive to Lucky.
“Not sure. Used to get ’em in six-packs at Big Mart, but now lately it’s whatever the stylist sends over. And I gotta tell you, it’s a weird feeling . . . someone else buying your drawers.”
Lucky laughed so hard he dropped the soap. “Dude. I am so taking you shopping. You would look boss in some C-IN2.”
“Thought you have no interest in seeing my underwear,” Michelin said smoothly.
Caught you, didn’t he? “I’m just doing you a service for the rest of your gay life. Trust me. An underwear upgrade will go a long way to helping you get laid.”
Lucky rinsed off, then grabbed a towel from the hook outside the shower, trying to shake the bitter taste in his mouth at the idea of Michelin getting naked with anyone else. Not that he was getting naked with Lucky either. Fuck me. Even my brain’s gone loco.
He tucked the towel around his waist, then exited the shower to find Michelin carefully drying the dog with some of the towels he’d brought in.
“You know, for a guy who doesn’t want a dog—”
“I don’t. And I brought some alcohol and antibiotic cream out, too. Want me to hold her while you doctor her nose?”
“I see how it is. I get to be bad cop.”
“Hey, this is your project.” Michelin handed over the items and got a good grip on the dog. She immediately relaxed into the well-practiced hold.
“You’ve had dogs before,” Lucky observed while he made quick work of cleaning the scratches, hating how the dog whimpered.
“Oh yeah. Always had at least three ranch dogs growing up. They were my best friends.”
God, they were too close like this. Definitely too close for Lucky to be in nothing more than a towel. Michelin smelled like evergreen and Lucky had to shift away before his body betrayed him.
“But you’ve never had one in L.A.?”
“I travel too much.” Michelin’s eyes clouded over. “Wouldn’t be fair to a pooch, and I’m not one to go for those pocket puppies in the fancy purses.”
“That you aren’t.” Lucky laughed. He finished with the dog’s wounds and dropped a kiss on her head. “What shall we call her?”
“Oh no. You are not tricking me into naming her.” Michelin shook his head. He loosened his hold on the dog, who proceeded to lick Lucky with some sort of misplaced doggie gratitude.
“Fine. I’m calling her Lady until I find her a home and real name.”
“Why don’t you have a dog?” Michelin asked.
“Oh, I will eventually.” Lucky settled back against the wall next to Michelin, loathe to let this companionable talk end. “Right now, I’m in a tiny WeHo studio walkup, and like you, I go for bigger dogs. I love a dog I can run with. My parents have Cesar, who I found in high school. He’ll always be my big bambino.”
Lucky didn’t add that his mom had been having a rough time with her older kids moving out. Cesar had appeared at the perfect moment. Lucky had a knack for finding the right dog for the right person. Even when that person swore up and down that he most definitely didn’t need a dog. Lady was a good size dog, around the same size as Cesar, who was some sort of shepherd mix. Now that she was clean, Lucky could tell she was more of a spaniel-retriever cross with thick golden fur, floppy ears, and big brown trusting eyes.
“Hey, speaking of, this hanging with you and not having my car thing is starting to suck. Think you could
run me to the closest store? I need to grab some chow before Lady eats all your scraps.”
“Already on it. I needed some more food with you here for another night. Sent in an order to my grocery delivery place, and I included a small bag of basic chow.”
“You know—”
“A small bag. Just enough until you either find her a home or take her to the shelter.”
Lucky let that comment slide. Shelter wasn’t happening, and as for the other . . . well, Lucky was crossing his fingers. Instead he channeled Gloria, pitching his voice higher. “Michelin is remarkably independent.” Laughing, he returned to normal. “BS. You’re just good at online shopping and delegating via phone.”
“That I am.” Michelin’s laugh sounded a bit strained. He dug in the pile of towels he’d brought and came up with a stuffed bear. He teased Lady with it for a few moments before tossing it to her.
“Okay. Now you’re trying too hard. What’s really up?” Lucky stood up. He really needed clothes for any sort of serious discussion.
“It’s just a bear. Ever since my single ‘About a Bear,’ people give them to me wherever I go. I usually box ’em up for the children’s hospital, but this one was in the hall closet.”
Lucky snorted. He hadn’t seen it at first, but Michelin’s face was tight with tension and his hands had a subtle tremor. The man hadn’t come with the dog stuff out of pure helpfulness.
“I need pants. And you need to tell me what’s the matter.” He motioned for Michelin to follow him across the patio back to the guest room. Both Michelin and the dog followed him, the dog dragging her new toy along.
“Nothing’s the matter.” The mere fact that Michelin had followed Lucky called him a liar. He turned while Lucky pulled on a pair of pants, but that didn’t stop him from remarking on them. “What the heck are those? Boxers with legs?”
“Yoga pants. Dudes can wear them, too.” Lucky yanked the neon yellow pants into place. “Man cannot live in denim alone.”
“You complaining about my wardrobe?”
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