Oh crap. I’m about to ruin his week in so many ways.
“Hey, Papí,” he said cautiously, offering a hug as he entered the house. To his surprise, Michelin swept him up in a scorching kiss.
“Missed you.” Michelin was breathing hard as he broke away. “You hungry or . . .” His gaze dipped to Lucky’s front.
Hell. Lucky wanted welcome-home sex in the worst way. And if Michelin was offering . . .
No. He couldn’t take Michelin’s trust like that, not with this bit of news hanging over them. It didn’t matter what rationalizations he’d come up with in the car. He knew Michelin was going to have a fit when he heard Lucky’s news. Talk first. Then sex to smooth over whatever fur got ruffled. Because fur was getting ruffled, and he just needed to pull up his big boy jock and own up to it.
“How about we talk while you grill?” he suggested. He’d long ago learned that even though Michelin insisted that he didn’t need help for the cooking, the man really did appreciate company and more often than not ended up giving Lucky things to do. And sure, having this conversation with both fire and sharp knives at Michelin’s disposal might not be Lucky’s smartest suggestion, but he needed something to do to ease the awful jumpy feeling. His skin felt like he’d rolled in his brother Franco’s favorite jalapeño kettle chips.
“That works.” Michelin gave him another shy smile that made Lucky’s heart quiver. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
“Oh?” Lucky followed him to the kitchen, where Michelin grabbed a tray of food, then went onto the grilling area of the patio. The dog stuck close to their heels, sensing that meat scraps were on the horizon.
“Yeah. Jennifer was here today. She’s all up in arms about this Big Mart mess and all that chatter on social media.”
“Someone should be.” Lucky accepted the cutting board and onion Michelin handed him. The patio with the grill and outdoor dining furniture shared the same million-dollar view of the L.A. skyline as the living and dining room of Michelin’s house, but it was also a very functional space with a large work counter and sink. “So you know about the hashtag, and you’re still in a decent mood?”
“I talked to Gloria after Jennifer. She says to stay out of the fray, but that the backlash is putting some pressure on Big Mart. We have to watch it all play out.”
Lucky snorted. “Staying out is the whole point. But staying quiet, well, you don’t have—”
Michelin groaned as he threaded chunks of chicken on skewers. “We’re not gonna agree on this one. I know. You want me out there leading the charge. But I can’t. It’s not me. And it’s not what I want for my music.”
“Fine.” Lucky handed him a stack of onion pieces for the skewers. “You listen to Gloria, and not your boyfriend or your oldest friends.”
“It’s not like that.” Michelin’s face drew up tight, like he’d accidentally touched the grill. “And I don’t want to fight. Not now.”
“I don’t like fighting either.” Lucky stopped chopping long enough to rub Michelin’s back. It would be too damn easy to let this be the issue that tore them apart, and never tell Michelin about the music video. The problem was that Lucky didn’t want either issue to end them. He might find Michelin’s inaction infuriating, but he loved the guy who’d ordered red bell peppers for their kebabs because he knew Lucky loved them, the guy who woke up in the middle of the night to write the songs that haunted Lucky’s dreams, the guy who kissed Lucky like a drowning man and who surrendered to him in passion so beautifully. There was so much to love about Michelin. The real problem was that perhaps the man himself didn’t believe it.
“So, changing the subject, I’ve finally got a lead on a decent paying gig.” Lucky chose each word as carefully as if he were picking winning combinations on Words with Friends.
“That’s terrific. And I’ve got an idea on how you can make more money, too.” Michelin gave him the same winning grin he’d greeted him with, but something sour bubbled up in Lucky’s gut.
“Oh?” Lucky tried to keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Yeah. That’s where I was tryin’ to head earlier. Jennifer was here. She’s getting closer to her due date. She needs me to find a new personal shopper and stylist, at least for a bit, and probably permanently.”
“There’s a guy at my gym who works as a stylist. Want me to see about getting his name for you?” Lucky fiddled with a skewer, not wanting to meet Michelin’s eyes.
“Nah. See . . . I was thinking about you. You could do Jennifer’s job. You’ve got a great eye for clothes, and you seem to enjoy shopping. Travel with me all summer and not have to worry about funds. And if you’re one of my assistants, Gloria can’t really argue about having you along. It’s win-win.”
“Win-win,” Lucky echoed, voice as weak as cell phone service up here in the hills. “So you want to pay me to travel with you this summer? And be around as your stylist, not your boyfriend?”
“Well, what we do privately isn’t really anyone’s business.” Michelin jabbed a skewer through a pepper without glancing over at Lucky.
“But it’s sure as heck my business. And I can’t be on your payroll all week and then warming your bed at night.”
“It wouldn’t be like that.” Finally looking at Lucky, Michelin’s eyes were all cloudy. And shifty, like it pained him to hold Lucky’s gaze.
“Oh? How would it be?”
“Henry pays Jennifer. I don’t even know exactly what she makes. He handles the credit card she uses for all her purchases for me. He’d pay you.”
“With your money. Which would make you my boss, and I’ve told you that I don’t sleep with my boss. And I sure as hell don’t sleep with guys looking to pay me to avoid the sticky situation of having to actually claim me as a boyfriend.”
“Of course I want to claim you. Things are just a bit complicated right now—”
“Making me your stylist won’t exactly uncomplicate them. You really think Gloria’s going to go for this?”
“If we keep it discreet—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lucky’s voice was loud enough to send the dog cowering under the picnic table. “Discreet? Michelin. You’re out. Discreet flew the coop around the time you started dating a go-go dancer . . . Oh wait. That’s what this really is, isn’t it. This is a way to clean me up. No more sexy dancing.”
“I love your dancing.” Michelin’s voice was too sure, too steady to be truthful. “I don’t want you to change for me. But you’ve said yourself how hard it is to make a living right now for you. And this would let you leave the club behind—”
“Because, deep down, you’re not okay with go-go dancing.” Lucky kept his tone flat. He’d known that. No guy he kept around ever was truly okay with the go-go dancing or even the sexy dancing in videos or show boy revues. And every last one of them wanted to believe Lucky was dancing because he had no other choice. No one wanted to see him as a serious professional dancer.
“I’m fine. I think you’re selling yourself a bit short, though. Working for tips like that. And if you liked styling me, we could see about getting you some other clients, grow—”
“Get a real job, you mean? Grow up, leave the dancing to the kids?”
“That’s not what I’m tryin’ to say. At all.” Michelin sounded more than a little irritated. He slapped the skewers down on the grill with a sizzle. “But if you’re broke, why keep going at it?”
“Because I’m a fucking dancer, Michelin. Did you stop singing when you were broke? What if you’d stopped before you got your big break? Huh?”
“My daddy would’ve lived instead of dyin’ of a broken heart, Mama would have still had the ranch, and I wouldn’t have to go through life feelin’ so damn selfish. What if the big break never came? Think of that. Sorry, but true. Most artists starve—”
“And that would be their fucking choice. Not up to you to rescue me. And I’m not going to be broke much longer. I landed a great gig today. I’ll be able to pay my bills and do the idea
for the Vegas revue.”
“That’s . . . great.” Meat taken care of, Michelin sank into one of the picnic chairs, stretching a hand down to pet the dog. His eyes were glossy and unfocused, as if Lucky were some distant point on the horizon instead of three feet away. “What’s the gig for?”
Lucky didn’t need to take a breath or summon up courage to answer. Things had already gone to shit. They couldn’t get much worse. “The Grind Father. He’s a rap star. And Steve Brewer.”
Chapter Twenty
“Filed under things that make us go hmmm: #FreeMichelin is trending everywhere, yet the man himself hasn’t been seen in days, and we’ve got sources saying his relationship is cooling down right as this controversy is heating up . . .” —GoZZip
Steve Brewer had been the best part of Michelin’s teenage years, the reason he drank in his twenties, and now he was about to ruin Michelin’s thirties without even being in the room.
“Steve wants you in a music video? Why?” Oh, he knew the words were all kinds of wrong as soon as he said them, but Michelin couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Because I’m a dancer and it’s a hip-hop video of some kind?” Lucky’s well-groomed dark brows were practically touching his hairline. “Because he wants to get you all riled up, I’m sure. And it’s working.”
Michelin pushed to his feet, strode to the grill to check meat that didn’t need checking. “Why do it then? If you know it’s an attempt to be a wedge between us?”
“Maybe because I’m adult, and it’s a shit ton of money that I need. He wants you mad and me weirded out, but we’re not required to react like some sort of puppets for him. I’m choosing to be a professional, go dance, and pocket his cash while flipping him off.”
“And if I say no, I’m not comfortable with that, you’re going to do it anyway?” Michelin paced in front of the grill and prep counter. No way could he sit.
“If I didn’t need the cash so badly—”
“I’m giving you a way to not need his money!”
“By being your glorified kept boy!”
“Look. You want to make this video, you want to be in that Vegas revue so bad, let me pay for it—I know people. I can make it happen for you. You don’t need Steve’s cash.” Michelin should have insisted on this course of action last time Lucky had brought up the video. What would be pricey for Lucky could be as simple as Michelin making some calls.
“I can’t do that. I can’t guarantee being able to pay you back—”
“I don’t want you to pay me back. I want you to not take Steve’s money, not go find out whatever joke he’s trying to play. I don’t want you mixed up with him. I don’t trust Steve—he’s got other motives here besides hiring a dancer. You need a video so goddamn bad, I’ll provide it.”
Lucky shook his head sadly as if there was some bigger point Michelin was missing. Michelin wasn’t sure what that was. All he knew was he loved Lucky and that he didn’t want him mixed up with the sort of mind fuck he knew firsthand Steve liked to deliver. It didn’t matter how great a dancer Lucky was. Steve had an agenda going on because he always had an angle, and he didn’t much care whom he hurt along the way.
“Look. You want to pay me back? Take the stylist gig while you wait to hear about the Vegas show. Vegas doesn’t work out, you stay on.” Stay with me.
“I can’t do that.” Each of Lucky’s words stung like a slap.
Michelin had been expecting that reply, but he still had to lean heavily on the prep counter next to the grill. All he could do was mouth the word, “Why?”
“I’m a dancer, Papí. Not a stylist. Jennifer is a majorly competent professional. She’s not your best friend who happens to be ‘good at shopping.’ She’s a pro. And so am I, and I don’t think you really get that. Or respect it.”
“I respect it plenty—”
“Yeah? If I’m still dancing at The Broom Closet next month? Next year? You still going to want to be with me? If I’m the guy starring in the Vegas revue, you gonna want to be with that guy? Or if I get another shot at an underwear ad, you gonna be okay with that? Me dancing around in some commercial?”
“I don’t know.” God, his head throbbed. Michelin had to rub the base of his neck. “I don’t know, okay? But I would try—”
“You would try. This is who I am. It’s not some burden to deal with or to throw money at, hoping it becomes a non-issue.”
“Not wanting you to take Steve’s money doesn’t mean I don’t see you as a professional.”
“Doesn’t it? You don’t trust me to make my own decisions or to handle myself.”
“I think you’re better than that, okay? I think you’re better than taking that bastard’s money, performing for him.”
“Oh, Papí. The only one I ever perform for is me.” Lucky patted his cheek.
“I . . . People will talk. Old gossip will get dug up, little whispers.”
“Why are you protecting him?”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah. That’s right. You’re protecting you. You can’t handle the gossip. Hell, Michelin, there’s this huge groundswell of support for you right now, and you can’t handle that. You’re in a position to make real change, but oh no, people might get upset. Well, fuck people.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is. But not for you. And that’s what I mean about the dancing. You’re not really wanting a professional dancer boyfriend. It would be easiest on you if I agreed to be some sort of assistant, get on your payroll, stay quiet and in the background while you get to make your music.”
“Yes. Okay. Yes. Is that what you want me to say?”
“I want you to be honest. Even if that means admitting you don’t want me.”
“Wait. What? I want you.”
“No, you don’t.” Lucky shook his head slowly. “I’m loud. I wear bright colors. I listen to hip-hop at top volume. I dance go-go. I twerk on stage for strangers. I’m a viral video waiting to happen. I’m not what you need right now.”
“You could be.” Michelin’s throat felt gouged out.
“No, I couldn’t.” Lucky stretched up, brushed a kiss across Michelin’s cheek. “I can’t be that guy for you. All I can be is me, and right now that’s not enough.”
With that, Lucky headed for the sliding glass door, but he stopped halfway into the house, whistled sharply for the dog, who crept out from under the table.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. I can’t be here right now.”
“I mean with the dog.”
“Is she your dog? You ready to adopt her, give her a real name, get a collar?”
“I . . . I . . .” Hell. Words had poured out of Michelin earlier. Stupid words. Misguided words. Purely wrongheaded words. And now he couldn’t find the words that mattered. The words that would stop Lucky from leaving. “I don’t . . . can’t keep her. Wrong lifestyle.”
“Then get the right one.” Lucky huffed, then patted his thigh. “Come on, Lady. Let’s go.”
The dog looked from Michelin to Lucky and back again, cautious expression like she would rather crawl under the coffee table than listen to them argue more.
Be the man. Michelin squared his shoulders, took a breath. “Go on, girl. Go with Lucky.”
And then he was the one to leave, stalking back out to the grill so that he didn’t have to watch Lucky round up his and the dog’s stuff. He pulled the meat off the grill before he set fire to the hillside, tossing it straight in the trash. No way could he eat it now.
He sank into a patio chair and rested his head in his hands. He stayed there through the rustling sounds coming from the house, through the rumble of Lucky’s car’s engine, through the gut-piercing silence that followed. He stayed through the sun dipping and a breeze kicking up.
* * *
“Luciano Santiago Ramirez, why are you on my porch with that poor dog?” Lucky’s mom opened the door to his childhood home with a frown, but stood aside to let him and
Lady in. “And why can’t you call your poor mama instead of showing up this late? We just had pizza. I would have saved you some.”
“I try not to eat pizza, remember?” Lucky bent to kiss her on the cheek. “And I didn’t exactly know I was coming here.”
That was true. He had driven around for a couple of hours, spurred on by both the fight with Michelin and an angry text from his landlord that the paparazzi were back. Great. The #FreeMichelin movement had reached his front door, even if the man himself couldn’t give a shit.
He’d stopped to let Lady run at a dog park only to realize that he was in his old neighborhood, not too far from his parents. His car knew what he needed if he didn’t want to admit it. He had totally, one hundred percent, expected Michelin to claim the dog and demand she stay with him. Lucky had been angry and pissed and more than a little hurt, and he knew calling for the dog was childish, but he’d seriously expected that to be the moment Michelin finally put his foot down and said the dog was his. Because maybe he didn’t really want Lucky, not truly, but he loved that dog and he needed the dog.
But he’d let Lucky take her, and now Lucky was stuck—stuck looking like the terrible guy who took Michelin’s dog from him, stuck not being able to go back to his studio, stuck with this awful, hopeless feeling that the best thing in his life had slipped through his fingers. The worst thing was not knowing whether what they’d had had been real at all. Had Michelin ever truly seen the real Lucky or had he only seen some projection of what he’d hoped Lucky could be? He’d had moments when he’d been so sure they’d connected on some deep level, transcending all their differences, all the celebrity bullshit. But now he wasn’t so sure.
His parents’ house should have been full of comfortable familiarity—it was a two-story contemporary in a good subdivision that they’d moved into when Lucky was in high school. The open floor plan was designed to welcome family and friends for all the gatherings his parents hosted, and usually he felt happy simply looking around at the decor full of family memorabilia. As usual, the drone of the TV came from the family room.
All Note Long Page 19