All Note Long (17 page)

That was the one thing Michelin had tried to avoid all week. He nodded, even though he didn't want to. Fine. He would find some way to be friends with Lucky on the down-low.

“Good.” She stood, a smooth elegant motion of her long linen-clad legs. She reached down and patted his cheek. The dog growled softly and she withdrew it fast. “Now let me try to fix this Big Mart crap, okay?”

“Okay.” Michelin sat there a long time after her heels clicked away. Finally the dog started licking at his hand.

“Yeah. I know. I got to go find Lucky now, huh?” Michelin stood up, knees creaking from how long he'd been huddled on the floor. But when he went in search of Lucky, all he found was an empty kitchen, then an empty bedroom. He checked—Lucky's dusty old Impreza was nowhere to be seen.

Fuck.
First time in a long time, he had lots of words that needed saying and no one to say them to. How much had Lucky overheard?

“Probably just as well he's working tonight, right?” he asked the dog, who had followed him from room to room. “We'll just give him a chance to simmer down, give me a chance to come up with a plan.” She gave him a mournful look.

Hours later, when he'd failed to fill the time, she gave him a very knowing look. She thumped her tail when he put on his “don't notice me” duds and she lay down quietly on her bed as he headed for the truck.

A
fter two weeks off from work, Lucky's body totally wasn't used to the rigors of dancing or being up this late. He dragged himself out of his car in the parking lot of his building, not looking forward to the stairs up to his place. Or being alone with his thoughts about how things were likely over with Michelin, all because the stubborn man wasn't willing to fight for them or even for his own rights.

He checked his messages as he climbed the stairs—nothing from Michelin, not that he'd really expected one. He was probably busy figuring out how to don his manly-man armor for Gloria. There was, however, a message from his mother reminding him about his
abuela
's birthday, and how if he skipped the huge family party, she'd be coming for him.

Ha. Michelin among the huge Ramirez clan was so not happening. He clicked away from his mother's texts without replying.

His stomach was still in knots over Michelin when he unlocked his door, so he headed straight for the shower. He missed the big walk-in shower in Michelin's master suite. His cramped bathroom felt shrunken after two weeks with Michelin's amenities.
Fuck that sad moping.
He got in the shower and let the hot water wash over him, trying not to think of much at all. He put on a favorite pair of workout capris—silky material with a bright tie-dye pattern—and no shirt. The pants were made by his favorite underwear designer and were probably sexier than necessary for lounge wear, but it was his damn place, and if he wanted to be comfortable he would.

And if he'd gotten a bit too used to Michelin's enthusiastic reaction to everything in his underwear and workout collection, well, that was his problem. He needed to go back to dressing—hell,
living—
for himself.

Knock. Knock.
It was after three a.m. but Lucky was surprisingly unstartled by the sound. A quick peek out his peephole revealed his favorite insomniac looking apologetic. Michelin was dressed in what Lucky had come to think of as his “real” clothes—the sort of mismatched, oversize things that Jennifer would have a fit to see him in. He'd tossed on a ball cap as well, adding to the whole “disguise” element. Lucky would never tell him, but he kind of preferred this approachable version of Michelin versus the more polished superstar.

“Isn't your truck in the guest parking kind of the opposite of the discretion the label is demanding from you?” Lucky's voice was bitter and tired, but he still held open the door for Michelin to come in.

“I'm not too worried about that. I told Gloria that I can be low-profile but that I'm not giving you up as a friend.” Michelin's tone was low and urgent.

“So I'm going to be your dirty secret? Excuse me if I say no thank you.”

“Not my secret. Never that.” Michelin put his arms around Lucky as soon as the door closed, and Lucky couldn't bring himself to push Michelin away. Gradually over the last week Michelin had become better and better at initiating affection, but each hug from him felt like a special gift, even when Lucky was frustrated beyond belief at Michelin.

“I heard Gloria. They need you to be less ‘visibly' gay. And you didn't argue with that.” That part had hurt the most, Michelin unwilling to stand up for himself, for them.

“What am I supposed to do?” Michelin's voice held more pain than anger.

“Say no.” Lucky shrugged out of the embrace, swiveled to face him. “Not hard. ‘No. I'll be myself, thank you very much. And I'll support whatever cause I want.' See? Not hard?”

“E-e-easy for you to say.” Michelin pulled the hat off his head, crumpled it between his hands.

“Oh, Papí, I know this is all new for you.” Lucky rubbed Michelin's arm. He couldn't stay mad at this Michelin—the unsure, tongue-tied one with pleading eyes who demanded Lucky tell him how to fix this. And yeah, Lucky knew how Michelin's words tended to trip all over themselves when he got upset. “What if you sent Gloria an email? Would that be easier than saying it aloud?”

“Maybe.” Michelin leaned in to the touch. “I don't wanna rock the boat with this Big Mart thing by insisting on gettin' political or taking on causes. But I can message her. Tell her you're not negotiable. I could have said that better. I don't need photo ops with you. I just need
you.”

The raw pain in Michelin's voice had Lucky wrapping Michelin up in a hug before releasing him again. His honesty about his fierce need for Lucky was refreshing. He'd had several boyfriends, but not a one would cop to
needing
him. He kind of liked it.

“I don't need photo ops either. You know that. But I don't want you ashamed of what we have.”

“I'm not ashamed. This . . . scale-back is just temporary.” Michelin held his hands up, a please-trust-me expression on his face with big eyes and soft lips. “Promise.”

Oh, Lucky had heard that one before. And he'd made the mistake before of not being clear about what he wanted. He tightened all the muscles in his back one by one until he had enough strength to force the words out. “I want to be your real boyfriend. Not waiting for the A-okay to be the fake one again.”

“I want that, too. I want that so, so much.” Michelin reached for Lucky, burying his face in Lucky's damp hair. He wrapped his arms around Michelin, holding him in place. All this need and feelings were like a boulder they could only lift together, and clinging together at least made the oppressing weight of these new emotions bearable.

Lucky struggled to find his voice. “I've been the secret guy before. Walter wouldn't even meet my friends and family or introduce me to his. I don't need the paparazzi following you and me, but I can't be the secret guy who you only visit when you've got an itch.”

“Clyde.” Michelin pulled back enough to look into Lucky's eyes.

“Clyde?” Even with the eye contact, Lucky was having a hard time following.

“My name is Clyde Moses Barker. Not even Gloria knows that name. I'm a hick from a tiny town in Eastern Oregon, and I can't promise to get this whole coming-out business right, but I can give you my name. You get the me the public doesn't, and I wish that could be enough—”

“It's something. A really important something.” Lucky's throat was thick and tight. “We'll sort out the rest.” His voice didn't have enough conviction behind it. He wanted to believe, though, wanted to trust that they could work things out, but truth was, he wasn't sure how long he could watch Michelin refuse to take a stand. And his dancing loomed large, too—so many conflicts threatening them, but this . . . fragile trust Michelin was offering him couldn't be denied.

“Well,
Clyde,
I'm Luciano Santiago Ramirez. Most of my family really does call me Lucky, though.”

Michelin made a face. “Can't you
know
the name without
using
it? I really do hate Clyde.”

“Yeah. I can do that. Even if I kinda dig Clyde.” He pulled Michelin in for a searching kiss, trying to find the spark that would let him believe and trust. And it was there in Michelin's lips, in the way he yielded to Lucky, in the way his sigh of happiness was laced with relief, in the way he clutched at Lucky's shoulders like he was never letting him go.

As the kiss went on, Michelin seemed a bit . . . distracted, gaze not on Lucky but over his shoulder.

“What?” he finally asked.

“There's a bed in your living room.”

Laughing, Lucky broke away. “Yeah. It's a studio. This is pretty much everything. And if you keep looking at my bed like that, I'm going to forget you've got a dog at home.”

“Come back with me? Please.” Michelin's eyes were still locked on Lucky's bed. It was a full, made up as a daybed with tons of bolsters and pillows his mom had sewed for him with cloth they'd found at F&S Fabrics—giving him a designer look at a bargain price. Lucky doubted Michelin was appreciating his choice of textiles.

“Yeah. I will.” He didn't even bother pretending otherwise. And yeah, sex when they still had so much to talk about was probably a huge mistake, but that wasn't going to stop him. Maybe they were going to crash and burn in spectacular fashion, but if so, Lucky wanted to enjoy every minute of the ride. “In a minute.”

He pulled Michelin over to the bed, but then realized Michelin's focus wasn't on the bed as much as the multi-drawer, low chest next to the bed.

“You categorizing my furniture? It's IKEA.” He pushed Michelin's shirt up, getting him to pull it off. “And you keep paying attention to my decor and not the fact that I'm about thirty seconds from blowing you and I'm gonna get a complex.”

“Sorry.” Michelin blushed darker than Lucky had ever seen. He stepped out of his jeans, but left his plain black boxers on. “Wasn't thinking about the furniture as much as . . . you probably own things I don't.”

Lucky couldn't stop himself from grinning. He pushed Michelin onto the bed, sending pillows flying.

“Tell me more about what you're thinking. You curious about my toy collection?” He peered down at him.

“You
have
a toy collection?” Michelin's eyes went wide.

“Not a huge one. Fleshlight. Some plugs. A couple of cock rings. Vibrating dildo. But I'm game for showing you.”
Or using on you.
For all the orgasms they'd shared, they'd kept to lots of oral, some rubbing off, and a few hand-jobs. Michelin's favorite thing seemed to be blowing Lucky with lots of dirty talk and praise for his efforts, and Lucky had no issue indulging that particular bent and no interest in pushing him into other things that he might not be ready for.

“Um. Eh. I was thinking more . . .” Michelin made a vague gesture with his hand. “
Supplies.”

“Oh? You wanting to fuck me?” Lucky should have guessed. The whole dancing at the club issue hadn't evaporated simply because they'd given voice to some feelings and wants. He'd had one boyfriend who had always wanted to fuck Lucky after he got in from a go-go shift. Some sort of caveman impulse to mark his territory, but Lucky supposed it wouldn't be awful to let Michelin fuck him if it kept this tenuous peace going.

“Err . . .” Michelin tugged roughly on his earlobe and studied one of Lucky's bold geometric pillows.

“It's okay.” Lucky stroked Michelin's cheek. “I can talk you through topping. Would you like that?” If he stayed in control, doling out the praise Michelin seemed to crave, maybe he could keep this from being the sort of he-man theatrics that got old really quickly. And the more he thought about that scenario, the harder he got.

“Um. Sometime . . . maybe . . . if
you
want that, but lately, I've been thinking more about the
other . . .
you know?”

Fuck yeah.
Lucky's dick went from intrigued to insistent, heat rushing to all parts south. He brought his lips to Michelin's ear. “You want me to fuck you? You into that?”

“Yeah. I think.” Michelin didn't sound too sure.

“You think?” Lucky pushed up into sitting astride Michelin so that he could properly study his face. Usually by the time guys got to a certain age, they knew how their ass was wired. But Michelin's face was every bit as uncertain as his voice. “You play around with yourself any?”

Michelin shook his head. “Never really thought about it much. Steve wasn't . . . we didn't do none of that. But the other night . . . when you and I were rubbing off, I kept thinking . . .” He turned as red as the swirls on Lucky's comforter and looked away.

“Yeah?” Lucky prompted. Seeing his big, strong man blush like this was its own kind of turn-on.

“I kept thinking how . . . nice it would be to have a part of you inside me, to share that. And after everything today, I kind of
want
that in a way I haven't before. Fuck, I'm not even making sense.” He threw an arm over his face. “Forget this.”

“Oh, I'm not forgetting this.” Lucky laughed. Man, he lo—
liked
this man. This romantic, confounding, maddening man. It didn't matter how terrible things had the potential to become—he wasn't giving Michelin up until he had no choice. And no way on earth was he forgetting Michelin's new interest.