All Note Long Read online

  Adding to the fucked-up-ness of his evening, a female patron was sitting at the bar, nursing a Manhattan and eying him with undisguised speculation. Blond, rail thin, and somewhere between forty and sixty—in this town with all the plastic surgeons, it was hard to guess. She wore an expensive white linen pantsuit that no more fit into The Broom Closet than Lucky would fit into whatever country club she’d fallen out of. He’d already fended off two rude patrons wanting to know what his price was. Last thing he wanted was to tell some wannabe sugar mama no way, no how, but as he hopped down from his platform, she made a beeline right for him, blocking his path to the hallway and his microscopic break time.

  “Lucky Rain?” she asked in clipped tones.

  “Not interested.” Lucky tried to step around him, but she stopped him with a proprietary hand on his arm.

  “Oh, I think you will be.” Her smile reminded Lucky a bit of that cartoon fox that his nephews loved to shout at on the TV. Sly and up to no good. She pulled him closer so that she could talk directly at him, ensuring there was no chance the club music ate her precise words. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of. I’m here on behalf of Michelin—”

  “The hell?” That was fast. And it figured that fancy lady was a lawyer type, not looking to collect a boy toy. When Lucky had seen the headlines, his first thought had been what a damn fool he was. And his second thought was lawsuit. Which was why he’d done the incredibly stupid thing and called Michelin in a panic. He knew about the big judgments stars had gotten for defamation. And fuck if he could lose more cash over this mess. Or more reputation going down the drain. As it was, no one would hire him for a while, unless it was out of morbid curiosity.

  “You’ve been ignoring your phone.”

  “Been a bit busy.” No way was Lucky answering any unknown numbers after the day’s event.

  “Can we talk for a moment? I have a . . . proposal.” She was about as convincing as a used car salesman with a three-wheeled Chevy Nova, but Lucky led her to the hallway anyway. No way did he need anyone overhearing her putting the shakedown on him.

  And three minutes later, he was thanking himself for seeking privacy. Apparently she was a publicist named Gloria, not a lawyer, and she laid out a plan that involved Lucky getting even more involved in this mess. It was the most harebrained plan Lucky had ever heard of, and he’d heard some whack PR strategies. “You want me to play boyfriends with Michelin Moses? For reals?”

  “No. For show. And you’d be handsomely remunerated—”

  “What the heck?”

  “Your English is terrific. That word means paid—” Gloria slowed her speech, enunciating each word. Yeah, of course she saw a Hispanic dude and made typical rich white lady assumptions.

  “I was born in Cali, thanks. And I know what bank means. What I’m not clear on is why your boy still thinks he can buy my ass?” Even after all that had happened in the last twelve hours, it still smarted that Michelin hadn’t been the shy, sweet guy Lucky had taken him for. Part of Lucky was sad, because he really had wanted to get to know that guy better. Too bad he was a mirage.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t be sleeping with him.” She waved her hand. “Or at least that would be between the two of you to work out—”

  “Gee, thanks. And no way. I thought I made it clear to your guy that I’m not for sale. Not for any price.”

  “Then think of the publicity if you don’t want money. The spotlight would help your . . . career.” Her tone said exactly what she thought of go-go dancers. “He’s a pretty low-key guy, but Michelin knows all the right people. He can make things happen for you.”

  I can make things happen for you. He’d heard that before many times from Walter-the-snake, and then more recently from guys wanting a way into his pants. He knew full well how awful that trusting those words could make him feel. And no way in hell was he signing up for Michelin to be his sugar daddy. The guy had already tried to toss money Lucky’s way; maybe he hadn’t actually meant to buy Lucky, but he’d made his disrespect of dancers clear. Not to mention Michelin came with more baggage than the carousel at LAX. And he was old. No thanks.

  “No way. Sorry. Not worth the hassle.” Someone had violated fire code again by propping the emergency exit door at the end of the hallway open with a brick, probably to try to get some air circulating back here. The crack in the door beckoned Lucky, made him want to make a run for it, away from this whole mess.

  “The hassle? Do you understand what Michelin is dealing with here?” She changed her tone from coddling to stone cold. The hallway was stuffy and hot enough to make Lucky sweat even with the cracked door, but she looked remarkably unfazed.

  “Lady. No offense here, but I’ve got paparazzi camped out on my lawn. I lost a whole night’s tips thanks to your guy. I’ve got two coworkers whose asses need kicking.” And yeah, that hurt. Dwayne and Rod were in no way friends, but they’d still taken his money and lied to his face before turning around and selling the story, probably before Lucky even walked in his front door. He’d been had. No way in hell am I playing the fool again. “I’m sorry as heck that he got outed like this, but not my problem. I got my own shit to deal with.”

  “You’ll regret this.” She made a clucking noise. “What could I say to convince you? Things are already in motion—”

  “The hell? You thought my cooperation was that sure? You try telling your boy to do his own dirty work next time, for starters. He wants a boyfriend, he can damn well do the asking.” Lucky stalked away from her. He was done with this whole damn situation.

  However, four steps had him running right into Carlos’s barrel chest.

  “Well, if it isn’t just the ho I was looking for.” Carlos’s round face was as sweaty and mean as Lucky had ever seen it.

  “Hey, I’m not the one who called in sick with zero notice.” Lucky glanced over his shoulder but Michelin’s handler was already long gone. Thank god. He didn’t need an audience for this either. Funny, for a guy used to spending his Saturday nights in a Speedo, Lucky was developing a real taste for privacy.

  “No. You’re the reason I’ve had to deal with media, the ABC, and law enforcement all in the last six hours.”

  “What does Alcohol and Beverage Control want with you? And the cops?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re on their list of people to talk to as well. But suddenly they’re giving more credit to past complaints about the club, and they’re all up in my grill about lewd behavior and dancer regulations and all sorts of shit I don’t have time for.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault that those guys last summer were selling something on the side.” Or that Carlos turned a blind eye to a lot of that crap and played very fast and loose with the ABC regulations about lewd behavior. Wasn’t Lucky’s fault that some former employees had made some complaints to both ABC and OSHA, in addition to the dudes who got busted for soliciting. Carlos didn’t exactly run a quality establishment, but Lucky couldn’t deny that the tips were among the best in WeHo.

  “No, but you were certainly vocal enough about it, weren’t you? But now Mr. I’m-not-an-escort has been caught raiding the cookie jar for a little Hollywood cash. And now I’ve got people implying I’m some sort of pimp. At least the other guys had the decency to complete their transactions away from here.”

  “It’s not like I want this attention! And I was not selling!”

  Carlos ignored his protest. “And I’ve got paparazzi trained on the entrance, which is not good for business. Some of our clientele like discretion.”

  “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t really, but Carlos looked as mad as Lucky had ever seen him.

  “Hah.” Carlos snorted. “And doesn’t matter. I already told the authorities I’d can you for the solicitation.”

  “I wasn’t soliciting! And you can’t fire me for something I wasn’t doing!” A desperate clang built up in Lucky’s chest, like an old teakettle about to go off.

  “Yeah? Why did you have him in the employee changing room? Huh? Want to exp
lain those pictures to me in a way that can get the authorities off my ass?”

  “I can make this all go away with a convincing story. Trust me.” Gloria’s little spiel rang in his ears. “Neither of you looks great right now.”

  Jobless, out a buttload of cash that he desperately needed for his video, and insisting on telling the truth—or lying to help a guy who thought Lucky was little better than a hooker and who couldn’t even be bothered to return Lucky’s call or come see him himself?

  If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything. Lucky’s high school English teacher had a poster with that Mark Twain quote on it, and he’d seen it every day for two years.

  “I was getting him a drink . . .” Lucky trailed off as the fire door behind Carlos opened. He was about to warn Carlos, who wouldn’t have noticed a spaceship landing in the bar unless it was populated with ABC officials. But he regrouped as he recognized the tall figure coming through the door, even though Michelin was wearing another stupid beanie and a too-big sweatshirt in a hideous shade of rust. A split second look at Carlos’s face told him that the truth wasn’t saving his job. And here was the universe sending him a clear sign that his teacher’s poster was full of crap. “Because he’s my boyfriend,” Lucky amended.

  If you’re going to lie, at least be convincing. That piece of advice was direct from his cousin Enrique. “I’ve been seeing him a while and he needed the soda I had in my locker—”

  “Ha.” Carlos laughed. Actually chortled. “That’s a good one. You? Dating a big music superstar? You can barely get parts in those two-bit drag queen music videos. No way is someone like that dating someone like you. Nope. Not buying it. You’re still fired.”

  It seriously burned that Carlos was totally willing to believe that two bills was Lucky’s going rate, but didn’t see him as rich-and-famous-boyfriend material.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said over Carlos’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to clear up the big misunderstanding from last night.”

  Carlos swiveled his head to discover Michelin over his shoulder. Carlos was at least a foot shorter than Michelin; he looked up at him with nothing less than awe, especially once Michelin removed his hat. “You . . . you guys are seeing each other. For real?”

  “Totally.” Lucky was proud that he didn’t cross his fingers behind his back as he nodded his agreement.

  “You’re full of it,” Carlos said to Lucky before turning toward Michelin. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Michelin said mildly. “I’m sorry for all the inconvenience this has caused. You’ll get a call from my financial manager Monday to see if there’s anything we can do to . . . smooth things out as you deal with the hassle of the press.”

  Michelin didn’t sound at all like the shy, fumbling guy he’d been last night. Yet another sign that Lucky had been played but good. And of course Michelin was looking to solve Carlos’s beef with cash. Welcome to life with a sugar daddy. As soon as they got alone, Lucky was going to put down some rules about this shit, but right now he just nodded.

  Carlos looked thoughtful, as if the adding machine in his head was trying to decide what Michelin might be good for. “All right. It was a . . . miscommunication. And I look forward to that call. But, Lucky, I’m still not sure what to do with your rule-breaking ass.”

  “You can’t fire me. I need this job.”

  “You’re not firing Lucky.” Michelin’s words were spoken with the firmness of someone with the cash to back them up, a fact that burned Lucky up. His words should carry just as much weight.

  Carlos sighed heavily. “Fine. Leave of absence. You can’t deny you’re a giant distraction right now. And all the . . . smoothing in the world can’t rid me of the paparazzi out front or the ABC breathing down my neck. Leave of absence until the stuff with the authorities blows over.”

  “That sounds fair,” Michelin answered for Lucky.

  “It is not—”

  “You’re about to be very busy,” Michelin said in that mild but firm tone of his that probably had the rest of his minions hopping to do his bidding.

  “I’ll leave you two . . . lovebirds.” Carlos snickered as he headed back down the hall. “And Lucky? Clear out your locker.”

  After he was out of earshot, Michelin took a step closer to Lucky and lowered his voice. “Thank you for agreeing to this—”

  “Oh, Papí, I haven’t agreed to shit yet.” Lucky shook his head. “And we’re going to get one thing straight right the hell now. You don’t speak for me.”

  Lucky might be about to make a bargain with the devil, but he was going to make certain he got something out of this deal and that he got to keep his self-respect. There were some things Michelin just wasn’t getting, no matter how much cash or charm he ponied up.

  Chapter Five

  “What’s this tasty rumor we hear? Michelin Moses may actually be *dating* Lucky Rain? Oh my, oh my, stay tuned, peeps . . .” —GoZZip

  @StandOutJalen: People need to stop spreading rumors about my friends.

  @CodyRiversOfficial: Y’all need to calm down & meet some facts.

  Lucky’s plan to seize some power wasn’t going particularly well. After he got his stuff, he found himself whisked out the back exit to Michelin’s car. Instead of the ubiquitous black Escalade that celebs seemed to favor, Michelin had a tricked-out four-door Silverado High Country pickup with tinted windows.

  “Nice truck,” Lucky said before Michelin shoved him and his duffel into the backseat like some sort of surly kid. Gloria occupied the front passenger seat and gave him a nod like she’d been expecting him. Am I that predictable?

  “It was a gift from one of the tour sponsors. Like it way better than my old Escalade,” Michelin said as he swung into the driver’s seat.

  Lucky snorted. “Figures. All you celebs have an Escalade phase.”

  “And you’d know so much about ‘us celebs’ because . . .” Michelin didn’t sound annoyed, more like curious, but Lucky clammed up because no way in hell was he talking about Walter right then.

  “Where are we going?” he demanded as Michelin pulled into traffic. “And shouldn’t you have a driver? Bodyguard? Someone so you don’t have to mess with navigating this boat?”

  “Michelin doesn’t like staff,” Gloria answered for him. “He’s got security on retainer for big events, but otherwise, he’s remarkably independent.” She sounded like she was talking about a strange dog breed that she needed to sell Lucky on.

  “Boat’s in storage. And I like driving,” the man himself added. “You said you needed to negotiate this . . . bargain. So we’re going back to my place.”

  “We need to keep a low profile until our plans take off,” Gloria soothed. “There will be plenty of time to be seen later.”

  “Wasn’t asking for a photo op.” Lucky leaned back against the soft suede seat. It cradled him like one of those massage chairs at the mall. “I just like to know what’s what. I don’t like being shoved around.”

  “Noted,” Michelin said dryly. “Now I’m gonna make sure we’re not being tailed by paparazzi and you can make a list of demands or whatever for when we get to my place.”

  Michelin’s tone said that he’d had enough talking for the time being, but Lucky still smarted at being told again what to do when he’d just told Michelin to knock that shit off. Gloria got busy on her tablet, and Lucky dug out his phone. He so wasn’t touching the mountain of text messages yet, but some quick Internet research could give him the leverage he needed.

  Lucky wasn’t surprised when they headed for the hills—Michelin was exactly the type to seek the privacy of a canyon estate, well off the grid of the closer-in Hollywood mansions. Even though they weren’t that far from his own West Hollywood place, it felt like a different state, with scenery more fitting a nature preserve than a busy urban area. Neither Michelin nor Gloria was paying Lucky any attention, so he took a good look at the surrounding terrain. Michelin drove up a narrow access road into the secluded Runyon Canyon
area. A gate was tucked into an unassuming gray concrete privacy wall, and Michelin hit the access code. An even skinnier twisty driveway took them to a low-slung dark brown mid-century home hugging the rocky cliff face with a ton of trees on the other side.

  If Michelin had neighbors, they were nowhere to be seen—the house felt as isolated as if it were plunked down in the middle of the desert, not ten minutes from Hollywood. The massive truck took up most of the garage, and once out of the vehicle and walking through a long breezeway to the house itself, Lucky got a better sense of the place’s size—or lack thereof.

  It wasn’t a glitzy Hollywood compound like the type featured on reality shows, and honestly, Lucky’s parents’ place probably had more square footage than this quietly rustic bungalow with deep eaves. Something about the place made him expect a pack of dogs to come running up to greet Michelin, but there was only another access panel waiting at his side door.

  Michelin hit the code then held the door open for them. They came in on a sunny hallway between a dining area and a kitchen and—

  “Oh. My. God. The view.” Lucky did a full-on House Hunters–worthy swoon. The house itself might be small and not exactly what one would expect for a superstar, but the wide-open view of the winking lights of downtown L.A. visible from every window declared the place far, far out of the price range of ordinary folks. The view, combined with the humble exterior and homey interior, made Lucky think of people like John Wayne, not music icons.

  A small smile tugged at Michelin’s mouth. “It’s something, isn’t it?”