Title: ALL NOTE LONG
Author: Annabeth Albert
Series Title and Number: Perfect Harmony, Book 3, but stands alone well too
Cover Artist: Cora Graphics/Kensington
Release Date: August 2, 2016
Heat Level: 4 (explicit m/m sex, but lots and lots of plot too!)
Length: aprox. 80,000 words/ 232 pages
Genre/Tags: Romance, M/M Romance, contemporary romance, multi-cultural
SynopsisGiving true love a spin . . . Michelin Moses is a country music star on the rise. With a hit single under his Texas-sized belt buckle and a sold-out concert tour underway, his childhood dreams of making it big are finally coming true. But there’s one thing missing—a promise to his dying mother that he’d find it—him—when the time was right. With a little luck, he won’t have to wait too long . . . Lucky Ramirez is a hunky boy toy who dances at The Broom Closet, one of West Hollywood’s hottest gay bars. He loves what he does, and he’s good at it—almost as good as he is at playing dumb when he spots Michelin Moses at the bar. What happens next is off the charts—and keeps Michelin coming back for more. He’s just not sure it’s the right move for his career. But if Lucky gets his way, Michelin will get Lucky—and no matter how the media spins it, neither of them will be faking it . . .
ExcerptMichelin Moses had no business at a gay bar, especially not one as notorious as West Hollywood’s The Broom Closet. And the line to get in totally underscored that—the vestibule was a long, narrow tunnel filled with kids out to enjoy their Friday night. Babies, really. Fresh-faced young things who probably didn’t even need to shave jostled one another in the tight space, laughing and joking as they admired one another’s club wear and gossiped about who was fucking who. Not that Michelin was listening in, but the space was so tiny it was hard not to. He didn’t have club wear to ogle. He had “please for the love of God don’t notice me” clothes. And the idea of openly pointing to another dude in line and announcing to one’s friends, “Oh yeah, I hit that last weekend” was so totally foreign that he couldn’t help but gape a bit. The plexiglass walls of the tunnel gave off weird shadows—neither the lights outside the club nor the dim track lighting along the bottom edge of the tunnel were enough illumination. He tugged at the collar of his Henley shirt. Damn, it was hot in here. Too small. Too tight. Not enough air. Shut up. He was not claustrophobic. If this line ever moved, he’d feel better once he was inside the Closet. If that’s not a metaphor for your whole damn life… “ID please.” Finally, the line reached the bouncers who were taking ID. Michelin couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had to stand around like this, show ID. At least unlike these nineteen-year-olds with their fake identification, Michelin’s Oregon driver’s license was likely to hold up. The bouncer was a huge guy—so tall and jacked that Michelin felt for the tiny stool that held him up—with surprisingly small, delicate hands. He held the card aloft before finally handing it back and nodding. “Okay, cowboy. Enjoy your night.” At least he hadn’t laughed outright at the name. That was something. Shoving his license back in his wallet, he stumbled a bit coming out of the tunnel. “Watch it,” someone barked behind him. “Sorry,” Michelin mumbled. Hell, he couldn’t even successfully enter the Closet. A nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat, something he stamped right back down. Forget the stupid bar, coming out of his personal closet was out of the question, and he didn’t need the crowd jostling behind him to remind him of that. “This your first time here?” a kid to the left of him asked—short little guy with far more bravado than brains. Michelin made a noncommittal response but the kid grabbed his sleeve, his eyes going soft and hooded. “How about you be my daddy for the night? We can make sure it’s your lucky night.” The kid winked. Ugh. Getting lucky wasn’t even remotely in the cards for his night. “No thanks.” He pulled away from the kid, scanning the cavernous space for signs of the private party room his friends had promised. And oh holy hell, knowing in the abstract that this place had go-go dancers was a far cry from actually seeing said dancers dispersed through the place on platforms and in cages and even on something resembling a trapeze. Gleaming bronze skin and tiny shorts everywhere he looked. Fuck the private room. I need a soda. Something to relieve his suddenly parched throat. He turned toward the main bar area and ran smack into one of the elevated dancers’ platforms. Two platforms flanked the opening of the club, directing the stream of traffic toward the bar, sort of like how a different sort of place might have large statues. Only instead of works of stone or ice, this…piece of art in front of Michelin was all man. And what a specimen he was. The dancer probably wasn’t much older than the kids waiting to get into the club, but there was nothing juvenile about his tall, ripped body or that juicy bubble butt that he worked to perfection the way Michelin’s guitar player did a solo—each muscle working in concert with the others, each wiggle carefully choreographed for maximum appeal. Said butt was encased in a pair of shorts. Or at least Michelin guessed that one would call them shorts—they were longer than underwear, but not by much, and made of a clingy, silky red material. The stitching did things to the guy’s package that shouldn’t be legal. Those muscular legs and that smooth, oiled chest also needed outlawing. The dancer had completed his look with thick, chunky combat boots, sunglasses, and a necklace with a medal on it. The boots and glasses upped the hotness factor to supernova, giving him an untouchable appeal that made it no surprise that he had a fair-sized crowd around his platform. Right as Michelin completed his muscle-by-muscle catalog of the guy, the dancer’s glasses slipped, revealing chocolaty eyes. His eyebrows went up, and the message he sent Michelin was unmistakable: You gonna stay there all night? Oh fuck. Michelin was blocking the line of traffic, and more important, blocking access to the platform for the patrons who wanted to slip tips in the guy’s waistband. Should he? He shoved a hand in his pocket, considering. Did he dare risk touching a piece of that gleaming skin? The lights reflecting off the dancer’s body totally made Michelin think of caramel dripping off flan—rich golden tones only enhanced by the contrast of the shiny black combat boots and his closely cropped black hair. What the fuck was the protocol in a situation like this? Hi, I’m sorry I’ve been eye-fucking you for the last ten minutes, here’s a five? He’d never been to a straight strip club either. Hell, he avoided most bars like the plague. And eye-fucking? He never ogled—and not just because it could be disastrous to his career. Most of the time he simply felt oblivious, but something about the dancer perked up parts of Michelin that usually stayed dormant. Two people shoved around him to stuff money in the dancer’s shorts, their arms trapping Michelin briefly in place. Coming here had been a giant mistake, just as Gloria had warned him. “You can’t go to that party! Gossip is already high about you mentoring two gay groups—” “They’re not gay groups. They just happen to have gay members,” Michelin said wearily, already tired of this latest publicist the label had shoved at him. “Whatever.” Gloria flipped her bony wrist. “They’re a risk you can’t take right now.” “It’s no big deal. There will be straight people at the party.” Michelin didn’t bother with the “other straight people” pretext. Gloria knew the drill. “There’s no risk in celebrating a friend’s birthday.” Except now, looking at the dancer, Michelin knew how wrong he’d been. This place was risk personified, and that dancer was the embodiment of everything Michelin denied himself. The dancer was a triple pour of top-shelf whiskey and Michelin couldn’t stop thinking about the heady rush touching him would bring. He should turn around now. Get back to his car now before he really embarrassed himself— “Mi—boss! There you are!” Oh thank you, small mercies, that Lucas stopped himself before he said Michelin’s name. Still, Michelin turned toward him warily. Play it cool, he tried to tell Lucas with his eyes. Lucas nodded, just slightly. Message received. Like everyone else in the club, Lucas was in his early twenties and about a decade younger than Michelin, but at least he was one of Michelin’s favorite kids, especially because he was here to lead Michelin away from the temptation that was the dancer with the sculpture-worthy ass. “The party room is back this way.” Lucas motioned with his hand. “Follow me.” “Babe!” A familiar rangy figure with a punk haircut draped himself over Lucas. “You found him.” Cody had a smile for Michelin, but his affection was all for his boyfriend. Ordinarily, Michelin loved being around the two of them and the other guys he mentored. Their energy was infectious, and their passion for music renewed his own. But tonight, Michelin’s stomach cramped as he followed the two of them to the rear of the club. Happiness practically rolled off them and their movements were totally in sync with each other. Once Michelin had thought he might get to know what that was like, but those days were long past. “Don’t even think about doing anything now. You’ve got too much riding on this year. Don’t be foolish. You’ve got the number one country song in America right now. Don’t mess with your momentum.” Gloria’s voice rang in his ears. Nope. No way was Michelin ever getting what his friends shared. No sense in pining for it either. He had a career he loved, friends who made him laugh, and family at his back. He’d known what the trade-offs were when he decided to trade his rock stardom for country crossover success. Tonight’s strange melancholy mood had him aching to get back home, push all these feelings into working on a new song. With any luck, Michelin could say happy birthday to Jalen, make a round of greetings to the other musicians he was mentoring, and get the hell out of Dodge. Preferably without running into the dancer again. He didn’t need another reminder of how little he fit into this world—or how much he wished life were a bit different.
Thank you for having me! In this exclusive excerpt, my country music superstar hero, Michelin Moses has just been outed in the worst possible way and must deal with the fallout. But a plan may be brewing that neither he nor my other hero will like…
“And I told you I wanted to quietly come out.” Michelin was proud of his ability to get a full sentence out. Their argument yesterday seemed years ago now. He’d had yet another magazine feature for the new article, and lying to the writer about his love life again had zapped all his energy. He didn’t want a parade. Didn’t want a press conference. He just wanted to stop lying. And it wasn’t that he had some burning desire for a relationship. But begging favors of female friends to be his “dates” for awards shows and the like got really old, as did the last several years of simply going it alone, a strategy that the label had made no bones about hating. “Bring a date to a show. Something small. No announcement. No interview. Something low—”
“Low-key? You call being caught with a stripper—”
“He’s a dancer.” Michelin wasn’t sure why he corrected her, but Lucky’s insistent face flashed before his eyes.
“Escort. You think you’re the first sugar daddy he’s sold the goods to? Kid might be YouTube famous, but he’s not a saint, that’s for sure.” Gloria paced back and forth in front of him.
“Hold up. He’s famous?”
Gloria removed her sunglasses for the apparent sole purpose of rolling her eyes at him. “Lucky Rain is a hot commodity on YouTube with his twerking videos, has been in a half dozen small-budget music videos, and works at a notorious gay bar,” she recited from a page of notes. “And now, will be forever known as the guy who outed Michelin Moses.”
“Wait. He didn’t take the pictures.” The angle was totally wrong for where Lucky’s phone had been on the bench while they were making out.
“Don’t be naive. He paid one of his little friends to do the dirty work while you fucked.”
“No.” Michelin couldn’t say why he was so certain, just that he was. Lucky had been so pissed about the money, so adamant that he wasn’t selling sex. Michelin had known he’d screwed up the moment Lucky advanced on him full of outrage at the mere idea that Michelin might want to pay him for his company. Goddamn Carter and his stupid advice. And Lucky had been genuinely freaked out on the phone. “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud.”
“Michelin. Do you ever think of yourself first? You’re destroyed and you’re worried about some kid who’s probably laughing all the way to the bank. What were you thinking?”
“Home fries.” Michelin leaned back against the supple leather of the couch. “I was thinking about home fries. And not wanting to eat alone again.”
“Oh my god. You were really thinking that stripper could be your boyfriend?” Gloria could not have looked more shocked had Michelin presented her with a gold engagement ring on bended knee. And Michelin hadn’t been thinking that. Not exactly. More like that Lucky was a nice guy who made him acutely aware of how damn long it had been since he’d been touched.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Gloria was already rolling ahead. “Wait. That’s it. You like this kid, right? And somehow you’re sure he’s not in on the take?”
“He’s not. And he’s…okay.” Michelin said the last bit cautiously, sure he wasn’t going to like what came out of Gloria’s mouth next.
“Did you set this up? Because I have to say, you’re not freaking out half as much as I expected.” Gloria’s eyes narrowed at him.
“I don’t freak out.” Except when he did. Like when confronted with the hottest guy he’d ever seen, in a club he’d had no business being inside. But she didn’t need to know that. Just like she didn’t need to know that inside he was a wreck. This was a moment he’d feared for close to two decades—ever since he was sixteen and played his first show—and now that it was here, he wanted to toss himself in a bottle and then back in bed, in that order. I’m not ready.
He’d thought yesterday, briefly, that he might be. The burden of lying seemed so heavy, especially when Gloria wanted to cut him off from the few people whose company Michelin actually enjoyed. Michelin managed without the entourage that had seemed so necessary when he was first starting out—he had a business manager he communicated with almost solely via text, a stylist he saw before each big appearance, and a financial wizard who dealt with him through lengthy emails and mercifully short phone calls. And Gloria. Couldn’t forget her. But none of them compared to the brief pleasure of being in the company of the younger guys, living vicariously through their excitement and discovery. And she’d wanted to take that away from him. So he’d rebelled for a moment. Let himself think about stopping the lies. But deep down, he’d known it was impossible.
Except now he had to deal with the absolute worst case scenario, and all he could think was, be careful what you wish for.
“Your album drops in two weeks. We have to fix this.” A small, brittle smile appeared on Gloria’s face. “And I think I know how.”
Meet the AuthorAnnabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer. Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children. Represented by Saritza Hernandez of the Corvisiero Literary Agency
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