Blurb:
Giving
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 . . .
Excerpt:
Michelin
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.
Buy Links:
Meet
the Author:
Annabeth
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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