Title: ALL NOTE LONG
Author: Annabeth Albert
Series Title and Number: Perfect Harmony, Book 3, but stands alone well too
Publisher: Kensington
Cover Artist: Cora Graphics/Kensington
Release Date: August 2, 2016
Heat Level: 4 (explicit m/m sex, but lots and lots of plot too!)
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: aprox. 80,000 words/ 232 pages
Genre/Tags: Romance, M/M Romance, contemporary romance, multi-cultural
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Synopsis
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.
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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 AgencyFacebook | Facebook Author Page | Twitter | Tumbler | Fan Group | Newsletter
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