Free All Note Long by Annabeth Albert Page A

shoulder—way, way too close. He smelled like exotic fruit—some sort of tangy aftershave or hair product that made Michelin want to find the places where he smelled like skin and sweat and revel in the contrasts.
    But such fanciful thinking was really a way of avoiding looking down.
    â€œYes, I’m gay,” the headline read. A few lines below that was as far as Michelin got before his back muscles seized and his hand shook.
    He pushed away from the couch, almost toppling Lucky in the process. “I need a drink,” he said, letting the tablet fall to the sofa before he stalked to the kitchen.
    He didn’t grab a glass, didn’t do fuck-all other than stand there and shake like a kitten caught in a rainstorm for several long minutes.
    â€œHey.” To his surprise, it was Lucky, not Gloria, who came after him. Lucky’s hand was warm and soothing on Michelin’s suddenly chilled arm. “You don’t need a drink.”
    â€œI meant soda,” Michelin blustered, even though that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. He grabbed a Coke out of the fridge—regular, because maybe the sugar rush would combat some of this awful shakiness.
    â€œNo, you didn’t.” Lucky leaned against the counter. “You got someone you can call? This is heavy shit. Maybe you need a meeting—”
    â€œI don’t do that stuff.” He so was not up to discussing this with the guy who had just had to explain the circumstances under which he would and would not hold Michelin’s hand.
    Lucky raised his eyebrows before he pressed a piece of paper into Michelin’s hand. “I meant what I said about not bringing my family into this mess, but you can call this number if you need someone. Tell Benny that Lucky sent you and that you need a meeting or someone to talk to. He’ll hook you up and he won’t sell you out.”
    Michelin wasn’t going to need someone, not like that, but he took the paper and shoved it in his jeans pocket because it was easier than arguing. His chest got all warm at Lucky seeming to care about whether he drank or not, and he opened the fridge to cool that impulse right down.
    â€œSoda?” he asked.
    â€œYou got diet?” Lucky asked, coming too close again. Man, he smelled every bit as intoxicating as a twenty-year-old scotch.
    â€œI got it all,” Michelin admitted. If he wasn’t going to admit his real shame, might as well cop to this. He moved away from the fridge door to reveal the six kinds of soda he kept on hand and the few random flavors he’d picked up on whims.
    â€œNice.” Lucky grabbed a can of diet. He clinked cans with Michelin. “Cheers. This can’t get any worse, right?”
    Michelin snorted. He was pretty sure it could.
    â€œThe article isn’t bad, really. I read it.”
    Michelin took a long drink of soda, studying the interlocking Mediterranean pattern of the floor. The kitchen had the original cabinetry and flooring from when he’d bought the house—he’d never seen much point to fixing what wasn’t broken. He’d added some stainless steel appliances as things died instead of destroying a perfectly good kitchen. Or life. “I hate the headline,” he admitted.
    â€œSo ask Gloria to change it to something else.” Lucky was eying the fruit bowl on Michelin’s counter like it was a five-layer cake, so Michelin scooted it closer to him before opening up the fridge and pulling out some steaks. Least he could do was feed the guy. Besides, it gave him something to do with his hands.
    â€œIt’s more . . . I don’t want this to be all there is to me now.” Michelin seasoned the meat with hard turns of the spice grinders, wishing it needed him to whack it over and over with the tenderizer like one of the cheaper cuts that his mama used.
    â€œIt won’t be. But I know what you mean a bit.” Lucky took a bite of banana—a