Blog Tour + Giveaway: All Note Long (Perfect Harmony, #3) by Annabeth Albert

Annabeth Albert is dropping by to share exclusive excerpts of her latest release - All Not Long. Book #3 from her popular Perfect Harmony series. That's right, we get exclusive content and more...a GIVEAWAY! How does $20 Amazon gift card sound? Enter below for your chance to win!

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.

Thank you so much for having me! In this exclusive excerpt Lucky, my gogo dancer hero, has just agreed to be the fake boyfriend for country superstar Michelin Moses and has agreed to stay in his guest room. But he doesn’t bargain for the chemistry that follows…

******

How was it that just yesterday Lucky’s life had seemed to be on track? And now he didn’t even get to sleep in his own bed. But whatever, at least he wasn’t the one who had to inform the people closest to him that he’d been living a lie. Lucky could give the guy a couple of nights in his guest room.

He grabbed the dinner dishes, put them in Michelin’s space-age-looking dishwasher, then wiped the counters down, same as he did for his mom every Sunday night after dinner with his folks. Heck. He had his own awkward phone calls to make later, too. “Hi. I can’t come to dinner tomorrow because I’m dating this superstar and he’s about to be next week’s biggest story.” Yeah, that was going to go over well.  Nothing short of a communicable disease was enough to convince his mom and abuela that family events were optional.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Michelin said from the doorway to the kitchen. He held up Lucky’s duffel. “I grabbed your bag from the truck. Figured you might need it.”

“Thanks.” Lucky took the bag and followed Michelin back through the living room and down the hall past the small room that seemed to serve as an office. They entered a very ordinary bedroom with a nicely made queen bed and—

“Holy crap. Your guest room has a pool.” He strode across the room to the glass sliding door. The room did indeed open onto a small pool set amid rocks with a tiny brick pool house at the far end. Wicked cool. Even with all the views from the other rooms of the house and the brick patio that ran the length of the house, there had been no hint that this little oasis existed. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so terrible. “Can I swim?”

“I don’t know. Can you?” Michelin rubbed his jaw. His face stayed deadpan, but his eyes twinkled with the sort of humor Lucky hadn’t seen very much of. The side of Michelin with the dry sense of humor didn’t come around very often, but when it did, Michelin got infinitely more appealing. It made him seem more like Lucky’s friends—able to give and take a joke—and less like Mr. Big-time Superstar.

Lucky grinned at him. “I was on the swim team in high school, and I’ve got like three Speedos in my bag. And a life guard whistle.” He’d noticed that Michelin liked his football costume last night, and he couldn’t resist teasing. Just a bit. He still wasn’t sleeping with the guy, but pushing his buttons was a bit of fun Lucky’s night desperately needed.

“In that case, knock yourself out.” Michelin’s eyes darted to the duffel he’d set on the bed. Oh yeah. He was interested in Lucky’s lifeguard costume.

“Join me?” Lucky was going to swim no matter what, and he should have been craving some alone time after the ups and downs of the day, but instead found himself reluctant to say good night to Michelin.

Michelin was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. For an instant—just a flicker, really—there was such naked longing in his eyes that Lucky almost forgot that Michelin wasn’t the shy, lonely guy from last night and that he had just made a bargain to keep his hands to himself. If he touched him right now, if he urged Michelin to let go and join him in the pool…

No. You made a business agreement. Stick to it. No sense in getting sentimental.

“Suit yourself.” Lucky didn’t wait for a response, going over to search for a swimsuit in his duffel. He didn’t want to look at Michelin and let his face reveal how much he’d been hoping for a yes.

“I hope you sleep well. Help yourself to any food in the kitchen.” Michelin’s words were too formal, spoken like a guy who seldom had guests but had been taught the right thing to say. Lucky’s hand clenched around his swimsuit. He hated this situation for both of them and hated invading Michelin’s privacy.

“Michelin?” Lucky turned back toward him.

“Yeah?” Michelin said warily, exactly like a man way too used to people wanting favors.

“Nothing. I just hope your phone calls go well.” There was a lot more Lucky wanted to say, but the thin line of Michelin’s mouth and the hard set of his jaw didn’t exactly invite a mutual bitch session about how much the situation sucked, and the polar chill in Michelin’s blue eyes said too much sympathy wasn’t going to be received well.

“Thanks.” The man left the room with the same unreadable expression on his face.

The pool was crystal clear and the absolute perfect temperature. Lucky dove in and settled into some laps.  But later, while taking a breather, he glanced up and saw a shadowed figure watching him from the master suite perched atop the house. The glassed-in room probably had some of the best views in all of L.A., but all Lucky could think about was how closely it resembled a glass fortress, Superman isolated from the rest of the world, watching over the city with hungry eyes and a lonely heart.  

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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 Agency

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