King of Nice Read online

  King of Nice

  Kings of Karmichael, Book 2

  RH Tucker

  Copyright © 2020 by RH Tucker

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Melissa Ringsted of There For You Editing.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by RH Tucker

  King of Nice

  1

  EJ

  “This place is the shit!” Maddox screams.

  We’re in separate rooms, so his voice echoes through the penthouse we’re staying in, at a brand-new, luxury hotel called Spotlight. Connected to the hotel is a twenty-thousand-seat arena where we’ll be performing four straight weekends for the Rocket and Moon Music Festival.

  Our penthouse is, as Maddox so eloquently put it, the shit. Our band is used to staying in luxurious hotel suites when we tour. If the Kings of Karmichael aren’t staying in our five-star touring bus, we’ll settle in for the night at a great hotel. One of the many perks to being the hottest band in the world.

  My brother, Derrik, is the lead singer. He also plays rhythm guitar, but I’m the lead guitarist of the group. Two of our best friends, Jade and Maddox, are the other members. They’re siblings—paternal twins, actually. Jade is our bassist and contributes to the songwriting, penning most of the lyrics on both of our records with Derrik. And Maddox is our drummer. We’re the Kings.

  I take in the glorious sight of Las Vegas, my view for the next month. My bedroom has a mini kitchen—all of the bedrooms have one—its own bathroom, a California king-size bed, and a sixty-inch TV. This is the life any eighteen-year-old guy, living without any type of supervision, dreams of. And I’m no exception.

  Derrik and I still live at home when we’re not touring, but we’ve been on the road so much this past year, we’ve gotten used to the perks of being on our own. However, we’re not entirely without supervision. Our manager also works as our assistant, but he hates it when we call him that. Peter is amazing. He’s actually Jade and Maddox’s uncle and had worked around the music scene for years before he decided to work with us.

  Enough about all that, though, let’s get back to the penthouse.

  It’s almost as big as the house Derrik and I bought our family last year. Leaving my room, I venture down to the main living area, with three huge couches spread out across the floor. The entire side of the wall is a window, and we can see the whole Las Vegas skyline. Off to the side is a large kitchen, fully stocked. Then there’s a ping-pong table where a dining room table might be usually set up. On the other side of the room, one of those arcade-style basketball shooting games and two full-length bowling lanes.

  God, I love being a rock star.

  Flopping down on one of the couches, I pull out my phone and take a selfie of the place, with the bowling alley in the background. I throw up the rock fingers and post it to my InstaPic profile.

  Maddox sits down next to me. “That’s right. Make sure you let them know your DMs are open.” He grins widely.

  I roll my eyes, mostly because it’s stupid. Maddox is completely down with sliding into girls’ DMs and finding someone to make out with for the night. Or more. I don’t know how he does it without his phone blowing up every five minutes.

  “EJ, we’re in Vegas for a month. A month!” He slaps my arm. “Your bro’s gonna be occupied with Zoey when she’s around, and we both know Bret’s gonna try and slither his way around Jade.” He makes a gagging sound, sticking his finger in his mouth. He pretty much hates Jade’s boyfriend. “That means we’ve got free rein, man!”

  I let out a laugh, continuing to scroll through the app. “I think you mean, you’ve got free rein. You’re the King of Bad, Maddox. I’m the King of Nice. Girls don’t want nice.”

  “Enough with that crap.” He hits my arm again. “You are not spending an entire month in Vegas moping around because of your stupid nickname.”

  “What can I do?” I shrug. “We all got them, and that’s mine. I can’t say it doesn’t totally fit, but it does nothing for trying to talk to a girl.” I look over at him, putting on my most soap opera-esque expression, and deepen my voice to a gravelly texture. “Hey, ladies. They call me the King of Nice because I’m a nice guy. I know you love my brother, the King of Hearts, and who doesn’t love the bad boys? But once you try nice, you’ll be wanting …” My eyes jump around, trying to think of something good that rhymes with nice. “Uh, pumpkin spice.”

  “You’re an idiot.” He pushes me, laughing. “And you’re way too into this ‘nice guys finish last’ mumbo jumbo. You want to know why that saying exists?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Because some poor Joe couldn’t get off his ass one day in the office to ask out the secretary, and when someone else did, he lost his chance. Instead of looking himself in the mirror and realizing he might’ve had a chance if he made a move, he blamed it on being nice. I’m not letting you do that, EJ. We’re in Vegas!”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve been repeating that since we checked in.”

  “Lame!” he yells at me, jumping off the couch and heading to the kitchen where Jade just walked into.

  “I hate to say this,” she starts, “but he’s right.”

  I glance over and see Maddox pausing, giving his sister a curious stare. “I’m sorry, I might be going deaf from the loud drumming. Did you just say I was right?”

  Running her hand through her hair, she shrugs. “Unfortunately, I did.” Looking back at me, she leans against the kitchen counter, holding a water bottle. “EJ, you’re not dateless because you’re a nice guy. You just need a little gumption. Some moxie.”

  “Moxie?”

  “Confidence, EJ. You can be a nice guy and still get the girl. But you’ll never get her if you just sit around all day, whining about it.”

  I shake my head. Not because I disagree with her, but because I’ve heard these reasons before—from them to my brother, and pretty much anyone else around. Everyone that has heard me complaining about the stupid King of Nice nickname that I’ve hated since it was given to me has told me these things.

  Getting up from the couch, I walk over to the bowling lane. I’m not really a sports guy. I understand the logistics of bowling or shooting a basketball, but understanding an
d actually doing are two separate things. In any event, I grab one of the bowling balls and eye the pins at the end of the lane.

  “Thanks,” I say, still looking down the lane. “I’ll make you guys a deal. When I find the right girl, I’ll point her out, and you two can hype me up before I go over to ask her out.”

  “Seriously?” Maddox asks.

  I’ve never presented anything like this before. I nod, staring down the lane.

  “Okay, no problem.”

  “Good.” I throw the ball. It goes about five feet before immediately sliding over and into the gutter, never coming close to the pins. “Because we all know my chances are about as good as what I just bowled there.”

  They both pick up on my sarcasm and frown. All I can do is shrug. As fun as a month in Vegas could be—and I don’t doubt I’ll have fun with Derrik, Jade, and Maddox—I know what this place is. It’s not a vacation or place I can let loose and try to hook up with girls, because that’ll never happen. I’m at work. I love being in the band, and the Kings are like my family. Derrik is my family. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what this next month is. Work. No need to try and worry about girls, when that’s never been an issue before.

  2

  Skye

  Sitting in our suite at the hotel, I stare at the television. Annoyed. Roxy and Leah are out on the Strip. We’re all excited to be in Las Vegas, and even more so that we’re playing the Rocket and Moon Music Festival. Still, I don’t want to go out and have fun with them, while the latest stupid rumors and news make the rounds on the internet.

  We’ve been booked for the month-long concert event since last year. It’s been pretty amazing as a matter of fact.

  Roxy, Leah, and I started The Electrocutes last year during our senior year of high school. The summer we graduated, we got invited to a small tour traveling up and down the West Coast.

  We’re from Long Beach, and we’d been gathering some buzz as the “cute girls who play rock” around town. We recorded our EP, signed a deal, and now look at us; living the dream. We’re playing one of the biggest music festivals in the country. In Las Vegas of all places. So, I definitely should be out partying and having fun with my friends. But I’m not.

  “Charlie Jackson’s rep has stated that the couple broke up last week.” I grind my teeth, listening to the stupid reporter on the stupid gossip show on TV, reporting the stupid breakup news about me. Stupid. “Jackson had gone as far as purchasing the musician an engagement ring. Rumors were he was going to propose to her on his birthday. Needless to say, that plan won’t be happening.”

  I roll my eyes at the screen. Of course, I’m the bad guy. Again.

  “The Electrocutes are scheduled to play the Rocket and Moon Music Fest, headlined by the Kings of Karmichael. We can only assume Skye Robbins will end up with her fourth victim this year during their stay in Las Vegas. The heartbreaker of the all-girl rock band has denied that she and Jackson we serious, reportedly telling Teen Weekly that they were keeping things casual. Viewers may remember Robbins’ conquest—”

  “Conquest?” I annoyingly scream at the TV.

  “… before Jackson, was male supermodel, who just recently finished a fashion show in Paris, Donovan Wilson. Though Robbins has declined to comment on their relationship, Donovan’s camp had reported that their whirlwind relationship ended when Skye was seen making out with a fan backstage at one of their concerts.”

  “Bull!” I shout again at the TV. “That little cockroach, I can’t believe he told everyone that.”

  “Told everyone what?” Leah walks into the suite, putting her bag down next to the table by the door.

  “How I’m a tramp, and I broke Donovan Wilson’s heart three months ago.”

  “That again?” she says with almost a giggle.

  “It’s not funny, Leah.” I continue to scowl at the television.

  “Gimme that.” Grabbing the remote control, she turns off the television. “Skye, you have to stop paying attention to the ridiculous rumor mill. It’s worse than when we were in school.”

  “How can I?” I roll my eyes, throwing my head back against the couch. “Ever since Johnny, it seems like I’m the most notorious heartbreaker on the scene, and all these scumbags just want to make themselves look like the victim. Even if we barely had a relationship.”

  “Well, Johnny—”

  “I know, I know.” A lump of guilt forms in my throat.

  Johnny Atwood was my first foray into this ridiculously insane world of celebrity dating life. And of the three, I would actually consider him a boyfriend. We’d just started The Electrocutes, and were playing local gigs around town. Johnny was in a band, too. We met one night, and one thing led to another. A month in and I was really happy with him. Then he proposed. We’d only been going out for one month. I have nothing against marrying and falling in love, but unfortunately, I was not at the same place mentally about our relationship that Johnny was. I said no, he cried, making me feel even worse, and we broke up a week later.

  Earlier this year was when I met Donovan. We’d been booked for a gig at what people were calling an alternative fashion show, and I ended up making out with him. It was just a one-time thing, but some paparazzi snapped a few pictures of us, and the next thing you know, we’re a “couple.” Neither of us was interested in starting anything serious, and I even talked to him about it. We were going to put out friendly press releases simply stating we broke up. Then I woke up one morning to gossip sites running wild. Donovan told everyone he was falling for me but caught me making out with some random guy at one of our shows.

  Even though it stung for him to make me out to be the bad guy, trying to get the press on his side and enhance his burgeoning modeling career, I wasn’t as upset about it at the time as I am now. Yeah, it sucked being burned like that, but he’s a guy. A supermodel guy. Even dead, sexy supermodels can be conniving.

  Then came Charlie. First, let me say, Charlie Jackson is hot. We met a month ago. He’s a dancer, and we were looking for talent for our latest music video. It was supposed to be kind of a parody of nineties rap videos, but instead of scantily clad girls, we were going to have guys. It’s for one of our heavier rock songs, and our record label thought it’d be edgy. I’m still not a fan of the video, but that’s where we met. When he ripped off his shirt, unleashing those abs, it immediately caught my eye.

  With that being said, I should’ve known better. The first thing he brought up was my relationships. First about Johnny, then Donovan. I thought it was suspicious at first, but he didn’t make me sound like I hurt them. It seemed like he was genuinely getting to know me. And I liked that. I definitely did not want to jump into a serious relationship, so laying the groundwork for our new romance was sweet.

  We went out a couple of times, and it was great. What should’ve tipped me off was he was always asking if I thought paparazzi or reporters were going to be around when we went out. I’d tell him probably not because even if The Electrocutes are an up-and-coming band, we’re not rock star icons like the Kings or anything. Then he’d recommend some of the hottest places in town. Places I knew would be littered with attention seekers and the photographers who capitalize on that.

  After a couple of times arguing that I didn’t want to go to those places anymore, he finally said maybe we should see other people. That was last week. I said fine because, in all honesty, the relationship honeymoon phase was wearing off, and I really didn’t feel that spark. Little did I know he was using all of the time we spent together to build up his own career. He came out, acting like a heartbroken dancer who was done wrong, claiming he was head over heels in love with me. Now, he’s one of the most sought-after dance choreographers in the business. All off of my heartbreaking name.

  Guys are pathetic.

  Getting up from the couch, I head to our kitchen. Our record label set us up in a beautiful hotel suite for the month, which is fantastic because we don’t have to pay for it. Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, I
hop up on the countertop and take a drink. “What are you doing here? Where’s Roxy?”

  “I got bored.” She shrugs and walks over to me. “Roxy is checking out that exhibit at the Luxor, but I didn’t feel like it. We’ll be in Vegas for a month, so I’ll check it out another day.”

  “Did you want to do something tonight when she comes back?”

  “I guess.” Pulling out her phone, she scrolls through it. “We should go down to that roller coaster at the end of the Strip.”

  “Yeah, right!” I laugh, shoving her shoulder. “There’s no way in hell I’m getting on that thing.”

  “Loser.” She sticks her tongue at me, snickering.

  I quiet down, my mind venturing back to the news report I was just watching. Leah must sense my mood because she pushes my knees with her hand. When I look over at her, she offers me a smile.

  “Skye, you’re not a heartbreaker. All those things are lies.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “You and Roxy know that, but everyone else? They all think I’m a heartbreaking playboy … er, girl.”

  “Shut up.” She laughs again, pushing my leg.

  “It’s true!” I throw my hands in the air. “I might as well be this generation’s female George Clooney. I’m getting more famous for being that than being in the band. I hate it.”