King (Vegas Kings Book 2)

by McKenna James

  “Let’s go,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. Of course the damn things don’t have pockets, just that fake-out stitching that makes it look like a pocket. “I really do have to get back and do some work today.”

  King laughs. “Uh huh. Okay. You got it.”

  King brought his convertible. Of course, he did. I should have expected that.

  Now I know why he said there was no point in me doing my hair.

  It does make for a nice ride through the desert, though.

  It's a beautiful day for a drive too—sun high in the sky, endless blue above, not a cloud in sight.

  The wind in my hair.

  When's the last time I let my hair down?

  There's no point trying to keep it up in the convertible. No point in the radio or conversation either. Not when he keeps pressing the speedometer, faster and faster. I think he's just trying to make me squeal, trying to get me to tell him to slow down and take it easy.

  Too bad for him, I'm on a reckless streak. He pushes the convertible to triple digits before finally easing off, grinning under his sunglasses.

  Even at the posted speed limit, the wind is too loud for us to talk, which I'm okay with. It's peaceful, just enjoying the scenery as we move further away from the city, out of the suburbs. I don’t get to take in the sights often. It’s not for everyone, but I’ve always thought the desert is beautiful. There’s something inspiring about how resilient everything is. How so many plants and creatures are so desperate to survive, no matter the conditions.

  I guess that’s something I can identify with.

  Concord Meadows, the retirement community King brought me to is another surprise in a long list he’s given me.

  Community is kind of selling the place short. It’s more like a village. A well-planned town that’s mostly designed for golf carts, from the looks of things. There are shops, restaurants, an ice cream parlor—it’s all really charming in a Stepford kind of way.

  I always imagined these places to be a lot sadder. There are people having picnics, walking their dogs, playing checkers, all kinds of activities.

  It’s a much tamer, quieter version of the all-inclusive experience we try to offer guests at The Grandiose.

  “This place is nice,” I remark now that we’re barely coasting.

  King nods. “The best I could find once I had money. I’ve joked a few times about them waiving the age requirement to let me live here, but I don’t think they’re going for it.”

  “A rock star in their quiet little town? No way, buddy.” I laugh.

  “I know.” He sighs. “It’s a curse.”

  “You poor thing,” I groan, rolling my eyes.

  There are tiny houses evenly spaced along neat, manicured streets, but King drives past all of them, following signs for The Oakworth House, whatever that is.

  “So do I need to know anything before I meet your grandma?” I ask, all the relaxation from the drive slipping away.

  “Like what?” he asks, barely holding back a smirk.

  “Like … don’t curse around her? Don’t mention that we’ve had premarital sex? Or—”

  “I wouldn’t open with ‘Hi Fiona, your grandson is a dynamite fuck,’ no,” he says, starting to laugh.

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “Piper, she’s my grandma. You think she hasn’t heard worse than whatever you could say?”

  “Good point.”

  “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  “What? No. Why would I be?”

  King shrugs. “You tell me.”

  I groan. “You’re not nervous? Have you ever introduced a girl to your grandma?”

  “No. And I’m not nervous either. Not even a little.”

  “How?”

  He pulls to a stop in front of a huge columned building, something that looks like it would be more at home in D.C. than Vegas. This isn’t a parking spot, but then I see the valet hurrying over.

  “Because,” King says, voice serious, eyes locked on mine, “you’re not a girl; you’re Piper, and I already know she’s going to love you.”

  Damn him. I’m speechless again, tongue-tied by his sincerity.

  “Just be yourself,” he says, hopping out of the driver’s seat to take his valet ticket.

  He puts his hand on my back as we walk in together, greeted by a big atrium with an oversized fountain, ferns, and palms crowding in from the corners. There’s a domed skylight above that fills the space with warm, golden light. The only thing that’s missing is birdsong, or maybe some rogue butterflies.

  We walk past the reception desk—King nods at the woman manning it, and she waves—and then past what looks like an activity room. There are people dancing, singing, even playing video games? That one is surprising, but it makes me smile.

  This is definitely the kind of place I’d want to live if I couldn’t live on my own.

  King's grandma is in her room, which is basically a private studio apartment, complete with kitchen and sunny patio full of potted plants.

  The best word for it is cozy. There are crocheted doilies on the tables, floral patterns on the upholstery, and the smell of cookies greeting us.

  Cookies and … whiskey?

  There's some old crooner coming out of a record player, and then I notice there are shelves and shelves of vinyl.

  Grandma has an impressive collection.

  King completely transforms the moment he sees his grandma. He runs over to her, wraps his arms around her, and they hug.

  They hug for a long time.

  Way longer than any hug I think I've ever had.

  Part of me is jealous, which is weird because I don't even know King’s grandma.

  But then she smiles and hugs me too.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Fiona.”

  “King’s told me so much about you,” she says, still hugging. Definitely the longest hug of my life.

  I don’t want her to let go. She’s soft and warm and so full of love it almost hurts to be around.

  “He has?” I ask, surprised, looking his way.

  He shrugs. “She likes to hear the latest with my career, and wanted an update after Vince’s arrest. Are those cinnamon cookies I smell?”

  There’s a familiar twinkle in his grandma’s eyes. “You know it. And I’ve already pulled down the Macallan 25.”

  “And already started ahead of me; it smells like,” he teases.

  “What’s standing in my way? I have nowhere to go. Why shouldn’t I enjoy a morning drink?” she asks, pretending to be defensive, even though I can tell this is a little game they play.

  King laughs. “You and Piper have that in common. Though, she prefers margaritas.”

  His grandma wrinkles her nose. “Tequila, blech. Vile stuff. We’ll get you something better than that,” she says, winking at me.

  King’s already in the kitchen with his hand in the cookie jar, literally.

  “You give me a hard time, but that’s not exactly a balanced breakfast,” I tease.

  “Don’t care,” he says, crumbs tumbling from his lips. “Best cookies ever.”

  Fiona swells with pride.

  “Does she play?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so. You can ask,” he says.

  “Play?” I’m lost.

  “Backgammon, dear. We play every week when King isn’t off touring.”

  “Really?” He’s here every week? I could already tell that they’re closer than I realized, but I never would have guessed weekly visits close. What other secrets is he hiding?

  “You won’t see them writing about that in the tabloids, though, will you?”

  “Grandma, it’s fine—”

  “It’s not fine,” she insists. “They don’t know the first thing about you, and they publish all those lies.”

  “People know it’s all sensationalized,” he argues. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times from the weariness in his voice.

  Fiona seems to decide it’s not w
orth getting into. “So do you play, Piper?”

  “Um… We have backgammon at the casino, so I know the basics. I’m not sure the last time I actually played…”

  “Well, why don’t you warm up with King while I finish the last batch of cookies?” she offers. “Tea? Coffee? Whiskey?”

  “Tea would be great, thanks.” I don’t want to start mixing liquors before noon.

  “Need a refresher?” King asks, sitting on one side of the round dining table. I sit opposite him, watching his fingers as he places the pieces in their starting positions.

  “Probably a whole crash course,” I admit.

  Fiona’s voice joins the singer from the record player, harmonizing like a pro.

  “She’s the one who got me into singing,” he says, realizing I’m staring toward the kitchen entranced. “And the one who gave me the unhealthy addiction to vinyl,” he adds, eying the shelves of records.

  “She’s keeping them safe for me until I settle down,” he adds with a smirk that tells me he has no intention of taking those records off his grandma’s hands.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, my chest tightening.

  He frowns, then shrugs. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” It’s the Jack thing all over again. How does he not see the implications of this? “Because this means something, King,” I hiss.

  “So? Roll the dice.”

  So? That’s the best answer he has?

  Does he not care if he strings me along?

  If I wind up strung, it’ll be my own fault. I know better than to take King Dorsey seriously. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, I certainly can’t start reading into it.

  “You can’t move there. I’m there,” he says, making me change my move.

  He takes his turn, sending my checker home.

  “Why could you go there? I was there,” I argue.

  “Is he cheating?” Fiona asks from the kitchen.

  “Seems like it,” I answer, ignoring his look of betrayal.

  “Figures.”

  Now he really looks betrayed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, defensive.

  “Do I need to remind you about that weighted die?”

  “One time…” He groans. Then to me, he adds, “Ace gave me the damn thing and said it was lucky. I didn’t know he meant lucky. Also, I was thirteen.”

  “I hear you whispering,” Fiona scolds him, bringing out tea and cookies.

  “Never play for money with Ace. In anything. He likes to win too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “Remind me to ban him from The Grandiose,” I mutter.

  King laughs. “I don’t think he’d do that to Jack. He’s competitive, not a monster.”

  King might be convinced Ace is a big-hearted goof, but I’m skeptical. I’ve seen the darkness in his eyes when he doesn’t win.

  I’d rather be safe.

  “Do you want to take over for me?” I offer to Fiona, sliding over to the next chair.

  “I suppose someone should put him in his place,” she says with a mischievous grin.

  “That’s exactly what I keep saying,” I say, laughing.

  “Two against one isn’t fair,” King protests.

  His grandma scoffs, “You brought this on yourself.”

  I sit back and drink my tea while she destroys him in backgammon, all while putting down an impressive amount of whiskey. This little old lady is something else, and I can see why King comes out to see her every week. When it’s time for us to go, I can tell he’s not ready to leave. The goodbye hug is even longer than the hello hug.

  “It was so nice to meet you, Piper,” Fiona says, wrapping her arms around me. “I hope you’ll keep him in line when I’m not there,” she adds.

  “I’ll try.” I chuckle. Then, suddenly, the laugh turns to a lump in my throat, and there are tears in my eyes, and I fight to get it all under control before the hug ends.

  “And come see me again,” she says, patting me on the back before releasing me.

  “You okay?” King asks as we’re heading out.

  “Yeah,” I answer quickly. He doesn’t buy it. “She’s a really cool lady.”

  “I told you you’d have fun.”

  “I did.” The lump in my throat is back.

  “I never realized how close you were.”

  He nods. “She’s my first best friend. She took me in and did everything she could to give me a decent life even though times were tough. She did mending for the neighbors to pay for my guitar lessons and always maintained a big vegetable patch so we could eat healthy foods. She’s done a million things for me, so don’t think I’m a saint because I make sure she has a nice place to live, and I come visit for a couple hours a week.”

  “It’s more than a lot of people do.”

  “Maybe I have a higher bar than that,” he says, walking around the car as the valet comes to a stop.

  I sit next to him, and I’m quiet. Contemplative.

  “Are you going to be weird about this?” he asks, knuckles tight on the steering wheel.

  “About what?”

  “Me bringing you to meet her. What it means,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “So you agree it does?”

  “I agree you think it does,” he says. I don’t even know why I’m pushing it. I don’t want things to be more serious between us.

  “It’s not that,” I admit, trying to swallow past the lump, but it’s getting too big to ignore. The tears are too hot to push back.

  “Shit,” I hiss, dabbing at them, trying not to smear my make-up.

  “Piper… Talk to me,” he says, his voice soft and concerned as he hits the button to make the convertible top come up.

  I let out a shaky breath, embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  “You don’t need to be,” he answers. There’s no judgment, just worry.

  “It’s stupid… I always knew there was this Mom-shaped hole in my life, but I never really got how much I was missing out on having a nanny for a maternal figure. Seeing you two together… It just hit me, and I wasn’t expecting it to hurt this much.”

  King reaches over to take my hand but stops himself short.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you…”

  “No,” I argue, sucking it up and drying my face. “I’m glad you did. I like seeing the many facets of King.”

  He grins, then actually reaches across to take my hand.

  “Let’s tell Jack,” he says.

  My heart stops.

  “What?”

  He’s still smiling. How can he still be smiling after saying something like that?

  “Seriously, let’s do it. I’m tired of sneaking around with you. Let’s just tell him so we can be together.”

  That kickstarts my heart, and it’s racing now. King asking me to be with him is everything teenage Piper dreamed of. She would hate my guts if she knew I’m going to say no.

  “Together? I thought this was casual?”

  He’s not amused by me playing dumb. “What if it’s not?”

  “Well, it needs to be. That was the deal.”

  “I want to change the deal.”

  “I don’t,” I say, setting my jaw. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me. To us. Why does he need to mess with something that’s working?

  Because it’s not. I know it’s not. I’m not ready to face Jack’s wrath. Things at the casino are going really well, and I don’t want him to suddenly start doubting my judgment.

  I don’t want to hear his I told you so’s when King breaks my heart.

  I don’t want to let King break my heart.

  “Piper, I think I’m falling for you,” he says, using that soft, sincere voice that always gets to me.

  Not this time.

  “Then you should get up. We’re too deep in this to come clean now,” I say, bracing myself for the killing blow. “And casual fucking is one thing, but I’m not going to get emotionall
y attached to a serial dater like you. That’s just asking for heartache.”

  The stricken look on his face says it all. Bullseye.

  Neither of us says anything for the rest of the drive.

  Chapter 12

  King

  I shouldn’t be surprised.

  I’m not.

  Not really.

  Why would a woman like Piper ever want me? She’s not some fawning groupie in love with the idol she doesn’t really know. If anyone knows me, it’s Piper.

  Which makes her rejection hurt that much more.

  She’s not wrong about me, though. That’s probably the worst part. She wasn’t passing judgment, but it still hurt like hell to have my reputation thrown in my face like that.

  What have I been doing with my life?

  The rock star lifestyle doesn’t exactly lend itself to thoughts of long-term planning or dreaming of the future. It’s all about the here and now. Finding immediate gratification and company for the night.

  Piper makes me feel things I didn’t know I could. Of course, she does. If anyone could, it would be Piper. She’s amazing, talented, sharp, and gives as good as she gets—I’ve never known a woman like her, so of course none of them made me feel the way she does.

  I’m numb when I drop her off, both of us still silent, a solid brick wall between us.

  I wish she could understand that the serial dater she’s talking about has left the building. I’d much rather be doing this thing with Piper than sleeping with a different woman every night, but if only one of us wants it, there’s not much I can do.

  Nothing but try to get her out of my head.

  Maybe if I can do that for a while, we can go back to casual; whatever the fuck that looks like with the woman who has my balls in a vise.

  I drive on autopilot, eventually ending up at one of the off-strip strip clubs. It’s far enough out of the way that most of the ratzi don’t bother with it, but it’s not dodgy like a lot of the other smaller places.

  It still smells like booze and cheap perfume when I walk in, notes of disinfectant lingering under those overwhelming clouds. Can’t expect much better from a strip club.

  I’m not here often enough that they know me, but the right amount of cash in the right hands gets me a private booth in a dark corner where I shouldn’t be bothered.