Manipulated: a Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 3) (7 page)

Plus, I could give one hell of a blow job, if provided with enough motivation and half a pitcher of sangria.

“Not applicable here, Ms. Templeton,” I said in a singsong voice as I carted my outfit into the bathroom. I already wore a push up bra, panties and my killer red Mary Janes that always gave me confidence––and an extra three inches. I’d just slip into my black and white dress with the flouncy skirt and um, okay, have a panic attack at the sink.

Right.

I braced my hands on the porcelain and stared at myself in the mirror. I’d managed to put on the bright red headband that matched my shoes, and I was having a good hair day. For once my pale blond strands didn’t resemble dishwater to me, and they were flipping up at the ends without intervention from my curling iron. I still needed some makeup, of course, and probably a jolt of caffeine to get the fatigue out of my eyes. Otherwise, though, I looked okay. I wasn’t the traditional job applicant in appearance or disposition, but going on tour with a rowdy bunch of guys––and a girl––wasn’t the usual job.

If I even got it. And if I did, it’d be about taking pictures, not anything else. That was something I was confident in my ability. No worries there.

It was everything else that had me freaked, including maybe seeing Owen again. If he even remembered me this many months later. Two months was a heartbeat for me, but for a rocker boy who wore enough eyeliner to make a girl come on the spot, things were likely very different.

Hell, he probably didn’t remember who he’d been with last night.

I blew out a breath and picked up my lip gloss. Routine was a good way to combat stress. Deep breaths were another. I’d just take it minute by minute and not let anyone flummox me. Not Lord––I mean, Donovan––Lewis, and definitely not Owen Blackwell.

“You can do this,” I whispered.

For once, the girl in the mirror didn’t argue. She was probably too disgusted at my insanely pink lips.

I grabbed a tissue. Ugh, wrong shade.

Having confidence was one thing. Suffering from delusions completely another.

Somehow I managed to finish getting ready and gathered up my suitcase, my equipment and my portfolio in under ten minutes. I loaded it all into the back of my beat up Honda SUV, feeling more than a little stupid.

Who did I think I was, my sister? She was the one who dropped everything on a dime to jet off on some job. Me, I worked weekends at the restaurant and hoped I’d make enough in tips to get that new lens I’d been eyeing for months after I made rent.

The whole Lor—Donovan—Lewis thing seemed too much like a dream come true. Sure, I didn’t know anything about traveling with rockstars. They probably were loud, obnoxious and cocky, though none of the members of Hammered I’d met had seemed that way.

Especially Owen. He’d definitely had the whole confident thing going on, but loud? No. Definitely not obnoxious. Though rockstars in groups were probably much different than catching one solo and unaware.

Hell, who was I kidding? He’d caught
me
, right by the throat. And other more southern regions that were still frigging bitter at not getting some action.

Half an hour later, I walked into the swanky reception area of Ripper Records. Goddamn LA traffic. Goddamn sudden shower that had turned my cute flippy hairstyle into a wet look I’d never intended. I’d fixed some of the damage but this was as good as it was going to get.

The woman behind the reception desk smiled at me. “You’re here.”

I looked over my shoulder, then glanced back warily. No one was behind me. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re Calliope Templeton. I recognize you from the photos.” Her gaze traveled over me. “God, I love your style. Rockabilly, right? So chic.”

I blinked, probably dislodging the water collecting on my lashes. “Yes, rockabilly. Thanks—you. Thank you.” So suave, that was me. “Uh, what pictures?”

“The ones on Ava T’s website. Damn, she’s a knockout.” She typed on her keyboard and motioned me around the counter so I could see her sleek monitor.

Me and my sister filled her screen, both of us in our Halloween costumes, our arms slung around each other’s necks. I looked drunk and frantic, and lookee there, I was barefoot to complete my look o’lushness.

Charmingly, I also had a hickey right along the top of my right boob. A hickey I’d explained away to my sister afterward as the result of colliding with a brick wall and some briars.

Awesome.

“You look great as a brunette,” the receptionist said wistfully. “Though, wow, your hair is beautiful. What color do you use?”

“The one I was born with.”

Here came the tinkling laugh. “You’re a little early, but don’t worry, Mr. Lewis will take you now. He’s excited to meet the sister of Ava T.”

I pressed a hand to my stomach. I was going to be sick. Possibly right on Tinkles’ blue pumps. “I can wait. Really. Maybe I’ll just go do a few laps around the block. I’m all about my physical fitness. Just don’t look at my daily crunches chart, because I’ve skipped them since summer.”

“Aw, honey, you’re just the funniest thing.” She laughed long and loud and picked up the phone, pressing a button to summon greatness. “Mr. Lewis, your twelve o’clock appointment is here.”

“No, I’m not. I think I need a few minutes.” And a Tums. And to pretend no one on the internet had seen me flashing around a hickey from interfacing with literally the sexiest man I’d ever witnessed existing on this planet.

I didn’t want to remember.

All right, I wanted to remember, I just didn’t want to remember that I’d chickened out. Clearly I needed to do something worse now to replace my secret shame. See, if I chickened out before
this
appointment, that would be even worse than leaving Owen high and dry—

Oh no, sweetness, no one was dry that night, least of all you.

I backed up, bumping my hip into the corner of Tinkles’ large desk. “I think I have a stomach issue,” I muttered, still clutching my stomach with one hand while I battled mightily to hold onto my portfolio with the other arm. It wasn’t that huge, but my clumsiness had set me off-balance.

Panic tended to do that to a person.

“Oh no. Would you like a breath mint?”

While I stared, Tinkles withdrew a tiny tin from her purse. “Peppermint soothes stomachs,” she explained.

“No, I’m okay, I’ll just go throw up in a potted plant or something.”

I whirled around, intending to possibly do just that, and came face to face with the man my sister had pelted me with text pictures of during the drive over. Not that he was overtly handsome or anything, unless you had a pulse. He just could slay a girl with one death ray from his black eyes of destruction.

To go with his perfectly trimmed hair, and expertly designed suit, and flawless cover model-commercial smile.

“Ms. Templeton, it’s a pleasure. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.” He held out a hand and I saw stars, due to the impending panic attack or because he’d blinded me with his teeth. They really were perfect. As was the rest of him that I could see.

I didn’t want to see, not even mentally. Hello, what kind of girl do you think I am?

A horny one, obviously.

“Oh, I’m glad. Me too.” I could do this. He was just a friendly guy who held my professional future in the palm of his teeth. Or hand. Whatever. “Um, so nice to meet you too, Lord Lewis.”

I
wasn’t really
aware of what came out of my mouth after that. Probably just as well, since thinking hadn’t seemed to help me thus far.

Unless one thought it was helpful to call a man who was potentially offering you the job of a lifetime “Lord”, Maybe that sort of thing was okay in the bedroom, and certainly in Parliament, but neither situation applied here.

Actually, I was pretty sure Donovan Lewis would become more aroused by the ficus in the corner than by the sputtering, spewing—thankfully only metaphorically, as my breakfast stayed down—completely ungainly woman in his reception area.

Which, you know, was just fine. I wasn’t looking to be arousing. Or aroused. I’d had enough of that in October, and since then, I’d been playing catch-up with my libido. And my libido apparently was way faster than my almost-age-thirty metabolism, because my wrist was perennially sore.

TMI, self. TMI.

The worst part of my humiliating meet and greet with my potential new boss was that he’d barely even blinked at the moniker. Perhaps he was used to people calling him Lord. Maybe even considered it his due.

Or else he’d heard me babbling about puking and considered word vomit the lesser of two evils. Me, I wasn’t sure.

At least until he led me down a long hall with plush blood red carpeting and framed gold records covering every square inch of paint to a large conference room. He declared he had an “unavoidable conference call” and left me in the “more than capable” hands of his assistant, Lila Crandall. Lila would handle the first part of our interview.

Oh yay. Clearly I was in peak interviewing form. Let’s see how I could insult my way to the top next.

Turned out that Lila looked like a Grecian goddess in a tidy pantsuit with baby spit up on her right shoulder.

Wait, what?

“Ms. C-crandall,” I managed as she held out a pale, slim hand the same shade as the snow California never saw. Well, the legal kind anyway. “It’s so nice of a pleasure to meet you.”

Her smile faltered then, inexplicably, grew as she noticed my gaze again tracking to the splotch on her shoulder. “Puréed apricots,” she said with a sigh. “I swear, I have the only babies in the world who spit up everything but peas.”

I blinked at her tiny stomach. She had some curves, but her belly was totally flat. “Babies? Yours?”

She laughed. “Yes, mine.”

“Recent babies?”

“Just celebrating their six-month birthday. Twin girls.”

“Holy crap. That must be a load and a half.”

“You could say that.”

“Wow, Ms. Crandall, I could never tell. Honestly, I’d like to get you in front of my lens. Motherhood looks incredible on you.” Hearing myself, I bit my lip. “Sorry, occupational hazard.”

Her easy smile transformed her California lovely looks to truly stunning. “No, no, please continue.” She laughed and held out a hand. “Call me Lila.”

“Callie,” I said, pumping her hand and gripping my portfolio tightly with the other.

“Yes, your name is beautiful. Calliope. Carnival music. Music is important to us here, as are names. What you call something is almost as important as what you hope to achieve.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not really sure why I’m here. I mean, I’m guessing it’s for a job, but why me? I’ve been out of the game for so long that I don’t have any left. Add in my asshole ex-husband and...” I trailed off, shocked that the backs of my eyes were burning. What the hell? I never got personal with strangers, especially ones who held the power to further my career.

“I’m sorry. That was out of line.” I blew out a breath and tipped back my head to start at the discreet track lighting on the ceiling. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong person for this job, Lila, and I don’t want to mislead anyone. Don’t want to mislead you.”

“Let’s sit down.” Lila flicked a strand of hair away that had come loose from her perfect chignon and pulled out a chair for me, indicating I should sit.

“You don’t want to go clean up first?” It amazed me this incredibly put-together woman intended to sit and talk business while drool and regurgitated fruit congealed on her shoulder.

“Aye. It’s a man’s job to make sure his woman feels that way every day. Even if her hair’s a mess, or she has baby drool on her shoulder.”

God, no, I didn’t want any memories of that to intrude. Not here. Not today. It was bad enough that either outcome of this interview would prove problematic—if I didn’t get the job, I’d be going back to sling hash and craft brews at Rocky’s. If I did get the job, I’d be eye-to-penis again with Owen.

I meant eye-to-eye, of course. I hadn’t spared a thought for his manly equipment in the intervening months.

I’d spared plenty of orgasms, though. God bless Ireland.

Lila shrugged and sat in the chair beside the one she’d pulled out for me. “If I clean up, I’ll just get dirty again in an hour when it’s time for their next feeding. Demanding little suckers.” But it was said with such love that I found myself sagging into the seat she’d chosen for me.

“They’re here? Your twins?”

“Yes, in my office. Sound asleep, but if they wake up...” She pulled a mini white device out of a pocket and held it out to me. “I’ll know. Especially since Charlie is just like her father and screams constantly.”

I smiled faintly, unable to stem my shock. “Lord Lew—I mean, Mr. Lewis allows you to bring your kids to work with you? Or is it some special circumstance?”

“No special circumstance. Donovan understands how difficult it is for me to leave them at this age, and I do a lot of work from home. When I’m in the office, they’re often with me. It helps me focus better, and Ripper Records is a very people-focused environment. No one is just a product or an employee here.” She tilted her head. “Do you have a family?”

“No.” I twisted my fingers around the band that held my portfolio closed. “It’s just me. Ex-husband as I mentioned.” I cleared my throat as her expression turned understanding. I didn’t want that annoying prickling sensation to take root behind my eyes again. “My parents are still alive, back east, and I have a little sister. Ava T. I’m sure you know her. It seems everyone does.”

There wasn’t any rancor in my voice. No reason for a cloud to get mad at the sun simply for shining. Better to bask in its warmth.

Besides, if not for Ava, I wouldn’t even be sitting here. I wouldn’t have attended the Halloween party, and Owen wouldn’t have attended to me. Just not quite enough, unfortunately.

Your fault
.

“She’s a very talented writer. Witty, personable. It can be difficult knowing how to relate to the public if you’re not naturally a people person. You and me, we know all about that, don’t we?”

I swallowed. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only because I’m the same. It took me a while to be able to easily slip on a mask to deal with clients. And to some extent, you need to because it’s far too easy to be crushed.”

One part of me couldn’t believe this beautiful creature could ever understand my social issues. On the other hand, I knew I wasn’t unattractive. Making myself up when I took the time wasn’t a horrible task, and I enjoyed clothes and girl paint. My issues were internal, and sometimes they bled through to affect what I felt about my outside.

Perhaps Lila was similar.

“I wasn’t always like this. It’s too easy to blame my ex-husband, so I won’t. I blame myself for needing his approval and love more than I needed my own. I lost some of myself, but I’m getting back to who I am. This is part of it.” I picked up my portfolio from where I’d been clutching it on my lap and laid it on the table. “I’m not sure why I’m here, or how I ended up in the scope of Ripper Records, but I’m going to do my damnedest to prove I deserve whatever opportunity I’m offered.”

I almost tacked on
if I’m offered one
, but I didn’t. I just held my breath.

“Donovan obtained some of your incredible shots from
Music Life
’s spread on the charity gala. Somehow you made a huge party seem intimate, and you humanized rock stars. Not an easy thing to do, but nowadays, it’s so important. Everyone is over the untouchable star routine. What the public wants now is a rocker who might be a bit unattainable, but ultimately is someone they’d enjoy sitting down to coffee with. You accomplished that.”

While my heart chugged like an ailing furnace in my ears, Lila shuffled through folders and glossy photos. Pictures I’d taken.

Me
. My work was being scrutinized again, and instead of having to beg for attention among a sea of equally talented photographers, somehow I stood out.

Yet again, all thanks to my sister. I owed that girl sushi. And possibly a Lear jet.

“These pictures were particularly inspiring. You captured the gorgeous jaded rockstar at the end of the night, excess spread out around him, with still that little flicker of innocent hope in his eyes.” Lila slid a shot of Owen seated in the chair beside the pool, with the murky lights beneath the water highlighting slashes of his skin.

Beneath my chair, my toes curled against the rounded toes of my Mary Janes.

His expression was neutral, his eyes seeking. She saw the innocence of hope in them, while I saw hunger. Maybe sometimes they were the same thing. After all, wasn’t even daring to want a form of hope? That there was a chance to find satiety. An opportunity to make all your dreams come true.

I was sitting here because of hope. Yes, I was desperate too. Always hungry for more. But I had hope that perhaps this chance could be a gateway to more.

More with Owen too?

Pushing the picture back toward Lila, I smiled. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

It would be harder to banish my thoughts about the man Lila was studying, but I would. I was nothing if not a master at self-denial.

The grooves on your vibrator would say otherwise, Kemosabe.

I smiled again. “It helps when you have an easy subject.”

“That it does. But still, you have an eye. A way of pulling out the emotions of your subject. How long have you been a photographer?” I reached for my portfolio, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to see a CV. We’ve already done our research, and there will be time to look at the rest of your photos later. Tell me more about yourself. What being a photographer means to you. Why you chose your art.”

Rolling my shoulders, I nodded. This wasn’t hard. I could talk about photography all day long. It had been my favorite thing since I was a child. Just because I’d lost my way for a while didn’t mean I wasn’t comfortable talking about what it meant to me.

“I’m not sure I chose it. I think I was born with a camera in my hand. At least that’s what my mom used to say.”

“Used to?”

“Yes. She didn’t like some of my chosen subject matter.” And just like with Steven, I’d let her opinions sway me.

Not anymore. The time had come for me to live for myself.

To really fucking
live
.

Lila sat back in her chair and crossed her long legs. “Tell me about it.”

Her expression was friendly. Inviting. She made it easy for me to pretend we were just two friends chatting.

So I did. I told her about my early days, how I’d gotten into boudoir photography, even the story about Raven and my mom. She laughed at all the appropriate parts, and listened attentively as I recounted my different jobs. And when I mentioned in passing how I’d given up boudoir photography not long after my marriage and turned mostly to graphic design jobs to bring in money, she narrowed her eyes.

I sensed a kindred spirit in her, and it made it so much less difficult to share those parts of me I’d tucked away for so long.

“You have a gift.” She finished scanning the portfolio I’d slid her way during our conversation and passed it back to me. “If it were up to me, I’d hire you on the spot.”

“I…I don’t know what to say except thank you.”

“Not necessary. You know what is? For you not to forget that.” Her voice was soft, but steely. “Whether or not you end up taking a job working for Ripper Records, if you ever need a reminder, call me. I’ll tell you as many times as you need.”

God, there went the prickling in my eyes again. “Thank you,” I said again.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Her lips curved. “You still have to talk to Lord Lewis.”

I covered my face with my hands and prayed for oblivion. “Oh God. He told you about that?” He’d only had a moment away from me after our ill-fated meeting before he’d led me to the conference room, but it could’ve been enough time for him to laugh his ass off at my expense.

“No, I was on the opposite side of the reception area. Don’t worry. Secretly, I think he enjoys that kind of talk.”

I snorted and closed my portfolio. “Or not so secretly?”

She grinned. “I like you.”

A wrinkle formed between her wispy brows as a loud static-filled squawk filled the room. She pulled out the mini white device from her pocket and sighed. “Charlie again. That child is going to turn me white before my time.” She rose and tucked in her chair.

“Bonus is it’s harder to see with blond hair.” I stood and slid my own chair back into place, then followed her into the hallway.

“Truth. I’m thinking of dyeing mine blue to hide the change anyway. Here, come with me.” She motioned me in the opposite direction down the hall from where I’d come from the lobby.

We turned at the corner, taking one hall after another until I was sure Ripper was actually a maze rather than an office building. Along the way, we passed an assortment of interesting types, usually heavily tattooed and pierced, with wild hair colors and styles of dress. Living in WeHo for the past year and a half, I wasn’t a stranger to all the different kinds of people there were in the world. My finger itched for the shutter of my camera to capture some of what I was seeing, though I knew I would never do them justice.

“That giant guy with the rainbow Mohawk we just passed,” I whispered to Lila. “He’s a musician, right? I mean, he has to be, since he’s here—”

“Actually, no, that’s Kellan, our new junior account rep.”

“Oh. Oh wow. Do you think he’d let me take pictures of him? He just had the best eyebrows, and those super dark eyes. He’s perfect. For photos, I mean. Just photos. I’m not into that type.”