Manipulated: a Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 3) Page 3

  Her pass covered us both. She’d been granted clearance by her friend Keys in the band Hammered, who were some of the featured attendees of tonight’s soiree for charity. The article she was there to write about the fabulousness of this shindig needed photos, after all, and her normal photographer was out with laryngitis. Besides, photos were my business, right? So what if I hadn’t covered a party this huge since…oh, ever. It was all good. At least according to Ava.

  From lizards to my sister’s boobs to inebriated rockstars, all in one day. My world was getting more fascinating by the nanosecond.

  “Your wig is crooked.” Finished fussing with her pass, my sister stepped to me and inched up on her heels to adjust my newly dark hair.

  It was coiled and poufed in front in the classic pinup style, but I couldn’t stop toying with it. Normally, I braided my hair back for work. Instead I had fussy curls and the length swinging down my spine. I hated having hair on my neck. Playing dress up, I loved. At least I used to.

  Pre-Steve. Even early Steve, back when we’d had fun together. Mid-Steve had been tolerable. Late-Steve? Absolutely sucked, so I was years removed from partying or even socializing much. I barely remembered the steps anymore.

  Anyway, this wasn’t for play. Tonight was a job. Working after the day I’d put in was hard enough, especially since I had a double shift at the bar tomorrow. The bar was what paid my rent and allowed me to afford equipment, so I couldn’t sleep in and make up for what I would surely lose tonight. Add in working when I didn’t feel appropriately dressed…

  Admit it. You don’t feel capable, period. You might grumble about reptiles, but that wasn’t above your head. Schmoozing with rockstars, though? Miles up and climbing.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “What?” I hid my nerves behind the glare I aimed at my sister. “Of course I’m not. I’m just not as steady on these heels. It’s been a while.”

  Ava grabbed my hand and dragged me across the Spanish tiles to the corner beside a large potted plant in a golden urn. So much gold here. It dripped from the chandeliers, the banisters, even the curtains. The feel was glamorous and ritzy, and the old me craved to be let loose, camera in hand.

  And alone. I really wished I was all alone, left to safely explore.

  “This isn’t any big deal, Cal. I swear. I know it seems intimidating, and this is a fancy place, but hello, we weren’t exactly raised like paupers.”

  “It’s not the place.” I closed my eyes. “I just don’t know how to do this anymore. How to smile and flit around as if I belong in this world. I don’t anymore.”

  “Says who? Look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous. You have a killer body, and amazing eyes, and you’re smart and funny and a million other positive things that would totally disrupt our sister balancing act if I told you every one of them. But even if I don’t say them out loud, I still know them.” She tugged on a long loose curl and made me smile. “I still have the best big sister in the whole world, and everyone is still jealous of me.”

  I snorted. “Sure they are. Can you give me a little of what you’re smoking?”

  “No, but I can slip you some of what I’m drinking.” She opened up her tiny purse and pulled out a notebook. At least I thought it was a notebook until she discreetly flipped open the top of the spine. “Straight tequila,” she whispered conspiratorially, tossing some back and wiping her mouth. She offered me some and I shook my head. I needed every one of my faculties to get through tonight.

  “You know they have an open bar here, right?”

  “Sure. But I also know how to get things off on the right foot. You’re not the only one who needs to soften the edges, Bettie. Now fix your blouse. Your bikini is showing.”

  I glanced down at the white shirt I’d tied off over my midriff, hearing Ava’s voice in my head all over again.

  Bettie Page rocked a bikini like no one’s business. It’s a costume, not the real you. Just lose the shirt. Show off that smokin’ body you work your ass off for on the elliptical.

  But I wasn’t losing the shirt, and I wasn’t getting loaded, and I was going to have a great time and take some incredible shots. Maybe if I was really lucky, the horror movie fest would still be playing on TV when I got home. I didn’t have DVR like the rest of the free world. No nonessentials in the budget of Calliope Templeton, the original drudge.

  “Here.” I handed her my camera bags and waited until she had a good hold on them before tightening the tie of my shirt. I fluffed my hair, straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath—and realized I had to pee.

  Lovely. The nervous tinkling had begun.

  “Do you have any idea where the bathroom might be?”

  Ava huffed. “Already? Didn’t you grow out of that when you were like seven?”

  “It’s a natural function.” I grabbed back my camera bags. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll find the bathroom myself.”

  I heard my sister call after me, but I was on a mission. I rushed up the wide sweeping staircase to the second level, dodging and weaving around an assortment of partygoers. I ducked around an angel, a fox, a pilot and two Donald Trumps before I’d made it halfway up the stairs. But I pressed on, hoping I’d find a moment’s solitude if not the ladies’ room. I really needed that too, though perhaps one would lead to the other. Surely it would be quieter upstairs. Already the spookily-themed music coming from unseen speakers was becoming fainter. This was a more private space, not meant for such frivolity.

  Even if part of me sincerely wished I was having fun too.

  At the top of the stairs, I turned left, following the patterned tiles to a circular space at one end. The door to the room was open, and the windows were bell-shaped, curving out so that the man who stood at one, glass in hand, his hair gilded by moonlight, was outlined in sharp relief. Instead of singing along to “Monster Mash”, he was belting out his own raucous tune, singing lyrics in another language. Gaelic, if my ear was correct. His costume wasn’t unique—I’d seen more than one man wearing a brocade jacket and with a hook for a hand.

  None of them looked like him, or had an accent like that. His voice was like whiskey, rich and drugging, winding through my veins like a chaser.

  You want fun, baby? Right there. Climb on and take a ride.

  While I waged my internal debate—that really wasn’t one at all, because c’mon, as if I’d summon the nerve to speak to someone like him—he opened one of the balcony doors and stepped out. The balcony seemed narrow enough that he might have been suspended in air. A gleam of blue reflected off the glass in his hand, and when I took a deep breath, I picked up the slightest tinge of chlorine on the breeze.

  He was staring down at the pool, and I was staring at him.

  Before I could check the impulse, I slung the strap of one of my bags over my shoulder and dug out my camera. I didn’t fuss with lenses or apertures. There wasn’t time. I just needed to capture on film the image that would live behind my eyes once I closed them tonight.

  As quickly as possible, I clicked the button. I couldn’t resist angling to the right to try to get in a bit more of him, but then he was turning back to the door, and my need to pee changed from a desire to an urgent need.

  Like the coward I was, I fled, shoving my camera back into my bag as I ran. And stumbled right into the bathroom that was one door away.

  Once I was safely inside, I locked the door and pressed my hands to the cool porcelain sink. The straps of my bags slid down my arms and for once, I was too rattled to care.

  What if he’d seen me?

  Of course, I was a photographer, with a press pass. I had a legitimate excuse. But it didn’t feel legitimate to be hanging out in shadowy rooms, taking illicit snaps of a man I didn’t know.

  He could be anything. An actor. A politician. A lawyer, like Steven.

  A rockstar.

  Shuddering, I set aside my equipment and took care of business. Then I washed up, splashing extra water on my face. Time to cool my jets. I was there
to do a job. Ava had invited me to take pictures of the event to accompany her article for Music Life, and a big part of that article would revolve around the musician types in attendance. If the guy I’d taken sneak photos of was a rocker, well, then I’d gotten my first great shots of the night in already.

  I dried off my hands and grabbed my bag to unearth my camera. Were the shots great? Hard to imagine they wouldn’t be with that subject. They might be dark, but I could do some touchups in Photoshop. Besides, I liked the moody surroundings. They fit him. Isolated by choice, ruminating over the events of the night and the people below him, frolicking in the pool. Solitary, sexy beast of a man.

  Swallowing hard, I flicked through the pictures I’d taken. They’d need some work, but not as much. He was as glorious in this view as he’d been in the flesh. Tall, well-built, that silky dark hair spilling every which way. Inky black and thick, the kind meant for a woman’s hands.

  My hand trembled around my camera. Christ, what was wrong with me? He wasn’t for me.

  Just a guy at a party. Just a subject who probably had more women in his life than weeks of the year. He seemed that type.

  “Fucking famous,” I muttered. “I know you are. You’re no attorney. You’re someone who prowls around for salivating females.”

  Hearing myself, I cast a quick glance at the door. There were voices too close outside. People probably needed to use the bathroom. How rude was I being?

  Just another minute more.

  I clicked a couple buttons and emailed the best of the photos to myself. Then I pulled out my phone and used the picture to do a reverse image search on Google.

  Surprise, surprise, the man I’d lusted after—in a purely professional sense, of course—had pages and pages of hits.

  “Owen Blackwell, bassist of Hammered,” I murmured, amused at myself. At life.

  Of all the men I could have spotted first at this party, I’d lasered in on one of my targets. I wasn’t a newb. I’d done research on the artists who would be at the shindig once Ava had told me who I’d be photographing, but I hadn’t had long in the car to scroll through everyone. Ava had mentioned Oblivion, so I’d started there. Then I’d moved on to Hammered. I’d flipped through bios on each of the band members but Keys and Owen. I hadn’t even seen a picture of either yet, but Ava had told me enough about her pal Keys to fill in some of the details.

  Owen, however, was a mystery.

  I started to scroll through the pages of hits. Where to begin? The guy seemed to be a mega star. His whole band was. But I wasn’t interested in finding out stuff about Hammered right now. I wanted to know the pertinent details about Owen Blackwell. Where he was from, what his music sounded like.

  If he was single.

  Nope, not going there. Ah, what hurt would it do to look? No one would know.

  I bit my lip and pulled up his Wikipedia entry, scanning through info about his modest upbringings. Ireland. Damn. Didn’t that just fit? I skimmed through his preferred bass guitars, the garage bands he’d played with before meeting up with Hunter Jordan, the lead singer of Hammered.

  A loud knock sounded at the bathroom door. “Hey, gotta go. You almost done in there?” The voice belonged to a very pissed off female.

  While I didn’t blame her, I was on a mission. “Yeah, yeah, just a second.”

  I scrolled on, not stopping until I reached the personal life section, where it named a few famous types he’d dated over the years. Nothing for long, no one serious. At least if Wikipedia knew what it was talking about. So he might very well be single right now, or what passed for single with rockstars anyway.

  And it matters why?

  The knocking became more insistent. “Listen, lady, there’s a line forming out here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry, almost done, I swear.” I went back to the list of hits and went to another article about a stalker going after Keys. A picture of Keys and a couple of her bandmates was included with the piece, and Owen was standing off to the side, his gaze all for Keys.

  I knew that expression. Worry, yes, but I would’ve bet my Nikon that there was more there than friendship. I made my life trying to get people to emote on camera, so I had a good idea what I was looking at.

  Had they been an item? I didn’t see it in Wikipedia, but maybe they’d missed something. Perhaps it had been on the down low. Or maybe it was one of those unrequited things. Thoughtfully, I chewed on my thumbnail. One-night stand gone wrong? Friends with benefits?

  “Lady, if you don’t open this door right now, I’m coming in there. My boyfriend will pick this lock,” Pissed Off Woman threatened, punctuating her words with sharp raps of her fists.

  I sighed. Whatever the deal was with Owen and Keys, I wouldn’t be finding it out right now. If there even was one. Besides, I had a job to do, and it wasn’t searching for gossip that was none of my business.

  Like he was none of my business, even if my suddenly raging libido didn’t seem to care.

  “That’s it, lady, we’re coming in!” The screech outside the door broke off as I turned the knob with one hand and grabbed my camera stuff with the other.

  I smiled at the woman and her giant of a boyfriend, my heart racing at the now winding line of people behind them waiting to use the facilities.

  Man, when I got inexplicably horny, people paid the price.

  Sorry, everyone.

  “My apologies,” I said to the woman. “Don’t eat the cream puffs.” I pushed past her and weaved through the grumbling partygoers until I made it to the stairs and safety.

  Once I’d made it down them, I slipped into the laughing crowd, winding through an assortment of spooky and sexy creatures in search of my sister. I could text her, of course, and I probably would soon if I couldn’t locate her. But first, maybe I’d get the lay of the land from behind the lens.

  Where I was always most comfortable.

  I slung one bag over my shoulder and took out my Nikon, going with a lens more suited for panoramic shots. Later, I’d go for more intimate.

  My finger never stopped clicking the shutter as I moved through the crowd. A couple times, I was so focused on the wide angle shot I was going for that I nearly tripped over my own feet. Or someone else’s feet, usually ones that were dancing.

  More than a couple guys tried to get my attention. I wasn’t sure if it was because of me or the camera I wielded. A lot of fame junkies liked to chat up the photogs in hopes of getting more favorably photographed. I simply smiled and kept right on going.

  Hours seemed to pass while I circled and shot, circled and shot. As I went, I swapped one lens for another, changing the aperture depending on the intimacy of the picture I was going for. In a stroke of pure luck, I walked right into Mick Jagger and Tinker Bell, and my surprise at the costume combo led to my meeting Gray Duffy and his wife, Jazz, two of the members of Oblivion. Once I’d taken a few fun close ups of them, they introduced me to some of the other musicians in attendance. Hunter Jordan and his new wife, Kennedy, were both extremely gracious. Even better, they were insanely photogenic.

  I probably took ten pictures just of them.

  Once I told them I was a cat lover, they all but offered to drive me over to their rescue of choice, Love ’n Paws. That my apartment didn’t allow pets seemed to be of no consequence.

  I liked them immediately.

  Next up I met Zach Kane and Reed Mason, the guitarists for Hammered. They were best friends with entirely different vibes. Zach had a zany sense of humor, but he seemed pretty low-key. Not so much for Reed, who was known as Bats, which made sense when I snapped a shot of him parading around while doing lewd—and admittedly amusing—things to a beer can.

  After that, I was introduced the band’s drummer, Wyatt. Holy crap, he was tall. I squinted and cocked my head, trying to place where I’d seen him before when he put me out of my misery and told me he’d used to race Formula One.

  “Wild man Wyatt,” I exclaimed, my eyes going wide. “No fucking way.” I flushed at his g
rin. “Pardon.”

  “Pardon? Oh God, you’re cute.” He gripped my elbow and steered me toward a waiter who offered us both glasses of purple punch in fancy glasses. “Would you like a drink?” he asked me, and I found myself nodding in spite of my reticence.

  I’d been working for hours already, and the party was nearing its peak if not about to slide past it. Might as well take a load off. A small one, because I had hours of work yet.

  “Sure. Thank you.” I took a small sip of the punch and popped my eyes wide. “Wow, that’s strong.”

  Wyatt laughed at me and sipped his own without blinking. “So let me guess. You’re a good girl who rarely drinks while on the job.” He inclined his chin at the camera hanging around my neck. “Is that how you know who I am? Did your work take you across the pond?”

  “I wish.” I took another tentative sip. “I’ve never traveled much. Born and bred Californian.”

  “You’re a photographer who doesn’t travel much? How does that happen?” Smoothly, he took my camera bags off my shoulder as they slipped down yet again. “What’s your name, by the way?” he asked before I could question the move. “Seems rather one-sided for you to know me and I don’t have the same pleasure.”

  “Callie,” I replied automatically, leaning toward him to safely tuck away my camera into its bag. I zipped it up securely and eased back. “Callie Templeton.”

  Immediately one of his ginger brows rose. “Sister to the beautiful Ava?”

  I tried not to wince. Ava was beautiful, and I adored my sister. But it was hard not to feel like an old, tired shoe sometimes in comparison. “The one and only. You know her?”

  “Met her tonight when she was paling around with Keys.”

  Keys. The woman the sexy, mysterious Owen had been looking at like she was a big juicy steak and he hadn’t eaten in a lifetime or two.