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

  “You know plenty about photographing rock stars. Go look at my article again. You nailed it. That’s why Lord Lewis has beckoned you and only you. Now go do the Templeton name proud and walk in that joint like you own it. Like he better bring you his best offer, or else you’re going to take one of the million other amazing offers you have on the table.”

  “But I don’t. Have other offers.” I let my hand fall into my lap. “I was going to apply for some apprentice jobs now that the holidays are over, and of course, there’s still Rocky’s, and my occasional freelance, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, a tour with rock stars.”

  If I kept thinking about it, I was going to have to put my head between my polka dotted knees. I was actually getting lightheaded.

  “Rocky will never say yes,” I muttered. “He’s got a restaurant and bar to run, and we’re already short staffed most of the time anyway. If I tell him I’ve gotta go off to take pictures, he’ll laugh in my face.”

  “So you had him your pink slip and split.”

  “Av, he hands out the pink slips, not me. I’d write a note of resignation. Or probably just an email. Hmm, I could even call—”

  “Calliope. Do me one eensy little favor. Just one. Can you do that for me?”

  Forgetting she couldn’t see me, I nodded. And jerked up in wide-eyed horror as a woman screamed on the TV screen.

  Dammit, had Lord Lewis’s assistant heard the B-plus movie I’d had on in the background? One I loved, but you know, no accounting for taste with the elitist set.

  Hello, you are the elitist set. Did you forget what you came from?

  No, I hadn’t forgotten, but my parents’ wealth seemed so far from my current reality–living in a cramped studio apartment in WeHo, scraping together pennies to buy equipment, working double shifts whenever I could at the restaurant–that my early life in Palm Beach receded into the distance.

  “Callie Mae. Are you listening?”

  “Yes. Of course.” What I actually was doing was dragging out my turquoise suitcase from under the bed, unzipping the zipper and dumping clothes and a few pairs of shoes into it.

  I was jumping the gun so far I’d probably be pole vaulting soon. But just in case I was offered the job of a lifetime, I wanted to be ready. Besides, it was smart to keep a bag packed in the trunk when you were in my line of work. I’d done that back when occasional travel had been a part of my life. Steve hadn’t liked not knowing when I would be home, so I’d stopped. God, I’d tried so hard to make my dream smaller and fit it into husband-appropriate morsels.

  Now it was time for me to look into expansion.

  “No, you aren’t. You’re heavy breathing and you’re doing something.”

  “I’m packing,” I admitted, propping the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I pulled open my underwear drawer. I wasn’t really choosy with what I picked. It wasn’t like I’d be getting naked with anyone.

  Probably not even myself considering the whole possible tour bus situation. Too bad, since I’d become pretty fond of the slim purple vibrator with fluttering clit attachment I’d purchased after Owen and I had...interfaced.

  There, that was a nice, non-sexual word.

  God, we’d interfaced so hard.

  Ah, hell, I was bringing it with me. One could always find ways to be alone if necessary.

  “Packing? Hell yeah. Then you don’t even need to do that little favor for me, because you’re already doing it. You aren’t thinking negatively, not running yourself down, you’re just seizing the future with both hands and saying I’ll have another. Booyah!” She cleared her throat. “Good job.”

  I had to chuckle. “Thanks, sis. I’m just being prepared. I don’t really think anything will come of this. What could a big shot record exec want with me? My body of experience is so not what he must be looking for.”

  “Give it a chance. Okay? Just hear him out.”

  I dumped a pair of boy shorts with sugar skulls on them into my suitcase, along with a few more traditional sets of underwear. Hmm, I should bring my sugar skull halter dress too. “Will do,” I said distractedly, already moving to my closet.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’d hung up and I was packed. I’d added in a bunch of jeans, a few cute sleeveless tops, and the occasional dress or two, though not anything dressy enough for functions. If I ended up climbing on that bus, I’d need to go shopping wherever we landed first. I didn’t have the kind of wardrobe for this kind of thing anymore.

  And dammit, I was sick of thinking of lack. I was enough. I was smart, I was talented, and gosh darn it, people liked me.

  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.”

  6

  Callie

  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 loo
se 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.”