Manipulated: a Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 3)

by Taryn Elliott

Stop reading between the lines. Didn’t Steve accuse you of that often enough?

  “Keys and Owen, are they a thing?” I asked, as casually as possible. Just to see if I was right, of course. I didn’t really care. It wasn’t as if I even knew the guy.

  Though I still needed to take his picture before I could go to sleep tonight. Face to face, eye to eye. No more hiding in doorways to snap him in secret.

  His and Keys.

  Wyatt laughed. “You’re kidding, right? She’s with Quinn.”

  I remembered that name vaguely from my super quick stealth recon mission in the bathroom. “Her bodyguard, right? From when that stalker...” I trailed off as a shadow passed over Wyatt’s face and he nodded grimly.

  “Yes. He saved her life.”

  “Quite a setup for romance,” I mused, shoving down the resulting tickle of envy.

  First I’d been wondered if Owen and Keys had a thing, now I was pondering her thing with her bodyguard. And one thing didn’t preclude another thing, but I wasn’t about to ask Wyatt if Keys and Owen had ever been together.

  Again, not my business. This was just a job. I didn’t know these people. Hell, I didn’t even listen to their music.

  Couldn’t have picked their songs out of a lineup on the radio.

  My preferred era was the nineties, with some eighties thrown in for good measure. I definitely wasn’t up on current music. Especially not rock. I tended to prefer pop and r&b. Softer songs meant for easy listening.

  No screaming for me, thanks.

  I didn’t know Hammered’s music was of the screaming variety. I had no clue. Ava said they were good, and judging from her taste, I’d made an unflattering guesstimate of their sound. Not like me. Usually I was more open-minded.

  A tiny bit anyway.

  There must be something about the air in this place. I was coming to snap judgments and feeling all kinds of things that I hadn’t felt in forever.

  Lust. Jealousy. Lust.

  Oh, and did I mention lust? So much that I might just make a cardboard cutout of the pictures I’d taken of Owen and do bad things to them later when I was alone?

  Okay, I wasn’t that bad. And it wasn’t like there was a shortage of handsome men in this place, not the least of which was standing right in front of me.

  “Hudson Wyatt,” I said, trying to remember what I’d read about him earlier. Somehow I hadn’t put together his past and present in my sister’s car, but it had slammed right into focus once I’d met him in the flesh. “Drummer for Hammered, former race car driver. Successful one at that. Now effortless camera bag juggler.” I nodded at the bags of mine he still held as if they were weightless. “Is there anything you can’t do well?”

  The corner of his full lips ticked up, his smirk partially hidden by his scruff. Just the right amount. Not too much or too little. “Oh, I’m sure there are a few things. But I do have my skills.”

  From the way his blue-green eyes were sparkling, I had a good idea of the skills he was referring to. And I flushed. Like an adolescent.

  Charming, Callie, almost thirty and you absolutely have no idea how to flirt.

  Oh, I had once. So long ago the same rules probably still didn’t apply.

  “I wasn’t coming on to you,” I said quickly, gulping down more punch when his knowing smile grew. “I just was trying to make conversation.”

  “Oh, I know. No sparks here whatsoever, are there?” he said it more than a little sadly, and I found myself smiling back. “Shame, too, because you’re easily one of the most beautiful women here tonight.”

  “She is, isn’t she? I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to say that all night, but now that you’ve done it for me, hi there.”

  I blinked at the so-not-suave guy in Miami Vice wear who slid between us like a knife between two slices of bread. Except he did it extremely awkwardly, shoving his way in without paying any mind to the bags of my equipment on Wyatt’s hip or the fact that I had a glass of punch in my hand.

  A glass of punch that was now on splattered on my white shirt, and quickly seeping through to the bikini beneath.

  Fuck, that was cold on my overheated skin. My nipples felt like mini ice picks.

  Oh lookie there. Miami Vice guy had already noticed their current condition. If he noticed any harder, he’d probably pop a blood vessel.

  Defensively, I crossed my arms over my breasts. If I could have, I would have covered my entire body to hide it from his prying eyes. “What the hell, dude?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a little clumsy sometimes.” Don-Johnson’s-worst-nightmare’s too white teeth gleamed as he again dropped his gaze to my dripping chest. “Guess that means you’ll have to lose the shirt, hmm?”

  I didn’t think. Embarrassment and discomfort and flat-out irritation welled up inside me and I lifted my fist, intending to plant it right in the faux ladykiller’s cleft chin.

  Halfway up, someone caught my hand. And it wasn’t Wyatt, who seemed perplexed by the recent events.

  Definitely wasn’t leering dude.

  Warm fingers and a callused palm closed around my hand. Tightly. Possessively. Heat traveled up my arm, setting off a trail of heat like gasoline lit by a match.

  My eyes connected with Owen’s. And I’m almost positive I died seventy-two times in quick succession, only to be reborn in the same mortified state as I’d departed this mortal coil.

  “Not the best idea, love.” That voice. That accent. God. Who needed panties?

  I already had to lose the shirt. Might as well go full monty and strip all the way down and beg him to take me.

  I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Annoyed punch-embalmed Bettie Pages were always a hot ticket on the open market.

  “You’re going to want to apologize to the lady,” Owen said to Don’s black sheep fifth cousin. “Now.”

  The guy spluttered until Wyatt stepped forward and lifted an eyebrow. “Now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I just saw you a couple times tonight, and you were so pretty, and these blasted rockstars get all the babes.”

  Before I’d picked my lower lip off the floor at being called a babe, Don Not-son decided that the better part of valor was to abandon the field before he got his ass kicked.

  He wasn’t wrong. Owen still had hold of my hand, but I’d been about to introduce his groin to my size-nine chunky heels.

  “You can let me go now,” I said reluctantly to the guy I’d been mentally stalking all night. I couldn’t quite meet his gaze again, in case he had an innate horndog detector.

  I was probably beeping in every way known to man. Or woman. He was probably laughing at me on the inside.

  But he didn’t seem to be. In fact, his smoky blue eyes seemed to smolder into mine as if we were the only two people who existed on the planet. And his fingers tightened around mine, clasping firmly as he brought my hand to his mouth.

  “Oh no, love, I don’t think so. Not just yet. What’s your name?”

  I started to answer in my usual way. My name, after all, wasn’t a multiple choice question. But then I glanced back toward where Wyatt had been, and he wasn’t there anymore. He’d set down my camera bags on the small settee beside near we were standing and vanished.

  Which meant I was totally on my own, without anyone near me who knew any better to tell me I was making a mistake by telling Owen the first lie that popped into my mind.

  “Bettie,” I murmured, pressing my glass into his hand so that he would finally let me go. Once he had, I undid my sopping shirt. My timing was suspect even in my own head, but I couldn’t claim to be disappointed when his focus dropped to what I’d just revealed.

  Amazing how different my reaction was between him and Miami Viceless.

  Owen’s reaction was different too, though. Instantly, he raised his gaze to mine. He wasn’t looking to cop a cheap glance. He was staring right into my eyes and gripping my glass when all I wanted was for him to be holding my hand again.

  Stupid. I was so stupid. He must h
ave fifty girlfriends.

  He could even have Keys. Or have had her. And who was I to compete there?

  Not that I wanted to. It was just the punch making me dizzy. So what if I’d been similarly dizzy when it came to this man all night long?

  Fevers always passed, and Halloween always ended.

  I just had to keep my head about me long enough to get through the night without any lasting scars.

  I had enough already.

  Swallowing hard, I bent to pick up my camera bags. And heard him inhale sharply.

  “Bettie, is it? Bettie, I’m Owen Blackwell. And I think you’re going to have to either have a drink with me, dance with me or marry me and have my babies.” His heavily rimmed, seductive blue eyes simmered into mine as I turned back to stare. “Your pick, love.”

  4

  Owen

  It wasn’t the best line of my life, but then again, I’d never been quite so slayed by a pair of b—

  Blue eyes, of course. Because what kind of man is struck dead by the most gorgeous set of tits this side of the Atlantic?

  Not I. I only look above the neck. Except when I get this little twitch...

  Ahem.

  I unearthed my flask. Her eyes were summer blue and narrowed. She didn’t look angry, but she didn’t seem overly impressed with my flirting technique. Just when I was about to withdraw and laugh off my attempt at being charming, she plucked my flask out of my fingers and took a quick nip.

  She hissed a breath between her teeth and handed it back. “Guess we’ll settle for a drink since I’ve got no room for forever or babies in my schedule at the moment.”

  My grin widened. “Considering I’m surrounded by forever hearts and rings lately, I’ll drink to that.”

  The flask was warm from her mouth. A touch of slick gloss remained. Watermelon?

  Her scarlet mouth shouldn’t taste like watermelon. It should taste like cherries or chocolate. Instead, the innocent edge seemed even more incongruous to her acerbic wit.

  So many inconsistencies. The bartender had disappeared. I was about to take another swig when she stole my flask again and took a longer drink before blotting her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Her bow-shaped lips were still stained the dark red that drew my eyes down. No matter what, a man thought of red lips and his dick. I was no different.

  The red bikini top didn’t help matters. I tried like hell not to stare. I was a gentleman, dammit. Or at least my ma had raised me to be. And she’d cuff me but good if she caught me looking at Bettie like I was.

  The high-waisted jeans climbed up to just below her ribs with a row of snaps along her side. Perfectly modest, to be true. The only problem was that the denim hugged every inch of her body. And now I had to not stare at the red string bikini top that had been hiding under her white shirt.

  Again, the material was perfectly modest and hugged her handful-sized breasts.

  Sweet bleeding Christ, lift your eyes, man.

  Bettie was as distracting up close as she had been flitting around the party with her camera glued to the front of her pretty face. A twining curl of dark hair kept falling into her shirt, and now teased the string between her her cups. I wanted to push it back for a better look at her elegant neck.

  Hundreds of women had filled the room with sexy costumes in various styles. I’d flirted with Princess Leia, two angels, and had even found my Lillian Bellacourt in the crowd.

  She’d been just as promising as I’d hoped. Funny, and engaging, unfortunately Lillian couldn’t hold her purple punch. I'd dumped her in a cab before returning to say goodbye to my bandmates.

  Lucky me, the only one left was Wyatt.

  A surly Wyatt no less. Much less fun, to be honest. However, Bettie was much more interesting. “Are you done taking your pictures then?”

  She crossed her arms, squirming a bit. “I wanted to take a few more outside.”

  I gestured for her to proceed. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t know.” She craned her neck as if looking for someone. Maybe the girl with the orange hair. They had seemed to be joined at the hip and engaged in conspiratorial whispers most of the night.

  “You’re a professional photographer, yeah?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  “How often are you going to get to photograph Houdini’s place?”

  She looked down at her chest, as she discreetly tugged at her bikini top. Then she adjusted the damp shirt she'd tied around her waist. Self-conscious all the while.

  I knew I was losing her.

  She lifted her thumb to gnaw on her nail. Again, she twisted to take in a 360-degree view of the room.

  “Live a little, Bettie. You’ve been working all night. No one would even think twice about your bikini outside. There’s a pool.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone swimming.”

  “Ah, but you missed the games earlier. Want to see on my phone?”

  She released her thumbnail from its hostage situation. “You took pictures?”

  I grinned. “Aye.” I unearthed my phone. I’d been Instagramming the entire night. I flicked through some of my pictures and landed on Deacon McCoy with his wife Harper on his shoulders. Jazz and Gray were the other couple. Both girls had been down to their bras, splashing in the water.

  Adorable as hell.

  “See?”

  She frowned and took my phone. “I must have missed that.”

  “It was right after our group pictures at the money box.”

  She made a humming sound then swiped a few times before handing back my phone. I looked down to find one of the skulls backlit from the garden. I’d gotten a lot of likes on that one. I’d taken it earlier from the balcony, when I'd been too moody to socialize and to focused on the past to think about the present.

  “The space is all tricked out with skulls and purple lights. Spooky. Like spooky, Bettie?”

  She stole my flask again. “You have no idea.”

  My eyebrow winged up. “Is that right?”

  She waved her fingernails. “Halloween is my favorite holiday.”

  “So this is the mecca then?”

  “Halloween, not illusionists, Blackbeard.”

  I slapped my chest, rubbing inside my vest. “Honestly. Another arrow? I’m still bleeding from the last one.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Blackbeard was English!”

  “So?”

  I tipped my head back. What the hell. Were we all interchangeable to Americans or what? “I'm Irish, if you couldn't tell.”

  “Eh. Close to the same continent.”

  “Bleeding. Did I mention bleeding?”

  She laughed. It was a small laugh, but still an audible husky giggle.

  "You can calm down with the pirate act.” She took a good belt and scrunched up her face. “Though that’s the real deal on whisky.”

  I laughed. “No faking the accent, love.” I dropped the thicker accent. “A bit more of the surly aye's than I truly use, but the Irish is me.”

  Though truth be told, I had enough alcohol in me that my brogue thickened naturally. The band was always on me when I was in my cups. Said they couldn’t understand me at all. Now if they were drinking with Scots then that would be truth. Me? Not so much.

  She grabbed a bottle of water from a passing waiter. He blinked and turned around, probably to get another for whomever he'd been headed for in the first place. “Time for me to get back to work.”

  Disappointment kicked me in the gut—rather hard, actually. I probably should find my way home. There wasn’t much of a reason left to stay at the house now that the glitter and gloss of the party had been revealed to be simple decorations. Alas, that was the sad state of a place after too many people had trampled through. Reality sucked, and I really didn’t want to face it quite yet.

  Not alone.

  Not without her.

  I flashed a disarming smile. “Mind if I tag along?”

  She paused, the b
ottle of water at her lips. She took a long pull, finishing off its contents. She pressed her distracting lips together. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  She tapped the empty bottle against her hip. “I’m working. I don’t have time to listen to your ridiculous attempts at flirtation.”

  I crossed my hands over my heart. “Those arrows wound, darling.”

  “Then get some new lines and there won’t be a problem.” She hefted her camera bag onto her shoulder.

  I followed. Okay, so it was a touch pathetic. Honestly, I didn’t care. I liked that she gave me shit.

  I’m a masochist, what can I tell ya.

  She gave me a side-eye. “Still here?”

  “Don’t have anywhere to be just now.”

  She handed me one of her bags. “Then make yourself useful. If you let go of that, I’ll drop kick you into the pool.”

  “So violent.”

  “That equipment is worth more than three of your guitars.”

  “So, you know you I play guitar?”

  “I research my jobs. Bass though, so I suppose that’s a little different than guitar. So maybe four of your basses.” Her attention was definitely not on me. In fact, I wasn’t sure she’d actually looked at me except for when she’d absconded with my flask.

  And insulted me without a thought as well. If she only knew what some of my bass guitars cost. But then again, I didn’t know much about cameras. When things slipped from hobby to professional status, the price tag seemed to triple.

  It had been a long time since I’d actually looked at a price tag for anything. I had enough basses, electric guitars, and acoustics to fill two full rooms in my house.

  I lifted the padded case. “What’s so damn heavy in here?”

  “That bag? Filters, other camera bases, a few portable lighting set-ups.”

  I swallowed and put it more firmly onto my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. I have the important bag. I’d still happily saw off one of your arms if you hurt anything in there, but the lenses? Yeah, those don’t leave my side.”

  “Again with the violence. I’ll treat them like my Taylor, how’s that?”

  She frowned and glanced at me. “I know that’s a guitar, but some are relatively low end, aren’t they?’