Free Manipulated: a Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 3) by Cari Quinn, Taryn Elliott Page A

had flared to life.
    Hammered’s tenth anniversary.
    Owen.
    He of the lips like firm, perfectly delicious plums, and hands that could’ve belonged to the finest sculptors.
    More accurately, the bassist with the band I’d had to look up more extensively after I’d made out with the guy. Were there still bases when it came to sex? If so, we’d probably been firmly on second even if my loins had been rounding home. They were just underused and overeager, my loins, and couldn’t be trusted.
    Neither could I, because I had no idea if I was excited at the idea of the opportunity possibly being presented to me or dismayed.
    Forget dismayed. I was fucking terrified.
    I’d scampered away from the dude when he’d had a killer hard-on and bedroom eyes. He’d figured we’d finish what we started, and I’d freaked out and split.
    Worst of all, I’d lost one of my favorite shoes. Okay, that wasn’t the worst part, but it had just capped off the night.
    “I don’t know. Seems possible. Why else would Lord Lewis be summoning you to his lair all urgent and shit? The band’s starting up the tour again so you probably would have to jet.”
    “He did seem awfully insistent it be today.” I brought my thumb to my mouth and glared at my ragged nail. Quickie manicure ahead. No stress cuticle destruction today. “He’s leaving the country tomorrow or something. Do you think they fired someone so now they’re desperate to find a person to fill in?”
    “That’s my sister, Eeyore in rockabilly clothing. Oh ye of little faith, is it so impossible to think Lord Lewis just wants you?”
    In spite of everything, I giggled. I hadn’t met this Lewis guy yet and I was already getting all manner of visuals thanks to Ava.
    “I’m out of practice, and you damn well know this wasn’t my specialty. What do I know about photographing rock stars? Now if they want me to make them a killer Monte Cristo, I can whip that up in a second.”
    “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