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

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