Manhandled (Hammered Book 2)By: Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott
A Rockstar Romantic Comedy
“Dum-dum-da-dum, dum-dum-da-dum.” I hummed under my breath as I fluffed out my skirts.
“Keys, if you don’t stop humming that, I’m going to strangle you.”
I stuck out my tongue at the all-around pain in the ass I usually called friend. Hudson Wyatt, our drummer, had been a bear lately. Actually, everyone in the band had been.
Well, except Hunter. He was wearing googly-eyes with hearts for irises. Our lead singer was whipped in a serious way. Don’t get me wrong, it was adorable as hell. I just never thought I’d see the day that a woman—and a pair of dogs—would wrap him around their fingers—and paws—so tightly.
“Why are you so bitchy?”
“Because this wedding has fiasco written all over it. Who the fuck has three dogs in a wedding?”
“People who love animals.”
“Love animals on your own time. I’m the one that has to try and keep white hair off my tux.” Wyatt pulled a mini lint roller out of his breast pocket and started attacking the four hairs that dared mar his lapel. “Armani should not have fluffy white fur on it. Ever.”
“Not your wedding,” I said in a singsong voice. It was a refrain I’d been singing for three weeks.
“I hate you.”
“Nah. You love me.” I had to tip my head back to meet his arctic gaze. I was still in my stocking feet, because I refused to put on the stupid ankle breakers that I had to wear with my dress until the last possible moment.
In fact, I wondered if Kennedy would notice if I wore my Chucks down the aisle. I had cute lilac ones that would coordinate well with the deep purple dress. I didn’t really do heels unless there were boots involved. I could rock a pair of boots.
I was actually looking forward to boots weather. It was late August and I was bored with sundresses and shorts. I was a fall girl. Not that there was much of a fall in Los Angeles, but enough that I didn’t sweat my butt off when I was wearing cute sweaters or jackets with my jeans.
Can I explain how sick I am of shaving my legs?
But alas, that’s not the topic of conversation today. Wyatt stomped off, muttering about crazy animal people. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my good mood. Today was all about wedding rings, the wedding march, and a kickass end to the whirlwind courtship of one Kennedy McManus and Hunter Jordan.
Our lead singer and the PR princess who loved him to pieces. Kenny had been the one to save our bacon when Hunter had gone a little bananas with the infamous Rolling Stone cover.
I couldn’t really blame him. Personally, I thought it was pretty hilarious that he got a taste of what women dealt with on a daily basis. I couldn’t count the number of times men stared at my girls instead of into my eyes when we were at fan events.
Actually, scratch that—any event. The suits—aka record execs and marketing people—were worse than any fan. Since I was the one and only female in the band, they thought I was pretty much party central. I disabused them of that fact quickly, but it was a never-ending battle.
Long story short, I had to force myself to feel sorry for Hunter. Especially since that cover shot our careers back into gear. Our careers had been languishing for a long damn time. Now, we had a sold-out tour to get ready for and a triple platinum album.
And not all of it had been because of Hunter’s goods outlined in a tight pair of jeans. Who knew a male appendage held this much power? I mean they all believed it did, but the actuality was mind boggling.
Hammered, our band, was in a really good place right now, so I tried not to focus on the pissy nature of half my friends. There was something more than dog fur up Wyatt’s ass, Hunter waffled between basket case and sickeningly happy, and Bats was either silent or missing in action.
Owen was my rock lately, and Zach was his usual brand of crazy. Zach was our co-lead guitarist with Bats. We usually called them the Terror Twins for a reason. And the fact that Bats was MIA so much was definitely messing with the band mojo.
I was hoping this wedding would put us all back on an even keel. No one could duck out of the festivities. There were enough bottles of bourbon on the bar of the suite we were in to lubricate a good mood, at the very least.