Nashville, TN.  

To some, it’s the home of the honky tonk---a tourist trap filled with an endless supply of men in cowboy hats singing about lovers named Delilah that drove them to drinkin’ whiskey until they got so blasted they drove their pickup into a tree.  To some degree, you could say that’s an incredibly accurate statement.  The rednecks walking up and down Broadway at 10pm would prove it to you.

But stereotypes aren’t always true.

You see, I work in the music business, which is pretty big around here.  Home to two of the most reputable colleges with music business programs, as well as one of the nicest private universities in the country, Nashville is rich in education.  It’s even richer in drunken college students wishing to have a double platinum disc frame hanging on their wall.

But those college kids, they’re crucial.  They’re the foundation of the city that most people don’t see.  They’re the kids into electronic, metal, hip hop, indie rock, and the crazy hipster bullshit.  They’re the kids that play at all the venues around town beyond the square block of country that people associate with downtown.  They’re the kids running the ham indie radio stations that actually play good music.  They’re the kids there to make the changes.  They’re the kids that are supposed to save music.

I used to be one of those kids.  

Yet, somewhere along the line, I stopped caring about the music. I guess it’s easy to get wrapped up in the hype when you’re working for some of the biggest artists in the world.  You start believing that image is everything, that it really is all about press and publicity, that you’re only as good as your last hit.  At some point, you forget what got you there in the first place:  the music.  And to be honest, I can’t tell you the last time I listened to a song and didn’t think about what chart position it was in, what their publicity train was like, or where I last saw the artist or their manager.  It’s sad, really.

And tonight is no different.  I arrived at the Gaylord Entertainment Center three hours before soundcheck, as usual.  I had to make sure the dressing rooms were set, that all of the requests in the rider were met, and that everything was kosher when his highness arrived.  Tonight was the Justin Timberlake show, a native Tennessean, and while I was excited about working with an artist of his caliber, I had also heard he was absurdly particular.  And his security was a bitch.

And when I say bitch, I don’t think you really understand how much of a bitch I’m talking about.  The landyards are holographic, with each crew members name emblazoned, as if it were stone, on the front while the back is complete with an incredibly unique barcode, allowing you only the minimum access possible.  Mind you, most of these areas for regular artists (aka non-diva popstars) aren’t typically closed off to local crew members.  Big deal, right?  Not with Mr. Timberlake.  If you want to take a shit, you need a pass.  And let’s not even discuss what happens if you mistakenly lose it.

Anyway, it didn’t matter, because I was there tonight as a representative of the label.  I had basically signed away my first born to get the pass to even allow me in the building, and I had already checked the set up for the dressing rooms (plural, because this is Mr. Timberlake, we’re talking about here).  I’d love to tell you what it looked like, but I can’t exactly divulge all of my secret information.  I had a hard enough time getting there in the first place.

I check my watch.  3:20pm.  The man himself would be arriving within the next half an hour or so to get warmed up for sound check, and I had done my job--and even triple checked it.  Since Nashville was my hometown, I also knew where they hid a little piano, tucked away for some artists who request it in their green room.

Taking a peek around, I maneuvered my body through a few doors and hideaways to the old upright.  It’s a really gorgeous baby grand, and just sitting at the old bench makes me wonder what it must have felt like to sit on stage at the Ryman and play it.  It’s probably old enough to have been there in its obviously long life cycle.

I slide open the keyboard cover and delicately allow my fingertips the opportunity to slide over the dull ivories.  I close my eyes as I make a few cords, allowing my ears to take in the gorgeous melodies of the piano reverberating off of the hallowed secret walls.

Taking a few moments, I take a few deep breaths.  My foot hits the pedal, and I start thinking about the last time I actually saw a concert live.  It had to have been at least a year now.  And then it hits me--Lady Antebellum.  Before they became Lady Antebellum, actually--at 3rd and Lindsley.  That was such a great show.

A smile comes to my face as I start plucking chords.



“She grew up on the side of the road.
Where the church bells ring and strong love grows.
She grew up good.  She grew up slow.
Like American Honey.”



Mmm.  I smile.  But as I continue to play my song, I hear the beep of my watch, signaling the need for my presence at the front of the venue to greet our superstar for the evening.

Funny, I didn’t know he was watching me already.


---------------

I tapped my fingers against my arm.  Where could he be?  He was scheduled to arrive over 30 minutes ago, and his camp is like clockwork.  They don’t miss a beat, because when you have 19 tractor trailers and a superstar that gets mauled by teeny boppers, you can’t afford to miss a minute.

I’m just about to pick up my phone when I hear the side doors of the artist hallway bust open, revealing 4 bodyguards dressed to the nines and surrounding a scrawny figure dressed in a green and yellow striped blazer and slightly faded dark blue jeans.  Granted, anyone would look skinny next to those monsters.

My mouth goes dry slightly when my eyes meet his, and I’m honestly stunned by the aura and presence that he exudes.  I’ve met so many people, even people more powerful than him, but none of them quite blew me away like he did.

I took a few step closer, wondering how the hell he got past my greeting.  The first bodyguard stops me, but I show him my landyard and he steps away.

“I’m with the label.  I won’t bite, I promise,” I laugh slightly.  Humor always goes best in these slightly awkward situation.  I wasn’t exactly sure how much of an asshole he was going to be yet.

“Hi,” he smiled slightly.  Not very much.  Kind of a quarter smile.  He’s obviously preoccupied.

“Hi,” I repeat. “Sorry, I was supposed to greet you.  I’ve been waiting here for 45 minutes now.  You didn’t come in this entrance...” I explain.

“I know,” he finished, taking a glance at his cock.  Well, he definitely didn’t seem one for words.  But god damn if his eyes aren’t the most intense blue I’ve ever seen.

“Okay.”  I was grasping at straws as to what to say.  

“I was finishing up a track with Reba and Matt Morrison.  We went a little late, and decided to come in the side entrance.  Less people, less obvious.  Security decision,” he nodded.

“Oh, right.  Well, good.  I just wanted to...” I started, pulling out my notebook to go over the rider and ensure that he was happy.

“Sorry, I need to get ready for soundcheck,” he finished, his eyes briefly connecting with mine again and making my breath weak.

“Right, then.  Well, don’t let me stop you...” I try to laugh, feeling slightly embarrassed and like I somehow flubbed my job up.

He just nodded, and started to maneuver around me to head to the stage.  He only got a few steps passed me before he looked down at my chest.  It looked as if he were about to say something, but just smirked before turning around again and disappearing behind the curtains.

What the fuck was that about?  What an asshole!!!  I was fuming.  I wanted to murder him.  God, I had heard some nice things about him.  How could he be so rude?  And why the hell did he smirk at me?

I peered down at my chest quickly, and realized that there was a massive piece of bright orange gaffer’s tape affixed to my chest.  On it, upside down, said “Good.”  I had forgotten that the lighting director had affixed it to my chest in a playful banter when I had arrived.  God, as if I needed more fuel to add to the fire.  I had better not get fired over this.

Agonizing over my multiple levels of embarrassment, I sat myself down on a nearby roadcase, and waited impatiently as he finished his closed sound check.  I personally hate it when artists do that.  Why do they have to be so secretive?  Prima donna bastards.

I waited for what seemed like forever, until one of the tour bitches came over to tell me that he was doing some radio contest, and would be going directly back to the dressing room in 45 minutes.  Yet another reason I hate working with artists as big as him--sometimes shit changed at the last minute, and it would just drive you bananas!

I nodded cordially, and decided to take the time to meander back to my secret piano room to kill some time before I had to kiss ass again.

---------



Steady as a preacher.
Free as a weed.
Couldn’t wait to get goin’
But wasn’t quite ready to leave.
So innocent.  So pure and sweet.
American Honey.



I can’t help but hum the lyrics as I slip back into the piano room unnoticed.  There are infinitely more people here now.  People are buzzing in and out of the crafty room, there are dogs running around the dressing room, people carrying props and items here and there.  It’s kind of a circus madhouse, and I try to stay out of their way as much as possible.  That’s why the piano room is my friend.




There’s a wild, wild whisper blowing in the wind
Calling out my name like a long lost friend
Oh I miss those days as the years go by
Oh nothing’s sweeter than the summer time.
And American honey.




I pluck a few keys once I sit down again, but I’m not really feeling playing anymore.  I love it in there, and I love singing, but I can’t help but replay my interaction with Justin earlier.  So embarrassing.

“Are you going to play, or sit there and stare at it all day?” a voice mumbled.

“Uh, excuse me?” I whip around, my heart racing like I just got caught with my pants down by my mom or something.  My heart nearly beats out of my chest when I see that it’s Justin.

“You heard me.  I want to hear you play,” he smiled.  His face and demeanor was much more calm now.  It was almost like he was a different person.

“Uh....” I just kind of look up at him speechless.  Before I know it, he’s moving to sit next to me, nudging my knees over so that there’s some room for him to sit down.

“I thought you worked at the label?  Didn’t think a girl like you would be starstruck.”

“Starstruck?  Please,” I mumble, a little more quickly than I’d like.

He chuckled.

“No?  Then why do you look like a ghost right now?” he uttered, gently letting his very long, bony fingers touch the ivories.  I couldn’t help but notice how small his nail beds were, though.  Call me weird.

“Umm...you surprised me?  You’re supposed to be sound checking, and then doing some radio thing.  I’m supposed to be your escort the whole down time....you know this.”

“I had my tour manager lie to you.  I hate label escorts more than anything...not you in particular or anything, but you know.  I just wanted some free time, moments to myself you know, and I didn’t want to be rude.  Anyway, I saw you in here earlier playing, and when I got back in, I saw you were back here again--and I couldn’t help but intrude.  Sorry,” he smiled again, starting to play a little melody.

I nodded.  “If you want time to yourself, I can just go.  You don’t have to lie to me.”

He laughed.  “I don’t mind time with you.  But you have to finish the song.  Lady Antebellum, right?”

I nodded again, more sheepishly this time.  “I don’t think I should...”

“I do.  Besides, it said good on your chest, and I’m trying to figure out what kind of good you are.”

My head turned rapidly when I heard those words, and I took a few shakey breaths.  There was definitely a hint of flirtatiousness in his face as our eyes locked.

“Oh,” was all I could muster.  After shaking my hands out, along with some of my nerves, I put my hands to the keys and finished the song.



Get caught in the race of this crazy life.
Trying to be everything can make you lose your mind.
I just wanna go back in time.
To American honey.



I was just about to finish the last chorus when I felt a strong pair of hands around my arms, gently guiding them to change a few chords.  His intensity proved to me how talented he was, but I was starting not to care as I felt his breath on my neck.

“Uh...so how was it?” I asked, almost afraid of his answer.  I was not a professional, but I would be lying if music wasn’t a huge part of my passion.  I may have repressed it because of my career, but it was still there.

“Excellent,” he smiled.  I could feel his nose running down my jawline, and I felt a slight hitch in my breathing.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Appreciating a work of art,” he finished before slightly closing his lips around the base of my ear.
I tried to protest, not wanting to lose my career, but the feelings pulsing through my body at this stage were way too much.  I felt the floodgates open, and my panties were rapidly getting wet.

“Do you mind if I do that?” he whispered, beginning to kiss down my jawline.  “It’s rare that I find a woman as hot as you that can play the piano.  And that happens to be a fantasy of mine...” he mumbled, his words getting lost against my skin.

I tried to hold out, feeling his hands slowly slide up my forearms, my biceps, and to my shoulders before making their way downwards to cup my breasts.  I could feel his fingers working nimbly to find my nipples and tease them.

“Are you good at sex?” he whispered quietly, his tongue moving back up to flick against my ear in the most teasing way.

“I guess you’re going to have to find out...” I moaned quietly.  I could hear him smirk as his hands smoothed down my toned stomach, dipping in between my legs for a second to tease me before both of his incredibly large hands palmed my ass and moved me into his lap.  I worked to straddle him as my lips attached to his, unable to hold back any longer.

Our tongues battled in a heated mesh of saliva and passion.  I could feel his hands maneuvering to my ass, one grabbing a fleshy cheek, and the other sliding up my shirt to start working on my bra clasp.  I wasn’t entirely surprised that it took him less than three seconds to undo it, but I can’t say I wasn’t happy about it either.

I pulled away, moving my shirt above my head and moaning at the feeling of the cool air against my now bare nipples.  I look down at his face and smile at how bright his eyes are, and how intense they are.  I didn’t get to stare at them very long, though, because it was only mere seconds before his lips were attached to my left breast.

I whimpered as I felt how adept his tongue was at teasing.  I moved one hand to his hair while my lips moved to his temple, placing light appreciative kisses as he appreciated my body.  I got lost for a few minutes, but finally realized I needed to get his track jacket off.  And now.

My plans were interrupted, of course, as he pulled away and pushed up my skirt, gently leaning my back against the piano as he easily nudged my thighs open.

“How wet are you baby?” he asked.

I tried to answer, but couldn’t.  His hand had already penetrated my pussy, pushing my thin silk underwear into my sopping wet vagina.  He didn’t waste any time either.  Three made my entire hips rock with a needy shudder.

“Jesus,” I hiss.

“Nope, not him.  I’ll definitely fuck you that good, though,” he smiled cockily.  “God, you really are fucking wet.”

I groaned.  “Why do you have so many cl...” I mumbled, about to finish my sentence, but he curled all three fingers to hit my g-spot, and nearly cried out.  My nipples hardened instantly as my back arched.

He just smirked.

“That good for you, babygirl?” he asked again as he pulled his fingers out.  I cried out at the absence.

As soon as he heard my moan, he ripped my panties in half and shoved four fingers deep inside my now trembling center.  I could hardly sit still enough to stay on his lap, my hands going down and smashing haphazardly on the keys of the piano, resounding in an odd dissonance.

I could hardly breathe, my body convulsing forward and backward, trying to figure out whether I could even handle this kind of pleasure.

“Holy shit. Holy shit...”

He pulled out again.  What an asshole.  I breathe heavily a few times, my heavily lidded eyes slowly moving to open to beg him to give me more, when he slammed his fingers into me again, stroking me delicately while his other hand started working on my clit.  The pleasure was too much, and I literally came all over his hand in less than three minutes.  Total.

“Oh, fuck.”

“I’m about to,” he smirked.  He pushed me back gently to undo his belt buckle, pulling his hard, long dick out of the little peephole of his gray boxerbriefs.

It took every ounce of my being to push myself forward enough to undo the zipper to his green jacket.  I slowly kissed him a few times, working the fabric off before pulling his under shirt over his head.  I tried to admire his body, but could feel his hands guiding me to his thick cock.

I looked down and nearly moaned at the size.  There was absolutely no way that was going to fit.

“J...”

“Shhh....  Don’t worry.  It’ll feel good.  I promise, Miss Honey.”

And feel good it did.  We didn’t waste any more time on the foreplay.  His hands lifted my ass up effortlessly and slid into me.  I felt his hands push my ass down so I was completely straddling him, our breathing intermingled as we both tried to calm down before we lost it again.

I went to wrap my arms around his shoulders, but he shook his head no.  He gently tilted me back again, grabbing my thighs and throwing my knees over his shoulders.  He slowly moved in and out, the angle of his thrust and the pressure sending me into orbit.  He could tell it was a little too much for me, probably experiencing this a lot due to his size, so he stood up carefully.

I watched as he placed my ass on top of the keys, my hands balancing on the piano for leverage before he started slamming into me.  With every thrust, new notes were found, our moans, pants and whimpers filling the hallowed storage room next to his dressing room.

The longer we fucked, the better it felt.  His penis, despite its incredible length, fit perfectly.  And once I had gotten used to his size, he had no problem pounding into me so hard I thought I was going to get pounded into the next room.  Hearing his skin slap against mine, his balls hit my ass, and feeling the liquid slip down my skin drove me into a heated ecstacy.

“Faster...” I whimpered.  “I’m so close,” I mumbled.

His mouth was hanging open.  His eyes were glazing, and I could see that he was concentrating everything he had on not blowing his load.

But then my watch beeped, and we both knew that the time had come that we would need to part ways.

In a last ditch effort to make both of us come, he pulled me away from the piano, and slammed me lightly against the wall, burying his dick so far inside me that all I could do was squeal as my nails dug down the wall.

He reached a hand around and started teasing my clit furiously as he moved inside of me torturously slowly, yet deeper than any man I had ever had before.  I tried to push my ass back into him, just to get away from the stimulation overload I was receiving.

I finally felt his hands dig into my flesh, grabbing hard at my left breast, the other gripping my inner thigh as I felt him come.  And come he did.

We were both panting heavily when he finally pulled away, guiding my hips from their smashed destination against the wall to face him.  He smirked as he looked down, seeing the river of jizz sliding down my leg.

“You find this funny?” I mumbled tiredly.

“Nope.  Just good.” he winked.  “Any time you want to come hang backstage with me, I’ll gladly give you some american honey.”

"You know, you're really not the asshole I thought you were when you first got here."

We both smiled and embraced in one last kiss before re-clothing ourselves and getting back to our jobs.  

I often frequent that little hidden piano room now.  It reminds me of why I’m in the music business.  You just never know what kind of connections you can have over music.