EroticReverie

Jameson Nash Memphis

I told her brother it was a bad idea. Yet two years ago, I let him talk me into putting in words for his little sisters with record executives, and playing her songs for them. She was talented as hell, sang like a fucking dream, and wrote her own songs and music. At seventeen years old, with my help, my best friends little sister was thrust into the country music world, and not just country music, but artists in other genres wanted her voice feautred on their albums and songs. Her face and voice was everywhere. And in typical fame world fashion, they thrust her into becoming a sex symbol. At fucking seventeen. But that's what the money hungry people do. They steal your soul and make you a fucking puppet. I avoid it all as much as I can. Staying as true to who I am as I possibly fucking can. She has a good head on her shoulders, but I worry sometimes they'll brainwash her right into falling for it all. 

It's been two years since I helped her get her boot in the door, and now we were going on tour together. We were both the headliner, our label wanting us on tour together, due to the fact we grew up together. Except for the fact we didn't, not really. Sure, I watched her grow up. There was an eleven year age difference between us. I was thirty now, she was nineteen. But the label wanted us to sell the story of two little nobodies from the same little town, "making it". 

"It wouldnt hurt if you wanted to ..you know...start a romance." both of our publicists had said to us. I'd barked at both of them. Waving my finger around and threatening them to not ever bring that shit up again, and it was a firm fucking NO. She was nineteen, sure, legally an adult. But I was a grown ass man, and she was barely fucking legal. Absolutely fucking not. Plus, even if she was older, faking shit for press is just another form of puppetry that I'm not into. I dont care how much fucking light it would shine on us, or increase ticket sales. It was a god damn no. 

Now I'm standing backstage looking at the television that's playing the feed of the larger than life screens on the stage for the crowd. Watching rhinestones sparkle on her boots that she has the ends of her tight jeans tucked into, and watch the hint of rhinestones sparkle on the little corset she has on under the little jean jacket she has on. I grit my teeth as I watch her sing into her matching bedazzled fucking microphone. The crowd roaring as she unbuttons the jacket and slides it off in the middle of her second song. I shake my head, wanting to yell at my best friend for ever talking me into bringing her into the industry. 

"fuck, look at the pair on her" one of the guys working backstage says a bit too loudly and I turn my head. 

"The fuck did you just say?" I glare down at him. I was six foot seven, a burly motherfucker, solid as a fucking rock and about to snap this fuckers neck. 

His eyes widen and then he looks confused. 

"nothing man, i didnt say nothing, was just saying.." he nods to the screen. "Perry's got some tits, yeah?" he chuckles like the dumb motherfucker that he is. He must think I was angry because I thought he said something to me, or misheard him. 

"Jameson, don't" my drummer Rhett says as I drop my crossed arms and step over to him. 

"What's your job here?" I growl down at him. 

"uh, uh" he stammers. He's a young kid, probably her age. 

"I uh, I'm a janitor" he says. 

"not anymore. Get the fuck out." I growl at him. 

"Wh-what?" He says and laughs nervously. 

"You..cant fire me?" He says. 

"I just did." I lift my head and look to one of the other works. "Get your manager. I want this fucker out of here." 

five minutes later the little bastard is gone, and Rhett shakes his head at me as the other band members laugh.

"Sure you're not interested in that romance?" Rhett teases and I glare at him. 

"You the only one that can look at her , huh?" Rhett laughs. 

"Stop talking. Now." I warn him. because Rhett was the only one who could say shit to me like that and get away with it. 

"Just saying...aint nothing wrong with you appreciating how that little top looks on her." Her smirks and back up as I turn my head and glare at him, giving one shake of my head. Jaw clenched.

"Get out of my face before I put you in the hopsital and we're forced to do this without a drummer" I warn him and he laughs and back up and I growl, snatching his beer from him and then look back at the televsion. 

I watch her long blonde hair, whip in front of her face, catching on her glossy lip and the microphone, I watch her push long pink painted finger nails through her hair, flipping it to the side, letting it blow over her head and to the other side, removing it from her face as she sings into her microphone and then turns and skips, hops and prances around to the other end of the stage in those tight fucking jeans, and that tight rhinestone corset top, her breasts jiggling at the top, and I know every man in the audience is hoping for a malfunction, and Im hoping the twitch in my dick doesnt evolve into a full fledged hard on. 

Because while I was protective of her, while I didnt approve of the way she played into the sexualization of her body for the record label. I couldnt lie and say she wasn't fucking nice to look at. I groan as she throws her hand up with her microphone, the top of her right breast, slipping up further out of that fucking tight corset, the little muscles in her arm flexing and her smooth armpit. Fuck. I was aroused by her god damn arm pit. I toss back my beer, and mentally scold myself. Shaking my head and walking away from the tv. 

This was only our third show on the tour. And already I needed it to be over, so I didnt have to watch her be cute, and sexy every other fuckin night. Paisleah Jane Perry was about to make my life hell without even trying. With her long blonde hair, sparkly blue eyes, and perfect fuckin smile, and that body...I couldnt focus on anything else at all lately. I was no better than the men in the audience, or the little bastard I had kicked out of the backstage area. 

No god damn better.