Leather and Lace
SS by Amanda

Britney/Fred

You’ve heard all the talk. You’ve heard all about her being unphazed by her stardom and how sweet and charming she is. Hell, you’ve even heard it from your own “people,” though you know they’d never say it outside the presence of the group.

And maybe that’s why you’re here. To see what all the hype is about. To laugh in their faces when she turns out to be the biggest bitch since Miss Aguilera. That has to be what it is because you can’t think of any other reason why you agreed to do this.

And actually, you weren’t going to do this. You were 100% prepared to spout a “hell no” when they called and asked you. But when “they” turned out to be “her” on the other end of the line, you couldn’t seem to find those words.

Maybe it was the way she spoke so softly, as if she was worried you were gonna do exactly what you planned to do or maybe it was your testosterone talking and you saw it as a chance to add to that belt around your waist. You prefer to think the latter. After all, she is Britney Spears, pop virgin, and nothing would be more satisfying than crashing that label.

But on the same token, you have to wonder why she’s here. You know she has a pretty hefty load of clout in this business, even if the respect doesn’t come with it. You know she could be working with the Pharrell’s, Rodney’s and Timbaland’s but for some reason she’s in this dim studio with the likes of you and that baffles you to no end.

This isn’t typical for her, though you’re not sure what really is typical for her. But what you do know is that she doesn’t fit with you. Normally. Hell, you even think that putting the words Limp Bizkit in the same sentence as Britney Spears somehow dirties her name. And that only brings more questions about her presence.

But she is here. Sitting just six feet away from you. So close that you can smell her vanilla perfume and hear her gentle breathing. And you begin to believe that somehow this room has gotten smaller since you were in here yesterday with the guys.

You’re not comfortable and you hate that because you know that it’s her making you feel this way and no one has ever did this to you before. No one. Ever. And you begin to regret not having the balls to blow her off when you had the chance because you could be at home watching Bruce Lee movies with the guys. And likely joking about the absurd thought of you working with her. But instead you are here. In this increasingly enclosed studio with Britney fucking Spears and you have no fucking idea why. And you hate that.

So you close your eyes and try to relax into the stiff studio chair. And you begin to reason with yourself, saying that this is an opportunity any guy would take. Not musically. But physically. Reminding yourself once again who the woman is sitting across from you. And though her stature is a little higher, she’s still just another beautiful object for your enjoyment to go along with the hundreds of other objects you’ve enjoyed.

And you tell yourself that there is nothing different about her. But as you open your eyes, you know that there is. There definitely is. But you can’t pinpoint what it is. And you really hate that.

You guess that maybe that it’s because you were expecting the Barbie doll you’ve seen at the awards shows. Or maybe the sex kitten she portrays in her videos. And quite honestly, you’d prefer either at this moment because maybe then you wouldn’t have that unfamiliar little knot that’s forming in the pit of your stomach.

But right now, she seems so real. So very touchable. Not like the plastic women you’re so used to. And that intrigues you so much that you can’t seem to take your eyes away from her. The messy pony tailed, makeup free, pop star sitting across from you.

She writes feverishly, her head never raising, and you wonder if she remembers you are in the room. And that she’s paying you by the hour. Though you doubt she really cares. And oddly enough, you don’t seem to care either. You like seeing her intensity. You like seeing her.

And with that thought, you let your eyes roam over her body. Over her tanned arms and two week old manicure. Across the delicate line of skin showing between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans. Down her tan and toned legs. You stop at her bare feet, staring at the tiny tattoo that circles her toe and you wonder what other hidden pleasures she offers. And for a second, you wonder if anyone has seen all those hidden pleasures. Probably Timberlake. And you’re not sure if you like that but you have no idea why.

You finally begin to reverse your course, your eyes traveling up her body, across her chest, her neck, and onto her brown eyes. The ones staring straight at you. She blushes as she realizes what you were doing and for some reason, you can’t find your typical smug remarks so you settle for a smile.

As she turns away once again, you silently curse yourself for acting like such an idiot. This isn’t you. At least you don’t think so. YOU would have been waltzing miss innocent out of your bedroom by now or at the very least devised some plan on how to get her there. But you’ve done neither and somehow you are content with that.

And before you know it, her eyes are on you again and you are wondering if everyone’s eyes shine that bright and why you’ve never noticed it before. And you are finding it increasingly difficult to breath. Or to speak. And this is certainly not you. You tell yourself that you’ve seen this woman many times before but for some reason, being this close to her is a totally different ballgame.

And then she smiles and for the first time in what seems like forever, you hear her voice. She says something about ordering lunch and you shake your head and watch as she puts a menu in front of you. You scoff at the selection and you hear her giggle softly. She tells you that she figured you were a peanut butter and jelly man and you wonder what it was about you that made her know this.

You’re feeling a little self-conscious when she laughs and says that she’s a peanut butter and jelly kinda girl. And you’re a bit surprised by this because you were expecting rich desires from the little rich girl. But you like it that she’s surprising you.

And she continues to surprise you. Over the next few hours. With her ordinary talk and her ordinary ways. From an extraordinary girl, you expected more. But then again, maybe that’s what makes her extraordinary.

And after a while, you finally get the nerve to ask her the one thing you’ve been wanting to ask her. About him. And what he’s doing to her. And in her eyes, you can see her pain. And you listen to her tell you that she still loves him and that she knows he still loves her. But that sometimes the most beautiful and perfect puzzles are the ones that you can never put together just right.

She tells you that she believes everything happens for a reason and that there was a reason why she isn’t with him. And you watch her as she diligently goes back to work, forcing out vocals you didn’t expect from her in a place you never expected to be with her.

But her words are still stuck in the back of your head. And you begin to realize that maybe there is a reason why she called you. A reason why you couldn’t tell her no. A reason why you both showed up here. And maybe there’s even a reason why she was brought into your life and you, hers.

And maybe you even look forward to finding out what that reason is. For this woman is unlike any woman you’ve ever known. And she is bringing out things in you that you never knew existed. She is finding the tender under the rough. And though that scares you, it also excites you.

And you realize that this may be your first step toward something beautiful in your life. This may be the first piece of your puzzle. A puzzle that isn’t so beautiful and isn’t so perfect but that maybe can be put together just right.

And as you watch her through the Plexiglas and see your own reflection beside her, the lyrics to a familiar song begin to ring through your head. Leather and Lace.

It’s never sounded better.

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