One
Mark Calaway, better known to millions of people as the Undertaker, rode up to the Gund arena in Cleveland, Ohio on his motorcycle. There were already fans gathered around along the back of the arena, cheering wildly at the roar of the motorcycle and his intimidating appearance. "Undertaker, you rule!" a fan cried out, his deep voice carrying over the screaming fans. Another fan echoed his sentiments. He stopped the motorcycle and climbed off, standing to his full intimidating height of six-ten, a wide smile crossing his features. No matter how long he worked for Vince McMahon and the WWE, the constant fan recognition always amused him. He stopped and shook hands with a few of the fans before gathering his duffel bag on the back of his bike. Slinging it over his shoulder he gave them his raised arm salute before disappearing into the arena. He was offering cheerful greetings to the technicians, Superstars and Divas he ran into before stopping at his locker room. He dropped his bag inside and made his way down the hall towards the catering area. He needed a coffee.
He stood at the table, fixing himself a cup, stirring in some sugar. He used to be able to drink it black, but he just couldn't these days. He'd found himself slowly adding sugar to his coffee.
"Damn it!"
It wasn't a loud outburst, more like a whispered gasp. He looked down the hallway to see Celeste Marlowe kicking at the vending machine in frustration. He smirked. She looked great; as always, dressed in a pair of pale blue jeans and a flowing black tank top, her caramel hair around her face in soft waves. He knew a fair amount about her, but the most important piece of information was that she was dating his number one contender Brock Lesnar, a newbie Neanderthal who treated her like dirt. Same with Brock's so-called "agent", Paul Heyman. She seemed like a sweet girl, but they treated her like a nuisance. He sipped his coffee; he could never figure out why she stayed.
"Hello, beautiful."
Celeste jumped and took a deep breath as her brown eyes stared up at the Undertaker. She instantly looked afraid, and he understood the reason why she looked so terrified. "L-look, Taker, I - I don't want any trouble..."
"Take it easy," he assured her, "I'm not here to terrorize you." He sipped his coffee. "Look, I know Brock and his little buddy are busy, so I thought that I would talk to you a little bit, if that's all right."
She looked reluctant, and then she nodded slowly. She knew that with his size, if he wanted to talk to her, he would regardless. "Fine. But promise me that you won't hurt me, or hold me hostage or..."
He wanted to tell her that he doubted that Brock would rescue her if that happened, but he took a deep breath and nodded. "You have my word," he promised her. He led her down the hallway to his locker room, sipping his coffee.
"Why am I here, Taker?" she asked, her tone nervous as he shut the door behind them.
"Call me Mark," he replied. She took a deep breath.
"Mark. What's going on?"
"Nothing," he insisted, his tone becoming defensive.He took a deep breath. "Look, believe it or not, I'm not the bad guy here."
"I never said you were," she replied softly. He was taken aback by her calmness. She was also incredibly subdued. Something in her eyes reminded him of Miss Elizabeth. He shook his head, trying to work the comparisons out of his brain. He pulled up a chair and sat down across from her.
"Look, I just thought that you could use a friend, okay?" he told her. "I've seen the way those two treat you and it's just not right."
"Are you trying to get into my head or something?" she accused, her tone becoming defensive. "I get it now. Three weeks until Unforgiven, and you're hoping to hell that I can give you some kind of leverage over Brock, well, let me tell you - it's not happening!" She stood up to storm out, indignant, but Mark grabbed her by the arm, stopping her. Her head whipped around, staring daggers at him.
"Celeste, I'm being genuine here," he assured her. She looked in his eyes. They were like emeralds, sparkling. They were almost mesmerizing. She sighed. "Don't think I'm trying to use you, Celeste. I've been here long enough to know I can get into people's heads just fine without help." She nodded at the logic and he motioned for her to sit down again. She reluctantly took her spot on a chair and Mark sat down across from her. "I have to ask, Celeste...how do you put up with Lesnar and Heyman?"
Celeste looked down at her hands. There was definitely something that made her stay, and Mark began thinking a lot of it was fear. "Brock and Paul are just focused on other things. They deal with me when there's nothing to do."
"They deal with you?"
"Get the thought out of your head," she told him. "It's not like they pass me around like a peace pipe. It doesn't make Paul any less of a sleaze though." Mark nodded, a little taken aback by the woman's candor.
"I broke into the business with the guy. Trust me, I know." A soft smile crossed her features.
"I forgot. You're an ancient," she said softly. He saw a mischevious glint in her eye and laughed.
"Ancient...get the fuck out of here with that," he laughed. "I'm only thirty-nine. How old are you?"
"Twenty-five. I'm about two months younger than Brock."
"How'd you get into this business?"
"Brock. I've been dating him since college." She sighed. "He was a nice guy back then. Sure he still has his moments...but with Paul around all the time..."
"So why do you stay?"
"I guess it's been so long, you kind of accept the fact that he's all you got left." She looked at the dainty silver watch on her wrist. "I should get back. If Brock and Paul come back and find I'm gone, they're going to blow a gasket." She stood. Mark stood as well.
"I mean it, Celeste. You ever have a problem with those two, you know where to find me." She only offered a nod before checking out the door. When she was certain there was no one in sight, she left his locker room. He sighed. He was opening a can of worms here; he knew it. Nothing good ever came from women in these situations. But something told him that he needed to help her out.