I own nothing by Drea and her friends. I have nothing to do with WWE ownership or anything of the like.

CHAPTER 1

"Damn that phone, and the bitch who is calling me at 8:15 in the morning," I managed to mutter to myself. As I leaned up from my desk, sheet of paper stuck to the side of my cheek, disheveled hair rendering me blind, I heard the shrill, annoying voice on the other end.

"Make sure you're awake and looking productive. He is on his way to your office. Please don't have a repeat of last Tuesday, or we will have to have a whole department meeting with HR." Ha, bitch. HR is you. And I'm the lazy one? As I stared into the mirror across from my desk, my bleak world came to a head.

My name is Drea, short for Andrea, and the last is Macklin. It's about as "normal", read boring, as a young woman can get. I'm 25, and I'm about 5'6", and that is on a good day where the 7-11 sticker by the door is kind to me. I used to be much, much more in shape, but I'd say I'm not bad as I am – about 135 pounds. (Most of this weight can be attributed to my, ehem, assets, but I love them so I don't begrudge them this and try to lose them.) My hair is long – down past my bra-line at the mid back, slightly wavy, very thick, and of the very light brown/dark blonde variety. My eyes are ever-changing; green when I'm wearing purple eye make up or am giddy, and ice blue when I'm pissed or wearing brown. I have reading glasses, very sexy librarian style, but almost never use them – I always forget.

I'm a tomboy. I love everything that revolves around playing sports, watching them, and being outside. I'd walk around barefoot all the time if it wasn't so frowned upon by most of society. (You walk home barefoot from a bar ONE time, and everyone is a critic.) I own hunting camouflage of all varieties, drive a truck, and live for jeans and a tee shirt. How I ended up dressed up, sitting behind a desk in an office is bewildering to me. And for anyone who is wondering, it is a VERY bad idea to wear a camo coat into an office building housing one of the biggest, and snootiest, law firms in the Midwest. Learn from my pseudo-fail.

I ran from home as soon as was possible; it was pretty much the day after the diploma hit my hot little hands. Tired of being a fish of any size in that tiny little pond, I ran for freedom and fell in love with college. I was the basis for Van Wilder, but I would believe that they edited that movie heavily based on my plot. The only downside is that no one can stay in school forever. And believe me, I tried. But eventually the real world comes calling, usually with notices that your student loans are overdue and you happen to be underpaid. Underpaid and working behind a desk. Bored. Totally, utterly bored and unchallenged.

The other evening, while battling a fit of boredom, I saw an ad that there was an opening with a huge company, and the benefits looked they were out of this world. Problem? Had to move from my little home I'd made for myself, but the position, should it be offered to me and should I choose to accept it, would mean I'm traveling all the time. ALL THE TIME. Ah-mazing. Thankfully, they were overtly obvious with this point. As I sat, revising my resume to really play up the fact that I have helped a friend of mine who does films (no, not THOSE films – legit ones that are fully clothed, thanks) a time or two, and I'm aware of some production elements, I thought about what would keep me in my current location. My mom – yeah, but she encourages me to make money, so I figure she might be pretty supportive here. Yup, gonna try this one out.

I tracked down the email for all submissions, took a breath, and make a big wish that I get a paid vacation to get the hell outta here. I submitted the resume.

And here I wait. And wait. Wait, wait, wait, and wait some more. It's been the better part of a week and a half. Ugh. I had to finally come to terms with the fact that I'm probably never going to move from behind this desk, so when I hear Sweet Home Alabama singing from my cell in my purse, I think nothing of the fact that I don't recognize the number, and figure it's my sorority wanting a donation.

"Hello," I sigh into the phone.

"Hi, I need to speak with Andrea, please. Is she available?" This was a proper voice, a female voice. It had a twinge of that East Coast inflection. Wait a minute here; who the hell is this.

"Speaking. May I ask who this is? If you're calling about my car insurance policy, I swear that the check for the premium is in the mail, like yesterday." I'm hoping this excuse will work, again.

I hear a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. "I assure you that I'm not worried about the check,"

"Well that's good, because I would have been screwed when it didn't show up in a few days," I interrupted. Then realized I did. "I am so sorry that I interrupted you though, please,".

The female started again. "Well, I think that I already know you will probably be a great interviewee. This is Ms. McMahon; I'm calling about your resume submission, and while I don't usually worry with interviewing people applying for production positions, I came across your resume, and think you may be perfect for another opening with our company. Are you still available?"

In the time that this call started, until I about peed down both my legs because of who I was talking to, my current boss walked into my office and tossed down a case on my desk. I looked at him, chuckled to myself, and held up a finger to him when he started to speak. "Oh, I'm very available. Whatever the job is, it does involve travel, right, and what salary range are you guys interested in negotiating within?" This does NOT go over well with the current employer – read the human embodiment of pissed beyond all reason.

Stephanie, who I've now realized is the Ms. McMahon to whom I am speaking, is laughing. "Yes, there will be extensive travel. And the range is, well, not stellar, but very comparable to industry standards."

There was a quick discussion of what those amounts were, which I am not going to divulge here – for reasons of security and modesty. I'd hate to fully embarrass myself, but I do manage to incense my boss – whose face is getting redder by the moment.

"Ms. McMahon, when do you want me? I'm pretty sure my shift here is complete, and I can be there as early as tomorrow." I smile at the Midwestern Hulk incarnate in front of me; he was wrong, I do like him when he's angry. It's funny.

"I'll send you the flight confirmation within 20 minutes via email." I CANNOT believe I got the job. O. M. G.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I end the call, and place one hand on my hip as I pull my purse from under my desk. Before my boss can get a word in edgewise, I start. "I would love to make sure that you don't commit any more legal malpractice, sir, but alas, I cannot. I have a job offer that includes travel and more money. Perhaps if I wanted to continue to ruin my life and rue the day I was born, I'd stay here and kiss your hairy, droopy ass. But I don't." I start out the door, but before I can fully shut the door, "Oh, and your wife is cheating on your with the FedEx guy in your office every Thursday. By the way, I quit." The door shuts, and I'm only a night away from starting my new life – I'm going to be traveling with the WWE, seeing the world, and being paid enough to not have to eat grilled cheese sandwiches over once a week unless I want to.

This has to be about the best thing to happen, right? I mean, ah-mazing!

Upon my arrival home, I text each and every one of my friends to disseminate the wonderful news. They are happy – this is a reason to drink if they have ever heard one. And they volunteer to buy. I make sure that every one of them know I'll be to our favorite bar in about 15…have the 3 Olives and Jagerbombs ready!

I check in the email, and I find a flight confirmation for 4 a.m. departure. It's about 2:30 in the afternoon now – my two weeks was limited to the five minute, one sided conversation before – so I figured I could print out the specs, go get hammered, and have my DD get my butt to the airport in plenty of time. (My most wonderful, best friend Lane had been volunteered for this position – she was recovering from a nasty break-up with her long-term boyfriend, and I'm sure she would jump on the offer to sublease my joint, and make sure I drug my tired, soon-to-be-hungover ass to the plane in time to start my new life.)

My friends are dissecting my new opportunity. I will be functioning somewhere between an assistant to the talent, helping with the production of the show, and helping out with averting risk-management issues and keeping tabs on the superstars. I'm basically babysitting full grown men and women. My male friends instantly start peppering me with questions about the "Divas" and "fueds". I'm lost. Apparently, I might want to take some lay-over time at the airport to whip out the laptop and actually research my charges. Good thing I'm too drunk to do it now, if I had my laptop with me, I would have smashed it to bits when I go ass over teakettle in the parking lot, trying to get into the bed of my truck, all the while screaming that I was Axl Rose's lost kid and trying to sing Welcome to the Jungle. Yeah, this is going to be fun. I hope these people give me a bit of a learning curve, and if nothing else, they won't hold impromptu karaoke against me.