"Do yourself a favor and don't try to find me. When you grow up, when the time is right, I'll find you."
Her black Gucci stilettos clicked against the pavement in a perfect rhythm, enough to intimidate any man, woman or child innocently walking by. "Authorized personnel only, Ma'am." The security guard was on his toes to say the least, but she was hardly amused. Had he not seen her face before? Even with her large framed sunglasses, she was easy to recognize. Same murderous smile that struck every man through the heart, same long legs that grabbed everyone's attention when she wore her shortest skirt. No time to be a diva though, she had things to do. With a sigh she snapped open her small clutch purse and pulled out her ID. The security guard gave one look to the small picture scanned on the plastic and looked back up at the woman that stood there in person. "So sorry, go right ahead." He was right to apologize. As he held open the door for her, she tossed her hair back and ignored the man entirely. He might as well have kept silent.
The walls were white with a generic blue border, and the building reeked of desperation and sweat. With her senses tingling it was hard to ignore the memories that came flooding back. They were memories of her own desperation and her own sweat. Memories of staying up at all hours just thinking. It all came back to the same thing, her teenage years. "Excuse me." The woman looked up but it was seconds too late. The man, holding a box full of merchandise, collided with her. Instinct took over as she grabbed him by the arms. If she was falling, she was not going to go alone. They both crashed to the floor, merchandise and all. "Great job, Stevenson. Really great," a bald man dressed in a suit said sarcastically. Kneeling down to look at the damage, he picked up a fallen item, a John Cena t-shirt. "I don't even know why anyone buys this crap." The disgust in his voice was venomous, but who was she to judge anyone.
"Jonathan Coachman," the man said as he stood up. In an awkward transition he went from standing, cool and collected, to regaining his senses and helping the woman up. His dark eyes went from showing his financial concern to showing his financial and legal concern. Whoever she was, she was definitely dressed better than anyone that worked backstage. That along caused him to turn up the sincerity. "My deepest apologies about him. Consider him fired." Coachman turned his head toward the younger man. "You're fired." A nervous smile spread across his face. "Very sorry. Here have a T-shirt." The shirt was thrust into her hands despite her attempted protests. "If there's anything else I can-" But he was cut off.
"Actually, you can do me a favor." Her head of flaming red hair was down as she looked at the shirt, quickly dropping it to the floor and wiping her hands against her skirt. "Where can I find Mike Mizanin? It's important, so please, if you could hurry about it." Jonathan's mouth was agape. "The Miz? He's, uh, he should be straight down the hall and two the left. First door, can't miss it." By the time third word of his last sentence was out, she was already walking down the hall. "So you lost, no big deal. If you won every single match, people would get bored. They wouldn't care about you. When you prove them wrong you earn their respect. Trust me, I know about earning respect." Memories. No matter how hard she tried to push them away more came back. Those teenage years again, living like nothing mattered but freedom, and dreaming like you just created the concept. It felt like so long ago.
The first room on the left, 135A, the room was labeled. The woman poked her head through the doorway. All she wanted to do was find him and only him. "Come on, it'll be fun. Drinking, dancing, good times. You can't go wrong with good times." The voice was strikingly familiar. "I'm serious. It's you and me 'til the end. I'm not going anywhere." A pain jabbed her in the lower stomach. That must be what betrayal felt like. Gathering her normal state of mind, she ventured into the room, following the voice and the giggles accompanying it. It was hard to tell, but behind a gaggle of peroxide blondes was the man on her mind. "Move," she hissed as she began pushing her way through the crowd. Many a dirty look was directed toward her but she was used to it.
The mindless babble stopped. It seemed that "The Miz", how she hated that nickname, was finally catching on to things. They were almost face to face, only one lone blonde was in her way. His eyes were wide, wider than normal, as he looked at the woman standing in front of him. Same scent, peppermint and lemons. Same luxurious waves of hair. Same soft, glossy lips. She lowered her glasses, folding them and placing them gently in her purse. Same eyes. Mike took the woman by the arm, whatever her name was, and began to lead her away from the two of them. "You know what, I'll try to get back to you after the show. Why don't you go and chat with someone else for a while? Damn, who's on Raw," he strained his mind, trying to picture the other roster. "Randy Orton. Why don't you go find Orton? He loves fans." The ladies left with a shrug, they just wanted to be near a wrestler. Even Eugene would have been fine for them. But there were more important things in the air now. It was the two of them face to face.
"Valerie."
Her face wasn't one that he had been expecting to see. A month after their departure, he expected to see her walking through the door. Four months later, he was still hopeful. A year later, he still held onto his faith in her. He wasn't sure if she was coming back. Now, he still wasn't sure if she was actually there. Their history had told him she was the queen of illusions. "Michael," she said, short but firm. Her tone had not changed from their last meeting. It was still one of the most harsh noises he had ever head. "You knew I wasn't going to be gone forever. You're ready now. It was for you, and now you're ready. You know you've always been able to trust me. Don't stop now. I'm going to make sure you're a star."
They could both feel a pounding in their chests. Was it his heart, or was it hers? Maybe they had the same heart beat, just like before.
A/N: Feedback is tremendous. It's helpful to know who likes and who hates your stories.
And for those that couldn't figure it out, the Valerie in the story is "$o Cal Val", Valerie Wyndham.