Trinity
Chapter 1: 'The Missing Piece'

A/N: There are a couple of things that most people know about me. 1.) I'm heavily inspired by photographs, and 2.) There's nothing I love more than a really good villain.

Something about seeing this year's No Mercy poster, the one with Randy holding the dove, this story just kind of exploded in my mind. It's different for me, in that there are no actual 'good' guys. In developing the story, and in writing the first few chapters I have discovered that there is truth to the idea that bad guys have more fun. Even though I'm kinda nervous about how this will be received, I'm having so much fun creating this dark and sinister world. I hope you enjoy reading it.

The bar was secluded and small. Most would describe it a dive. Not at all the place for an A-list celebrity, with its dim lighting and smoky atmosphere, but it was perfect for her. Away from the scene, from the cameras and the watching eyes. Away from the people who used to know her name. Used to give a shit if she was there or not. Here, nobody knew her, and she didn't want them to. Here, she could be alone with her self-pity, wallowing in a dry martini and the sounds of nineties grunge rock.

Rohan McKeehan dropped to the stool at the end of the bar and rested her elbows on the lacquered surface before her. She placed her order with the bartender and leaned forward, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she held her forehead in her palms, a chestnut curtain to hide her from the outside world.

Not that the world was watching. Not anymore. Irrelevant. That's what they called her. 'Cutesy and idyllic, this film is nothing more than a fun, fluffy, feel-good movie. While its marketability is undeniable, it is impossible not to question Rohan McKeehan's interest in such a vapid concept. Once a shining force on the screen, evoking an emotional and social awareness with each pitch-perfect performance, McKeehan's recent projects have proven her just another Hollywood sell-out, irrelevant to an already anemic genre of important, must-see films.'

She could no longer deny that the numbers were fading. She just didn't open a film like she used to. Her name used to be enough to put asses in the seats, but not anymore. She had fallen prey to every Tinsletown cliché, and for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

She still approached every project with the same system, creating films that appealed to her, following her gut instincts. She was well-aware that not everyone would like every project, but she did. She loved every job she had ever taken, and she was proud of them. The same actress she had always been, Rohan struggled to wrap her head around the fact that people just seemed to be losing interest in her talent. And as the fans lost their desire to see her on the screen, directors and producers lost the fire to passionately pursue her as their heroine, their star.

"This seat taken?" a deep voice interrupted her mental musings.

Shaking her head, Rohan lifted the skewer from her martini and popped the olive into her mouth. "Nope," she answered before chewing it and washing it down with another healthy sip.

"May I?" the tall, dark, and handsome stranger asked, lowering himself to the stool when she nodded toward it. "You got a name?" he asked easily, motioning for the bartender to bring another round.

His blue eyes seemed to glow against the darkness of the room and Rohan found herself lost in them inexplicably. Twelve years in the industry had taught her that no one was as they seemed and that even the most polite conversation could not be trusted. "Doesn't everyone?" she asked with a coy grin, her eyes twinkling with the amusement of shooting this over-confident Abercrombie model down.

With a slight nod, he lifted the fresh tumbler to his lips and smirked around the cool glass. "Touché," he conceded, leaning forward and resting his elbows against the bar as she straightened her posture and took another drink. She would play hard-to-get - they always did - but if there was one thing Randy Orton knew, it was how to bring a woman out of her defensive shell. While he hadn't requested crystal blue eyes, pouty lips, and broad shoulders, he wasn't above using them to his every advantage.

His pedigree, good looks, and inherent ability had allowed him to ascend the ranks of professional wrestling with ease, and afforded him a rock star lifestyle, without the insane, mainstream attention that would make leaving his house impossible. It had been more than enough for awhile. A blessing, some of his co-workers would call their lives. But try as he might, Randy just couldn't believe that anymore. It wasn't enough. There had to be more.

He had the confidence, and he was establishing the connections. All he needed was the opportunity. And if his mentor, Triple H, had taught him anything, it was that doors don't always just open. Sometimes you have to kick 'em in. Fate and destiny were concepts he breathed like air on television every week, but they were fairy tale bull shit. Something that people believed in to get them out of making their own luck. Randy was tired of waiting for his break to find him. It was time to make it happen.

"So that's it?" Rohan interrupted his thoughts when the bartender brought her a second drink. "You're not even gonna ask?" She watched with unchecked curiosity when Randy lifted his head and turned his eyes to her face, smiling slightly as he licked his lips. "You have the balls to walk over here and have a seat, but not to ask my name?"

Though Rohan wasn't sure why she felt compelled to push him when all she really wanted was to be alone, she couldn't stop the questions from tumbling over her lips. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the way his cologne wafted above the smoke in the air. Maybe it was just the fact that she was tired of being overlooked, of being given up on, of being washed up and tossed aside. She wouldn't beg for his attention, but she wouldn't let him get away easily, either.

Randy turned on his stool and looked over the tiny room. A group of blonde co-eds sat in the corner, watching him from the corner of their eyes as they pretended to carry on a conversation together. The one closest to the bar met his eye and then blushed and giggled loudly before tucking a strand of her golden locks behind her ear. "Maybe I don't care," he finally answered Rohan, chuckling inwardly when she huffed incredulously. "I could walk over there," he motioned to the girls, "and not even have to ask. I could spend five minutes at that table and walk away with names, phone numbers, and an apartment key." He took another drink and winked at the blonde for effect.

Before she could stop herself, Rohan felt her eyes rolling. "Jesus," she scoffed, running her finger around the lip of her glass. "I think we both know that's a HUGE pile of shit." He seemed intrigued by her statement, but said nothing as he turned his body back toward her, his knee bumping against her, sending a bolt of electricity up Rohan's spine. When he didn't go on, she gulped the rest of her martini and raked her fingers through her hair. "Guys don't want the easy lay anymore. They want the challenge. To feel like they've accomplished something when they get in a girl's pants. It's all about the chase."

"You read that in some book?" Randy chuckled, moving his leg slightly to brush against her skin again. Her denim miniskirt was riding higher as he nudged her, and he allowed his eyes to fixate on the creamy expanse of her outer thigh as he spoke. "It's the oldest cliché in the book, Sweetheart. Guys like the chase," he mocked, allowing a genuine laugh to escape his throat. "Ya know who started that shit? Somebody's mom, like, a hundred years ago. Or her dad. Probably her dad," he added sarcastically. "A way to keep their little girl's panties on. Make 'em think they'll get respect or some shit."

She wasn't sure if he was trying to posture for her, or if this guy was truly an asshole, but Rohan was done playing his game. It had been fun for a moment, something to distract her from the other garbage going on in her life. But his confidence had given way to a vile arrogance, and she knew she wouldn't be able to stomach him and another drink if she stayed.

Standing from her seat, she ignored the fact that she could still feel echo of his jeans against her bare flesh. After she covered her tab, she shouldered her bag and shook her head. "Thanks for making my horrible day that much more degrading," she nodded with a sardonic smile, her eyes narrowing when he returned the grin. "Have fun with the blonde squad over there."

Randy watched as she walked away, shaking his head slowly. He'd psyched himself up for a marathon session, for taking his time and savoring the feeling of breaking her down. Rohan McKeehan had almost made it too easy. Lifting his glass to his lips again, he drained the last of the amber liquid, letting it burn down his throat before dropping it to the bar and turning to the man who had just slid into the seat his former companion had abandoned.

"So that's her?" the man asked, his rumbling timber dangerously low.

Randy nodded and met the green eyes of his friend. "That's the one," he assured the older man. None of the fans who ever saw them together could understand why the hell Randy Orton had gone from hanging out with John Cena and Edge to the Undertaker, but he couldn't give a fuck less if they got it or not. They didn't need to understand the bond. Taker and Randy knew what was up. That was enough.

Turning his head back toward the door, Taker chuckled from somewhere deep inside his broad chest. "Not gonna be easy, ya know?" Randy just rolled his shoulders and stood, taking his car keys from his pocket. Taker led the way out the back entrance of the bar and inhaled the smog-thickened Los Angeles air deeply. "You think this is gonna impress him?"

With a nod, Randy exhaled a long breath, his eyes focused on the black Hummer awaiting them. He was so close. Everything he wanted, everything he had planned for, everything he had dreamed of, was almost within his grasp. Rohan McKeehan was the last piece. She would complete the puzzle of fate he had created for himself. Rattling his keys, Randy bit his lip one last time and then nodded his head definitively. "It has to."