An Addiction Apart

Chapter 1

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

Characters include: Jeff Hardy, Ken Kennedy Shane Helms, and an Original Character from my first fiction, Lizzie McBride, as well as others.

Disclaimer: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic material dealing with addiction, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.

I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.

I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.

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"…Every student, celebrity, CEO and math teacher in the world has experienced love, loneliness, fear and embarrassment at some point. To understand this is to level an often very lopsided playing field."

Anna Nalick, Singer-Songwriter

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It was hot…stiflingly so, yet regardless of how hard the wind blew in intermittent gusts, it never swept the heat away with it. Droplets of sweat pooled between her breasts, soaking the center of her bra, magnifying the heat to an annoying degree. To Lizzie McBride's left was the frail and weeping frame of her mother—to her right, was the impatient and wiggling body of her three year old nephew, Dillan. In front of her was the shiny silver coffin, draped with an American Flag, flanked by two immaculately uniformed Marines. Inside of that coffin lay the body of her big brother, Phillip.

Too numb to feel more than the heat, Lizzie chanced a glance at the people around her. Her ex-stepfather, Charles was seated two sections over, under the same green awning, with his new wife. Sweet woman, despite the fact that she was closer in age to Lizzie than she was to Lizzie's ex-stepfather. Charles had married Lizzie's mother after Lizzie and Phillip's natural father had passed away during their childhood. Despite the fact that he hadn't been her biological father, Charles had been unerringly, loving to Lizzie and Phillip, but the marriage had dissolved in divorce nonetheless. Lizzie's younger half sister Laramie, the mother of the squirming Dillan and also the 6 month old Dalton, whom she currently held in her arms, was the only child that Charles and Lizzie's mother, Eileen had produced in their 15 year marriage.

Thinking on Laramie, but also prompted by the sharp elbow of Dillan, who was flailing in earnest caused Lizzie to turn to her right. What poor choices, the beautiful Laramie had made. Married to a man 12 years her senior, she had early on, been thrust into a relationship that had produced two children and multiple unexplained injuries to Laramie. As if pulled forward by Lizzie's very own thoughts, Laramie's husband Victor leaned forward over Laramie's lap and tapped Dillan sharply on the knee, eliciting instant obedience from the boy. Lizzie, upon catching his stern glance, turned away

Sad, so much going on around her, in such a somber setting, and all she could truly feel or think about were the constant droplets of sweat, still dripping down the valley of her breasts. It wasn't until the two soldiers began to fold the flag that had moments earlier draped the coffin, explaining what each of the twelve folds meant, that Lizzie felt anything of any substantial weight at all. It was at that very instant that she realized her heart was sincerely breaking and all of the demons she had previously fought to banish were back suddenly with a vengeance. There would be no more Phillip, ever. Gone was the Phillip who had come to Laramie's rescue countless times when Victor had put his hands on her in rage, gone was the Phillip who had danced Lizzie's senior prom dance with her when she'd been ditched by the football player who had only taken her there as an initiation for the team. An IED in an abandoned vehicle on a dirt road in Iraq had taken his life and the lives of three other Marines with him. He was…gone and he wasn't ever coming back.

Even so, Lizzie couldn't cry, because her mother, who was currently shaking with sorrow, with her face pressed into Lizzie's side, needed her. There was no faltering for Lizzie now, because Laramie, who was also wracked with sobs and just barely being consoled by her austere and uncaring husband, needed her. And even as the Marine knelt before her mother to present her with the folded flag and the Medals of Honor, that Phillip's bravery in service to his country had garnered…all Lizzie could truly think about were the droplets of sweat…

…SIX MONTHS LATER…

American Airlines Center, Dallas Texas. RAW House Show.

It wasn't as if he had actually planned to be lying on his back in the middle of the floor, shaking away the haze of unconsciousness, but the fact was simply that the floor was indeed where he was. And perplexed was how he found himself; wondering who, what why and how he had come to be on his back on the highly polished back hallway flooring of the American Airlines Center arena. The only thing that Jeff Hardy knew for certain was that he hadn't voluntarily lain down and so the few snickers emerging from the blurry expressions of what he assumed were people in the near vicinity, told him that he most probably had caused his own fall and was just now awakening. But, then again he was known for that sort of thing…the now and then clumsy episodes that had his friends and family wondering how he had made it to adulthood without losing a limb…or two.

It wasn't until his swimming vision had cleared that he was able to clearly identify the mortified countenance of a woman looking down on him from above. The fuzzy mop of hazel hair and the glasses that dangled from her very pert nose didn't ring a bell in his subconscious and so he was certain that he'd never met her. She was, however attempting to balance upon her shoulder one of the thickest bolts of fabric wound around a stout cardboard roll that he'd ever laid eyes on. Two of his fingers cautiously applied to his forehead told him that the knot rising just above his right brow was probably a result of his collision with something or someone and so Jeff Hardy couldn't help but wonder if the bolt on the woman's shoulder was in fact, that something.

He continued to stare at the bewildered woman for a mere second or more before attempting to rise. The attempt, however elegant failed, when Jeff stumbled a bit and then righted himself on both feet, pressing his palm to the ever-present knot as a grimace knitted his arched brows.

"What happened?" Came his mumbled attempt to solve the mystery.

The woman to whom he spoke, flushed a deep scarlet but before she could even stutter an explanation, her courage fled her and in her confusion and embarrassment, she simply sloughed off the bolt of fabric to the person nearest to her and shuttled down the hallway at the speed of light, leaving Jeff and his question still standing in the middle of the hall, right along with her apparent humiliation.

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"Idiot!" Lizzie hissed in a frustrated whisper as she slammed the stall door in the women's restroom shut behind her, and then for good measure she kicked the toilet, wincing and cursing when her toe began to throb. "You're such an idiot!"

It wasn't enough that she'd had an accidental run-in with a roster member. It happened all the time, no big deal being as every staff member in the WWE and every roster member seemed to be burdened with the same requirement. To rush. Everywhere you went in every task you undertook it was automatically assumed that you should rush. Time was money, money was time. That was how the WWE looked at everything. So naturally it was commonplace to bump into people, accidentally receive a shoulder check from someone or have something knocked out of your hand by another someone who wasn't watching where they were going.

The problem with this incident was that Lizzie had simply knocked senseless the one person on the entire whole of the roster that she had an all-out maddening crush on. Jeff Hardy…of all people! It wouldn't have been so bad if she had merely bumped him with the bolt of Egyptian cotton. He might have smiled and good-naturedly nodded, dismissing the accident as just that—an accident. But no, Lizzie had spun around with the bolt after stepping around a member of the catering crew and had such a solid grasp on the stocky bolt that she'd nearly rammed it through his skull before she'd even realized he was there. The impact had taken him off of his feet, tree trunk style, sending him straight to his back on the floor. In Lizzie's horror, she was too frozen even to render aid! She'd basically stood immobile until he'd begun to come around, despite the whispers and chuckles of the quickly forming circle of onlookers, at which point she had uttered a prayer that some mythical creature would swoop down and fly off with her.

Any delusional hope of catching his eye in some romantic way was completely dashed…oh, she'd caught his eye alright…literally. There was a purple knot above his brow to prove it! And so for an eternity, she would be pegged as 'the girl who knocked out Jeff Hardy', of that she was convinced. To top it all off, Lizzie had so completely lost her bearings that, instead of giving him the explanation he deserved or at the very least an apology, she had handed the huge bolt of fabric to a complete stranger and run away like a child! She was sure that the fabric would be returned, but now everyone who'd seen the incident knew unequivocally that she was a complete idiot and that would be a hard shtick to live down.

As much as Lizzie wanted to, she knew she couldn't hide in the bathroom forever, so she mustered what was left of her ever fleeting courage and made a mad dash for the wardrobe area.

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It wasn't as if he found her interesting because she was beautiful or intriguing…awkward was probably a better category to place her in. What's more, was that he was confused as to why he even cared. He'd seen her a dozen times or more and though he was not fascinated, he was amused. Ken Kennedy had in the past, seen her nearly bowl over Hornswaggle once while carrying a trunk with a strength that a woman of her slight stature shouldn't be able to possess. Ken had also been in the vicinity once when she'd accidentally snagged her watch on Ted DiBiase, Jr.'s jacket and nearly torn a hole in it. She certainly had a way with accidental physical contact, but why he found himself watching was a mystery.

She wasn't even in the league of the WWE Diva's, what with her sandy mop of unruly curls and those glasses…far too big for her face. Even now, as he watched her disaster with Jeff Hardy, he thought she could use some polishing up. The poor girl appeared to be the same size from the shoulder to the ankle, probably weighing under a hundred pounds, wearing some hideously, large woolen sweater that would have come closer to fitting him than her. Her blue jeans were covered with rips and tears that indicated that they were the product of a 1980's stonewashed nightmare, but at least they flared at the calf, preventing her from looking like a walking pencil. Ken shook his head as he glanced down at her shoes from his seated position on a plastic crate. He'd just about bet that they might be Buster Brown orthopedics or something of the like and he was bewildered to find himself smiling slightly. He thought she was so nondescript and bland that she might be passed over by the average person who looked at her…then again maybe she was so used to that sort of thing that she dressed to fit the part.

Of course, she wasn't completely boring. He had noticed that despite her gaunt appearance, she had a most interesting heart shaped face with a full mouth shaped like a heart too, and if you could get past the glasses and the dark circles that ringed her lower lids, he had to admit that she had a pair of the most beautiful almond shaped eyes he'd ever seen. They were blue…no, bluer than blue. They were like the pacific just before a storm hit…deep and haunting, the irises rimmed with an icy grey tinge as if they had been painted there. Once those eyes landed on you it was almost paralyzing. The lashes that covered those eyes were in great contrast to her hazel hair…they were black and long, casting a shadow on her cheeks whenever she blinked. They looked as though they had no right being there, but they were. Either way…it still bothered him a little that he found himself gazing at her with curiosity, especially since he hadn't really looked at any woman with more than complete disinterest since the day that his wife Emily had passed away. And without a doubt, this woman was nothing like 'his' Emily.

Ken shoved the pencil into his leather-bound journal and stuffed it into his bag after sketching in a rough draft of the poor girl's stricken expression. It's what his bereavement counselor had suggested he do—sketch, write, something…anything to get his thoughts on paper, so he didn't bottle everything up. He then stood to his feet and slung the bag over his shoulder, preparing to head out for the hotel.