He was doing it again. I know we're all tired and the bus, while comfortable, isn't designed to carry guys our size, but everyone else tried to show some consideration, tried to respect the others' space. You have to understand, our work puts us in constant contact with each other. We spend hours crammed in rental cars, jammed into uncomfortable airplane seats, sleeping on lumpy hotel mattresses in beds that are too small. So, we try; we give each other as much room as possible.
But not Randy fucking Orton.
Oh no! He had to spread himself across two seats, dangling his feet over the arm so that anyone who needed to use the washroom had to climb over them. And when the bus lurched over a bump in the road sending Santino flying he opened his eyes, pushed up his sunglasses and poured out a stream of abuse.
Like I said, we're all tired and grouchy, and Randy, as champ, has less free time than any of us, but that's the price you pay for wearing the belt. It's not an excuse for acting like a prick. I could feel everybody's eyes on me as poor Santino picked himself up. God, I miss Hunter. At least he could make Randy behave sometimes. Why do people act like it's my job to keep Randy in line? I suppose because as former champ and one of the few who occupy the same level of the roster, they think he might actually listen to me.
And maybe trained monkeys might fly out of my butt.
Still, somebody had to tell him he was being an asshole. I raised myself up and twisted around uncomfortably so I could see him. "Randy, don't be a dick. If you didn't insist on sticking your legs out into the aisle, Santino wouldn't have fallen over them."
He peered at me over the top of those sunglasses, heaved a great sigh and pulled his legs out of the aisle. "Satisfied?" he drawled, crossing his arms in front of him.
I settled back down in my chair, but couldn't get comfortable. Okay, I know I didn't have to ride the bus with the rest of the company during the European tour, but I do try to be one of the guys as much as possible. I know a lot of them think that I'm crazy; I could easily afford to travel in a private car with a driver, but I enjoy being able to hang with the rest of them. It gives me chance to get to know some of them better. Like the guys in the Nexus; some of those guys are pretty young and this is their first taste of the business at this level. Take Slater and Gabriel; until we hit the road, they barely said a word to me, but now, they're relaxed and confident and it's showing in the ring.
I might not be a second or third-generation wrestler like Randy, Ted or Cody, but I pay attention to the old-timers and I listen to the road agents and one of the things I have learned is that you owe it to the fans to give them the best match possible and that means helping your opponent look good. Even Randy, although he can be a real asshole at times, knows this and does it too. I suppose that's why he will always be my favourite opponent. Somehow, we recognised, almost from the start, that our rivalry could be one of the best of the current era and we always bring our best to the ring when we're working together.
None of this, however, makes him an easy person to be around outside of the ring. I leaned my head back and was just beginning to doze off when I felt something hit me against the side of my face. When I opened my eyes I saw that Randy had draped his legs over the back of my seat, his feet dangling on either side of my head.
Did I mention that he could be a real asshole sometimes?
"Randy!" I said, trying to keep my voice low, "get your fucking feet out of my face!"
A gentle snore was my only answer.
Just as I was trying to decide what to do next, I heard a stifled laugh from across the aisle and saw Evan Bourne grinning at me.
"Do you want to trade seats?" he asked. "Chances are his feet will clear my head."
I wasn't entirely sure about that, but I took him up on the offer. Just as I was beginning to relax, I heard another low snicker and, opening my eyes, I saw that Evan had untied both of Randy's shoes and was gently tugging them off.
He held his finger to his lips and very slowly pulled off his socks. Everybody knows that Randy could sleep through the Apocalypse and he didn't stir as Evan stuffed his socks inside the shoes and tied them together in a series of fiendish knots before placing them under the seat.
I'll admit that I was a bit surprised. Not at the rib; we do this kind of stuff to each other all the time, but that it was Evan doing it. He very rarely did this sort of thing; not because he had no sense of humour, but because then you knew you were fair game for payback and, for some reason, most of the ribs Evan got tended to be really mean-spirited. Mostly they played on his size: like stuffing him into a locker and leaving him there for half the show or swiping his underwear and replacing them with size 6 Underoos or ordering him Happy Meals at McDonalds. One time, somebody nailed a pair of wooden blocks to the bottoms of his boots. Now, that wasn't funny because his boots were ruined. He never would say who had done it, but, a couple of days later, Ryder had quite a black eye and the Miz was walking around with a fat lip.
There was a lot of speculation about who had done it; Evan's a leftie and those punches had been thrown by someone right-handed. I'd have done it myself if I'd known who it was, but I've always had this sneaky suspicion that it was Randy; say what you like about him, but he would never tolerate deliberate cruelty. I suppose that's why Evan felt safe ribbing him; he knew whatever Randy did in return wouldn't be unkind or just plain mean.
Did Randy and I ever rib each other? No. Our relationship, for lack of a better word, was far too complicated for that.
XXXXX
One thing a lot of people outside of the business don't seem to understand is how boring and lonely life on the road can be. We're on the road over three-hundred days of the year; we miss birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, childbirths and deaths. I'm not complaining; this is the life I chose, but, sometimes, the choice between your right and left hand isn't going to cut it. Most of us know better than to pick up a local. Some of these girls or guys have convinced themselves that they're in love with you and it can get pretty messy when you roll back into the same town six months later to find them waiting for you, but you don't even remember their names or, even worse, sporting a belly full of arms and legs, with an angry father in tow.
So, a lot of the time, we turned to each other.
Does this make us gay? I don't think so. Bi? Maybe, except I believe that very few of us, including me would be looking at guys outside of the company or off the road. Management don't like it, but they realise that it's probably better than any of the alternatives: random sex with strangers, booze or drugs. As long as we're discreet and don't let it affect us professionally, they turn a blind eye.
It had happened to me a couple of times, but as you start to reach the top of the card, you have to wonder if this person is really interested in you or in what you can do for their career. I know Randy had the same problem, worse in his case, because he had reached the top so young. Hunter had protected him and looked out for him in the beginning, but he hadn't been able to stop him from making a couple of bad choices.
I suppose that's another reason why Randy can be so difficult today: there are very few people in the company that he completely trusts. As a result, he's suspicious and aloof most of the time and, unless he's determined to charm your pants off, he usually acts like a real jerk.
And, of course, that begs the very obvious question: why not Randy and me?
We'd both thought about it, we'd even joked about it; how much easier things would be if we just got together. Once in a while, we'd catch one another's eye and knew that we were both thinking about it. But it hadn't happened.
XXXXX
But to get back to the bus and Randy's feet. I pulled out my phone and snapped a couple of shots of Evan holding his nose and pretending to gag at the smell. Then I sent them to Evan, wondering how Randy was going to like seeing these shots all over Twitter and, once again, I leaned back trying to doze off. But I couldn't stop opening my eyes to take a sidelong look at Randy's feet.
That's another thing you have to understand about us. We share locker rooms, dressing rooms and hotel rooms. We're used to seeing each other in all our glory, so, sometimes, what you don't get to see becomes more intriguing than the idea of total nudity and, unless you're Samoan, chances are you're not going around barefoot. When you're in the locker room, you're not going to start checking out the other guys' feet; that would be… weird.
Okay, so maybe I'm a bit weird, but, don't forget, given Randy's ring attire and total lack of modesty, this was about the only body part he didn't have on regular display. And wouldn't you know that even his feet were beautiful. Sometimes it just doesn't seem fair that one man should be given so much; you find yourself staring because you just can't believe that anyone could look like that for real. Sometimes you hope that you'll find something less than perfect: that his ears are lop-sided or that he's got a bit of flab on his ass. It's almost a relief that he acts like such a jerk a lot of the time; at least then you can tell yourself that looks aren't everything.
The bus had been rumbling along for a couple of hours and most of the guys had begun stir and gather up their stuff, realising that we were almost there, wherever the hell "there" was. We'd reached the, "if this is Tuesday, then this must be Belgium," point of the tour. Europe's beautiful and I hope to go back one day when I have the time to appreciate it, but most arenas look the same, and right now, all we wanted was some decent food and a comfortable bed.
But the beauty of this city could not be denied and even the most jaded of us sat up straight to stare out of the windows at Paris. That is everyone except Randy, who continued to snore, oblivious to the City of Light.
Evan caught my eye and drew his finger along Randy's sole. He twitched, but slept on, so Evan reached out and began to tickle his feet. Randy jerked awake with a loud shriek as Evan dropped to the floor in front of the seat and covered himself with his jacket. Swearing loudly, Randy pulled his legs back and peered over the seat, but could not make out Evan in the growing darkness.
His language grew even more colourful as we pulled up in front of our hotel and he finally discovered his shoes, hopelessly knotted together. As for Evan, he had slithered under the seats to emerge several rows ahead, innocently occupying the seat next to Tyson Kidd while the rest of us convulsed with laughter at the sight of Randy hurling his shoes down the boulevard and stomping into the hotel in his sock feet.
XXXXX
A couple of hours later, most of us met up in the hotel bar. We had a very rare free evening and day to ourselves before the show tomorrow night. Most of the guys were pretty excited: a lot of them were going to check out the famous Paris nightlife and almost everybody had plans for sightseeing tomorrow. Personally, I don't really care all that much about going to a bunch of clubs with half-naked dancers and I've already done the Eiffel Tower and all the other tourist stuff, so I didn't really have any plans. I know it sounds kind of bad, but all I really wanted to do was find a gym and then relax for the rest of the day.
Anyway, nobody had bothered to ask if I had any plans. Now, I know that sounds really whiny, but being at the top of the roster is incredibly isolating. The mid-card and new guys tend to keep away from you and the other headliners are either rivals for your spot on the card or involved in their own lives. Sometimes I envied Adam; he and Jason had been together so long and had such a strong relationship and sometimes I envied Randy, who seemed to need nobody. It had been a long time for me; I'd been tempted once or twice, but, honestly, the only one I was drawn to was Evan and he was off-limits.
Everybody knew that Jericho's leaving had broken his heart and, soon, he had to take time off for surgery and rehab. Although he had done his best to stay smiling and upbeat, he carried about him a deep air of sadness. That was another reason why it had made me happy to see him ribbing Randy; it was good to see him laughing and cheerful again.
And speaking of Randy, who should come and join me at the bar? None other than the Viper, himself.
"Somebody had better warn that little squirt that the next time I see him, I'm going to flatten him. And he owes me a new pair of shoes."
"What makes you think it was Evan?" I asked.
"Contrary to popular opinion, I am not stupid," he said. "You were sitting in his seat and he had disappeared."
I actually felt a bit embarrassed. A lot of people tend to assume that Randy isn't any too bright. I guess they just can't stand the idea that someone who looks like he does would also have brains. He's quite happy to let people think that way; by the time they find out, he's usually gotten whatever it is he wants from them. But I wasn't too worried about Evan. He was one of the few that Randy had any time for and, although I'd seen him give him the once-over a couple of times, I knew that he wouldn't try anything while Evan was so vulnerable.
He ordered a beer and we drank in silence for a few minutes, until, finally, he asked, "Do you want to get out of here and find some dinner?"
Frankly, I was surprised. Most people would find it hard to believe, but Randy and I rarely socialised. We might have a beer like we were just then or work out together, but we almost never ate a meal together and I don't think we'd ever made plans to spend any time together. As I said, our relationship was very complex. We were professional rivals, who knew that together we formed a whole far greater than the sum of our parts. This did not lead to anything that could possibly be called friendship, but we recognised the other's necessity in our lives.
And then there was the matter of physical attraction. I was attracted to Randy. Who wouldn't be? And I knew he thought about me in the same way, but, somehow, something prevented us from acting on it. Maybe if we'd done something about it at the beginning, but now… I guess there was this feeling that the reality couldn't possibly match our expectations. Not to mention the added current it gave to our confrontations in the ring.
But, back to the dinner invitation. "Okay," I answered, "but I don't want anywhere too fancy." I always had this fear that I'd end out ordering frogs' legs or calf's brains by mistake in one of those fancy places.
"Fine by me," Randy said and we set off.
Eventually, we settled on a bistro a few blocks from the hotel. By some stroke of luck, we managed to find just about the only waiter in Paris who didn't act like he was doing us some huge favour by letting us eat in his restaurant and soon we were wolfing down steaks and those skinny fries. Randy had surprised me by ordering a bottle of red wine and I have to say that it was one of the best meals I had ever eaten.
It was still early when we were done and we began to wander aimlessly through the streets. I'd forgotten that Randy can be really good company when he drops his mask. I suppose that I keep a bit of a wall between myself and the others, too. Being top of the card is a mixed blessing: you do start to wonder about other people's motives when they seem to want to be your best buddy. I know I've been burned and I'm pretty sure Randy has as well.
It was a relief to be able to speak frankly with someone who was in the same position as I was. People place a lot of expectations on us. I don't mean the fans, they're the reason we're here, but the rest of the company. I tried to share some of this with Randy.
"Sometimes I get tired of feeling like everybody's eyes are on me," I said. We had just gone into a small café and ordered coffee.
"You mean you get sick of always having to be the grown-up," Randy chuckled. "Like today on the bus."
"Exactly."
"That's when having a reputation for being a jerk pays off," he grinned.
"Believe me, there are plenty of times when I envy you. You don't care what anyone thinks about you."
"Is that what you think? Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised.
"You don't."
"That's not true," he said quietly. "I care what you think about me. I care a great deal."
I was so shocked I couldn't speak.
"I can't believe you think that about me," he said. "I always thought you were one of the few who didn't take me at face value."
I couldn't believe how hurt he looked.
"You're just as bad as all the others. That stuff on the bus today: that was just kidding around. I know I act like an ass a lot of the time, but never to you. Never to you," he repeated. He got up from the table and left the café.
I dropped some money on the table and hurried out after him. "Randy! Wait!" I shouted, but he was walking down the street, his head down, his hands jammed in his pockets, taking such long strides I had to run to catch up to him.
"Randy, please!" I exclaimed grabbing him by the arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't really mean it." The thing is, if I had stopped to think for about two seconds, I didn't really believe it. Randy cared about the fans and worried when he felt he hadn't given them his best; he was always careful and considerate of the feelings of the old-timers. I thought about his relationship with Ted and Cody: he had never shown them anything but unfailing kindness.
He wrenched his arm away. "All these years," he hissed, "all these years, I tried to make our matches special. Because they were special to me. I thought you felt the same way and all this time you've been thinking that I'm just some jerk. I wanted to be the best I could be with you. I wanted to be better for you." He crammed his hands back into his pockets and continued to walk.
And I thought about how treated me. How he insisted on discussing every match with me, even when it was our tenth in three weeks on some endless house-show loop; how he'd visited me in the hospital after I was injured; how he insisted on taking the hard bumps if he knew I was feeling sore or tired. And other things: like how he would send me a bottle of champagne with a goofy card every time I won the belt and before every Wrestlemania and I realised that the jerk in our relationship was me.
We kept walking, hopefully towards our hotel, until we reached that fountain. You know, the one you see all the time in those movies that take place in Paris, with the big horses. It was every bit as gorgeous as it looks on the screen. Finally, he stopped and wiped his face with the back of his hand. There was a bit of a breeze and we were both getting wet from the spray of the fountain, but Randy was wiping away tears.
"I'm sorry," I said again. "I wasn't thinking."
"Just forget about it," he said, "forget about it and leave me alone."
With that, he strode off again. I stayed by the fountain for a long time wondering if I could ever repair things between us. I kept hearing his words over and over again, "I wanted to be the best I could be with you. I wanted to be better for you," and that's when I understood that the real reason that Randy and I had never gotten together was because, somewhere deep inside, we were both afraid of having our hearts broken.
XXXXX
I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of my hotel room, cursing myself for being a blind, stupid fool. Somehow, I had to make amends, but, for the life of me, I couldn't imagine how. Finally, sometime around six in the morning, I got out of bed and showered and was getting ready to go down to breakfast when I heard a soft knock at my door.
Opening it, I was surprised to see Evan standing in the corridor clutching a pair of shoes.
"I didn't want to knock too loud in case you were still asleep."
"It's okay," I told him, "I was already up and showered."
"I got Randy's shoes back, but I don't know what room he's in. I thought he might need them today," he said.
"You mean you ran out into the street in front of all those crazy French drivers to get Randy's shoes?" I asked in amazement. Believe me, running into the Paris traffic was probably riskier than anything he'd ever attempted in the ring.
"Well, it was my fault they ended out in the middle of the street." He'd even unknotted the laces.
"Leave them here. I'll get them back to him later." I could have kissed Evan; I was so glad to have an excuse to talk to Randy. "Why don't we go grab some breakfast?"
The hotel coffee shop was practically deserted, so we were eating pretty quickly.
"What are you doing today?" Evan asked.
"Nothing. I thought I might look for a gym, but that's it."
"But you're in Paris! You can't just hang around your hotel room all day."
"I've done most of the tourist stuff already. What are you up to?"
"I'm going to Père Lachaise. There are all sorts of amazing graves there: Molière, Proust, Chopin; Jim Morrison is there, too."
"Sounds interesting," I said. "Have a good time."
Evan hesitated for a second and then he asked, "Do you want to come too?"
I was touched; like I said, occupying the top level of the roster is very lonely sometimes. I honestly couldn't remember the last time someone in the company had invited me along somewhere.
"Sure," I said. It did sound interesting and it had to be better than spending all day kicking myself.
We finished our breakfast and Evan surprised me by insisting that we take the Metro. Armed with a guide book, we made our way to the cemetery. It's far too big to take in all in one day, but it was incredibly fascinating to see all those famous names. I added it to my list of places I'd like to visit again when I had more time.
Time: that was the one thing we never had enough of. Our schedules and our constant travel meant that we were always scrambling for time to sleep, time to eat, time to relax and time to live.
It was nice to spend a few hours simply wandering around. We were recognised a couple of times by the other tourists, who asked for pictures and autographs, but, otherwise, were left alone. Eventually, we left the cemetery and found a small restaurant to have some lunch.
"When do you go for your surgery?" I asked.
"In a few weeks. Then I'll be off for about four months for rehab," he sighed.
"That really sucks," I said, "but maybe you can get together with Chris. Have you kept in touch?"
"No," he said, a shadow crossing his face. "When he decided to move on we agreed that it was over."
"It's none of my business. I'm sorry I asked." And I was sorry; the pain and hurt on his face was unmistakeable.
"No, it's okay. I know a lot of people were surprised when we got together."
That was true. I'd suspected that Evan had carried a torch for Chris for some time, but, as far as anyone knew, nothing had happened between them until they had worked together earlier this year.
We didn't say anything more as the waiter brought our meals, but, as soon as he was gone, Evan continued, "It's funny, Chris had felt the same way for a while, but neither of us acted on it until it was too late."
Except that it wasn't funny; it was sad. Maybe if they'd gotten together earlier Chris wouldn't have left or, at least, wouldn't have broken it off and Evan wouldn't be facing surgery and months of boring and painful rehab alone, but I didn't say anything more as Evan abruptly changed the subject.
We spent the rest of the meal talking about our families: Evan asking me about how my mother coped being the only female in a house with six men and telling stories about his parents and brother. We'd paid our bill and were finishing our coffee, when Evan, who'd been fiddling nervously with his napkin, spoke suddenly:
"It's my turn to bring up something that's none of my business. Don't make the same mistake I did."
"What?"
"You and Randy. Don't make the same mistake Chris and I did." Although he had turned bright pink, he looked me straight in the eye. "We waited so long; we wasted so much time and then… it was too late. Don't let that happen to you."
I swallowed two or three times. I could see that it was incredibly hard for Evan to be saying these things to me; he looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, but he still held my gaze. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that love can wait," he whispered, finally dropping his eyes.
We finished our coffee in silence then Evan suggested that it was time we headed back to the hotel. Neither of us said much on the way back, but, when we were in the hotel elevator, riding back up to our rooms, Evan turned to me and said, "Thank you for coming along. It was nice to have some company. I-I really enjoyed myself."
"No," I said, as we reached the door to his room, "thank you; for the invitation; for everything." I squeezed his forearm as he opened his door and slipped into his room.
I made my way back to my own room, my head whirling. Evan's words echoed in my head, "We waited so long; we wasted so much time." Was it too late for Randy and me? I didn't know, but, picking up Randy's shoes, I decided that I wasn't going to waste any more time.
XXXXX
I'll never forget the look of amazement on Randy's face when he opened up his door and saw me standing there holding his shoes. "For me?" he drawled, "how touching."
"I didn't know what kind of flowers you like," I said, smiling weakly as I offered the shoes to him.
The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly as he let me in the room. "How did you find them?"
"Evan ran out into the traffic to get them. He was worried that you might need them."
"That boy's clearly got a death wish." He took them from me and tossed them in the direction of his suitcase.
I stood awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next, as Randy leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms. "About last night-" I finally managed to stammer out, "I'm so sorry; I've been a blind, stupid jerk."
"Yes, you have."
"Your friendship," I had no idea what other word to use, "means a great deal to me. Please don't let one stupid comment spoil it."
"We've never been friends," he stated flatly. "I never wanted to be your friend."
"I know that now," I said miserably. "Is it too late?"
Randy raked me with his gaze, his eyes a hard, cold grey. "Yes."
XXXXX
We finished out the European tour and went home. It was nice to be back, but we were soon on the road again and everybody on the Raw roster was cranky and bad-tempered. The Nexus storyline was eating up so much air time that the guys who had been plugging away for a long time were getting resentful and the members of the Nexus were getting prickly and defensive.
As for Randy, he had withdrawn almost to the point of isolation. He spoke to me only when he had to and only about what was going on in the ring. As soon as the show was over he would retreat to his tour bus and no one saw him until we all arrived at the next venue. Of course this kind of behaviour set tongues wagging non-stop. There were rumours that he was drinking heavily and, on the rare occasions when he did hang out with the others, he was rude and sarcastic. Several of the women had been reduced to tears by his comments and Harris had been devastated when Randy made fun of his weight.
In short, he was acting every bit the jerk I had accused him of being. But not to me; me, he simply ignored.
I don't know how long this would have gone on except for what happened on the Sunday before Evan's last Raw appearance before his surgery. A bunch of the guys were taking him out for pizza after the Sunday afternoon show. I had actually been quite surprised when a furiously blushing David Hart Smith had stopped me earlier that day and asked if I wanted to come. But thinking about it, I realised that there had been two or three invitations over the past few weeks to the sort of thing I hadn't done in years: a poker game in one of their rooms or an outing to a midnight showing of some movie. My schedule had allowed me to accept only once, but I knew that this was Evan's influence and I was touched.
Once again, I was going to have to say no; I was committed to a P.R. thing that evening, so I went to the locker room to see Evan. I found him sitting alone, which before a show is a very rare thing, staring blankly into space.
"Hey," I said, "I'm really sorry, but I won't be able to make it tonight."
"That's okay," he said. "I know you're pretty busy most of the time. Randy isn't coming either."
I was surprised. Randy and Evan go way back; they'd met back when Evan was first starting out in St Louis and, like I said, Randy had always been fond of him. Evan looked positively wretched. I tried to reassure him, "Look, I know you're worried about your surgery and everything, but I'm sure it'll turn out fine."
"It's not that," he said. I could see he was having a hard time trying to control himself. "Randy stopped in here earlier. He said he wasn't coming, but he wanted to give me this." Evan handed me a large photograph of the Viper at his most arrogant, standing on the ropes, his arms outstretched in his signature pose. "He said I could have it to keep myself company at night."
I was too surprised to speak. Everyone, including Randy, knew that Evan had had a crush on him a long time ago, but Evan had never tried to go after him or pester him and it had eventually passed.
"I wouldn't care," he said, dangerously close to tears, "except he did it in front of everyone. I guess it was payback for that business with his shoes in Paris."
But it wasn't. If Randy had stolen his tights or put itching powder in his boots that would have been payback. This was deliberate cruelty. I could feel the blood pounding in my head as I took the photo from him and pinned it up on the corkboard in the locker room, skewering his groin with a thumbtack.
Evan smiled at me crookedly and, picking up a marker, drew a moustache on it, but I could see his shoulders shaking and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly, as he regained control. For a second, I was tempted; Evan was hurt and frightened and I was lonely, but I let him go. "Anyway," I said, "Let me buy you breakfast tomorrow morning."
"You don't have to do that," he answered. "I'll see you before I leave Tuesday morning."
I watched him paste a smile on his face and run out of the locker room and went looking for Randy. It's probably a good thing I couldn't find him; I was so angry I don't know what I would have done. And at the bottom of it all was the knowledge that this was all my fault.
XXXXX
After the show that day I went back into the locker room and grabbed the photo of Randy. The rest of the guys had gone to town on it, drawing in glasses, a fart cloud coming out of his ass and a balloon from his mouth with the words, "I have a tiny cock," written in it. I stuffed it into my bag. Why I was keeping it, I don't know.
Evan came to see me for a few minutes during the Monday Night Raw broadcast, tapping on my dressing room door, he slipped inside and said that he had been able to book a late flight home and was heading straight to the airport. I gave him a quick hug and promised to keep in touch. I watched as he headed to the exit, exchanging handshakes and hugs with several of the backstage personnel. Although he was smiling, there was no mistaking his sadness and, once again, I felt my anger with Randy, who had poisoned his last days, growing.
Of course, the powers-that-be would decide that Randy and I needed to fight in a tag-team match next week against Harris and McGillicutty, forcing us into each others' company. Randy was still in full-on asshole mode, but the two younger guys were both third generation wrestlers as well and were not as easily intimidated as some of the others might have been. Finally, even he got down to work and we were able to put together the outline of a decent match.
We walked down the corridor of the arena in silence until I said, "I spoke to Evan the other day."
Randy just gave me a blank stare, so I continued. "He says his surgery went well. The doctors are optimistic." He simply shrugged and exited the arena, climbing into his bus.
Shaking with rage, I dug the photograph out of my bag and pinned it to his dressing room door.
XXXXX
By the time Randy arrived that night the picture had been altered even more, covered with obscene comments and someone had sketched a bottle marked Viagra in one of his hands. Of course, the entire company seemed to find it necessary to hang around in the hallway as he approached his dressing room. If they were waiting for an explosion they were to be severely disappointed. Randy simply pulled it off the door and disappeared inside the room.
Needless to say, neither of us had to fake any tension between us that night, but when I picked Randy up to deliver the Attitude Adjustment at Barrett's orders, I could smell his sweat and the oil on his skin and I could feel a prickle running down my spine as I felt myself twitch and throb. And he felt the same thing; I could tell.
This had gone on long enough, I decided. As soon as the Battle Royal and all the Nexus bullshit that went with it was over I ran to his dressing room and went in without knocking. He was sprawled in a chair holding that damned picture.
"You know," he said, "I should probably be thanking you. I always knew that not too many people in this company liked me. I guess I never realised how much they hate me though. It's kind of a relief to have it out in the open."
"They don't hate you, or, at least, they didn't until recently. How could you have done that to Evan?" I burst out. "He adores you. How could you have humiliated him like that in front of everyone?"
"Don't you know?" he drawled, "I'm an asshole, who doesn't care what anybody thinks about him. Not that little grinning pipsqueak and definitely not you."
I was so angry I could see stars in front of my eyes. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and choke him until he lost that snooty expression. I wanted to knock him to the floor and pummel him until every inch of that gorgeous body was black and blue. I wanted to break both of his arms so that he couldn't stand on the ropes doing that fucking pose. I wanted to sink my teeth into his shoulder until I drew blood. I wanted to tear off his trunks and pounce on that bulge I could see.
Randy stretched like a great cat and stood. He walked slowly across the small space of the room until he was standing so close to me that we were almost touching. I could feel his breath on my face as he backed me up against the door. We stared at each other for what felt like hours, our faces barely inches apart. Both of us were breathing harshly and the room was filled with the scent of sweat, oil and something else. We could smell it on each other: a need so powerful that nothing else mattered. Randy laughed softly and lowered his head, covering my lips with his.
I expected him to be raw and punishing, but his kiss was gentle and tender. He took my face between his hands and slowly traced the outline of my lips with his tongue as if he was trying to memorise their shape. As his tongue slipped into my mouth, I wrapped my arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head as the other slid down his back. I've touched Randy about a hundred million times in our grappling, but this… this was different. My fingertips tingled at the feel of velvety bristles on his head and the smooth skin of his back. I wanted to trace every ridge and valley of his body with my fingers and my tongue. I wanted to drink from the hollow of his throat and lick the sweat from his chest. I wanted to bury my face in his groin and inhale his very essence.
Finally, he broke the kiss and dropped his trunks. He bent over the mirrored table and stood with his legs spread, bracing himself with his forearms. He twisted his head around so that he could look at me. "Do it!" he muttered.
I dropped my shorts and stood behind him, ready to plunge in when I saw his face in the mirror. I could have handled contempt or even hatred, but not the look of resignation I saw, as if he expected nothing better from me than a grudge-fuck in the locker room.
I backed away and yanked my shorts back on. "No," I told him. "Not like this."
Then I saw the scorn I had been expecting. "What were you hoping for?" he sneered. "Flowers? A bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire? Champagne and strawberries and soft music?"
No, I hadn't been looking for these things, but, looking into Randy's eyes, I realised that he had and, unable to say another word, I left the room.