Naked

A/N: Alright, y'all - this is my first trip into the daunting woods of the SuperstarOC universe. I'm really nervous about this, so if you have any constructive criticism (too cliche, too unrealistic, too anything) let me know. I'm not really sure there's a story I could tell that hasn't been told in some form or another, but if I'm crossing a line and doing the same old thing that everyone else has already done, tell me and I'll scrap the whole idea and start something new. That being said - I don't own any of the names you recognize in this story. I don't even really own Olivia, as she is based on one of my best friends since seventh grade - the real Olivia Dawn. I hope you guys enjoy it.


She felt dirty. Of course, she always felt dirty when she got off the stage. Not because of the stale cigarette smoke and spilt beer. And not because of the sweat-soaked glitter that clung to her body. It was because of the looks, the leers, and the lustful thoughts they all threw her way. No matter the night, the crowd, and the money, they all made her feel the same way – cheap and dirty.

Olivia Stewart, like a lot of kids, grew up wanting to be famous. She had dreams and aspirations of greatness. But like so many others who had gone before her, or would follow after, reality slapped her in the face. And when she awoke, she was tearing off her shirt, swinging around a pole, and picking bills out of her G-string.

The headaches were getting worse, the feelings of worthlessness and shame weighing heavy on her aging mind. Determined not to be a welfare mom, like her own mother had been, she set out to do anything she had to do to make life for herself and her son, Brandon, better. If getting naked and pretending to like it were what she had to do, then so be it.

She had known what it was like to grow up in a rat-trap apartment, and if she had to parade around like cattle at the state fair to make sure that her son slept on actual sheets, instead of a grungy, bare mattress, she would do it. If she had to crawl around on all fours for a bunch of lonely men so that her son could play basketball in their driveway, instead of dodging bullets on a street court, she would do it. If she had to give lap dances and hand jobs to VIPs so that her son could wear different clothes to school all week, instead of the same thrift-store knock outs every day, she would do it.

The day Brandon was born, she had decided that nothing was beneath her. She would humiliate, degrade, and destroy herself, if it meant that blue-eyed angel could someday become so much more than she had ever dreamed of being. She would do anything for him, and she would do it with a smile firmly planted on her collagen-filled lips.

Running a baby-wipe over the thick mascara around her eyes, Olivia stared into her own green orbs and laughed bitterly. She was the crowd favorite, the headliner. Her name was on the marquee, and they came just to see the famous Olivia Dawn shake her ass on the platform. Some of them even paid a pretty penny to let her entertain the guests at their private parties. But none of them wanted her. None of them cared what went on in her mind, or her life, when she clothed herself and exited the club or the hotel.

A knock sounded at the door, causing her to jump. "Um, this is a private dressing room," she shouted, furiously scrubbing at the dark circles under her eyes.

"Well, since it's my club," the voice laughed, as the door opened, and a middle-aged woman in an expensive, tailored suit stepped inside Olivia's spacious dressing area. Being the headliner did have a few advantages. Looking around, Melinda Davenport nodded approvingly. "The decorator did a nice job," she complimented.

Olivia stood from the bench in front of her lighted vanity and gathered her dark, sweaty locks into a pile on top of her head. With her hands in the pockets of her terry cloth robe, she looked past her boss to the man standing in the doorway. "What's up?" She tried to fight the confusion and the concern, but it was creeping into her voice.

Melinda clapped her hands together and looked over her shoulder. "Olivia, this is Vince McMahon."

Olivia knew exactly who the well-dressed man was. Growing up in Detroit, a city with a rich professional wrestling heritage, she had seen him a lot over the years. And since her ex had shared his love of the sport with their son, she couldn't seem to avoid an episode of RAW or Smackdown. But it didn't explain why the Chairman of the Board was in her dressing room.

"Mr. McMahon," Melinda addressed him and then nodded to the young woman on the other side of the room, "this is Olivia Stewart." Melinda waited as Vince approached Olivia and offered her a hand.

She shook it politely, trying her best to stop her heart from beating out through her throat. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir," she answered in her best professional tone as Melinda slipped out the door and shut it with a small 'click.'

When he was sure they were alone, Vince took a step back, as if to assure the young woman that his intentions were noble. "I've heard a lot about you, Olivia," he started. Looking her over critically, he nodded his approval. "A lot of my employees have been your patrons over the years, and they speak very highly of you."

She wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not. She recognized the WWE Superstars when they came into the club, of course. And some of them had tipped generously for a private dance in the VIP room. But she was fairly certain that a man of Vince's stature wasn't just here to thank her for keeping his boys satisfied.

Turning on her heel, she moved toward the refrigerator in the corner of the room. Withdrawing two bottles of water, she offered one to him. This was her dressing room, and if he wanted to negotiate a deal, something for a private party, she would show him that she was comfortable, confident, and consummate professional. If there was one thing she could be proud of, it was that her reputation was built on her savvy at the bargaining table.

"Well, you'll have to be sure to thank your boys then, Mr. McMahon," she grinned as he shook his head at the water she was offering. Replacing it quickly, Olivia moved to her vanity and withdrew a palm pilot, quickly entering a few numbers. "So, what date are we looking at?"

Vince smiled to himself. They had been right. Every one of the men who had recommended the infamous Olivia Dawn had been right. She was graceful and athletic, not to mention incredibly beautiful. She had been masterful at commanding the room, demanding that every eye follow her every move from the moment she stepped onto the stage. She was exactly what his company needed as its next female ambassador.

"As soon as possible," he said, his voice gravelly, but lilting with a hint of amusement. When Olivia raised an eyebrow and looked her calendar over, he cleared his throat. "I'm not here to book your services, Ms. Stewart," he corrected. "I'm here to offer you a job."

Olivia laughed. She hadn't meant to, but the prospect of working for him was so absurd that the chuckle came tumbling out before she could hold it back. "I'm sorry," she shook her head and tried to compose herself. "What now?"

Vince grinned – it was the shock that always came before the hug and the grateful acceptance of his offer. Flicking his wrist toward her, he extended his business card. Olivia took it skeptically. "I am looking for a young, beautiful, talented woman to join our divas on RAW. We've thrown around a lot of names, but yours seems to keep rising to the top. We believe that you could be just what we're looking for."

Olivia shook her head and laughed again. "You want me to be a diva? In the WWE?" He nodded. "Mr. McMahon," she started. It was a great opportunity, truth be told. It would offer her a chance to get away from a life that she hated, and give her something a little more stable. There was also room to improvement with the company, maybe a chance to move into the ring, or behind the scenes. There were a million reasons to say "yes."

"I know that you make a pretty good salary now," he interrupted her thoughts. "And with tips, and the private parties, I'm sure you're making more than we could offer you. But your contract with us would stipulate that you be allowed to continue with the private affairs, at least until further notice."

He was all business, and she could appreciate that. She could think of a million reasons to say "yes." But there were two blinding reasons that she had to say "no."

Her son, Brandon, was almost eleven. He was active in his school, and he had friends in Atlanta. She couldn't drag him off across the country while she pursued something she didn't even know if she wanted. It would only confuse him and disrupt his already unstable home life. She did what she did for him, and she wouldn't do anything that put his mental and emotional health at risk.

The other reason was her own personal hurdle. Handing the card back, she turned to her dressing table and slid her jeans on under her robe. "I'm sorry, Mr. McMahon, but I've watched your product for years now, and I'm not your girl," she insisted. Shedding her robe, she slid a tee shirt over her head and slung her bag over her shoulder. "I make a living flaunting my body and getting guys off. And I'm not so proud of it," she cleared her throat and opened the door. "At least here, I only have to do it for a hundred or so at a time. I have no interest in losing the shred of dignity I have left in front of millions."

With that, she left him in her dressing room, moving quickly down the hall and toward the side entrance. Three men stood at a table in the emptying club, watching her as she scurried in the opposite direction without so much as a look over her shoulder. She didn't care who thought she was crazy – she was not about to flounce around and pretend to be some air-headed bimbo for ratings or whatever.

"I'm guessing she said no," Randy Orton chuckled to himself as Vince materialized from another hallway.

With a slightly indifferent nod, the older man motioned for them to follow to his car. "She will come around, I have a feeling," he answered with a smile.

Randy, Vince, and Edge continued to talk about how beautiful Olivia was, how perfect she would be as a diva, while John Cena followed behind, flipping his cell phone open as it rang in his hand.

"I was just about to call you, baby," he smiled to himself, stopping on the sidewalk and jamming a finger in his ear. "What's that?"

"I asked you where you were," his girlfriend, Stacy Keibler, repeated with irritation. "You were supposed to call me, like, two hours ago."

Rolling his eyes, he thanked god that she wasn't there to catch his little gesture. But before he could answer, she started ranting about something else, leaving John to watch the street for anything more interesting than his girlfriend's berating tone.

As he turned his back to the waiting limo, his eyes rested on her, the woman from the club. She was climbing into a little silver focus and talking on a cell phone – she didn't look happy. He had been the only one at the table who had never seen Olivia dance, and after tonight, it was pretty safe to say that the others had undersold her abilities. In fact, he had been so amped after watching her performance, that he was looking forward to Vince bringing her on board. Now he felt a little bit disappointed that she had turned down the offer.

"Are you listening to me?"

As the woman drove away, John turned his attention back to his girlfriend and climbed into the limo, trying not to laugh at Randy's "Pissed Off Keibler" impression. "Baby?" he finally interrupted her. "Sweetie, I know I should have called. I suck." He waited while she agreed. "I know, and I will make it up to you. But right now, I gotta go. We got business to discuss." It was kind of true, so he could kind of ease his conscience.

Flipping the phone shut, he turned to his boss and his friends. "So," he raised an eyebrow and then smiled, "Olivia Dawn."