I don't have much to say other than I hope you all like this one. And please review, so I can know your opinion. I highly value each and every opinion.

So, have at it.

Ruby

The Art of Addiction.

Chapter One.

When Sunday woke up that morning, she had every intention of making the day just...as scheduled. At five a.m. she woke up and went for her ten mile run. After that, she continued with her extremely physical workout consisting of a fifteen minute "warm-down" jog on the treadmill, an hour of doing laps in the pool, and another hour of working out on her stationary bike. A typical Sunday; both the day and the person.

Now, somewhere near one in the afternoon, Sunday felt herself consumed with thoughts of yesterday. She had taken the day off yesterday - at her husband's request - and was feeling completely horrible. She was due on Raw in tomorrow night and didn't feel as in shape as she should have. Sure, her Hapkido(a) instructor was due to the house soon. But, even with the martial arts lesson, she still wanted to work out a little more. So, she added an extra hour in the pool and on the bike. Just to make up for lost time.

Before hopping on the red stationary bike, Sunday grabbed the television remote and flicked through the channels until she found the news. The top story that all the local reporters were gushing about: a sixteen-year-old girl in the neighborhood had died just a few days ago and her memorial service was going to be held tomorrow night. The time, she didn't really catch. Sunday barely knew the girl, Jennifer Wilkins. Just two doors down. Her parents were both lawyers for some big corporation and were barely at home. Sunday had met the girl only a handful of times, mostly at the neighborhood's annual block party. Jennifer was a nice enough girl, but damn was she shy. If you happened to catch her eye for more than a second, she would scamper off like a puppy with it's tail between it's legs. And she was deathly skinny.

Later in the new report the anchorwoman described the reason for her death. An eating disorder. Not surprising, but still very sad. What a stupid reason to die, Sunday thought as she absentmindedly propelled her legs faster, wasting away to nothing until you're just gone.

The loss was tragic, nonetheless, and she made a mental note to send the parents a fruit basket or something.

Randy stepped into the room, sporting nothing but a wet towel and an amused grin. "You know," he said as he started to approach her, "I'm always expecting to walk in here one day and see that bicycle spin off it's hinges and through the wall." He was always a bad kidder, and that would never change.

"Oh? Did you see about little Jenny Wilkins?" Her words came in sort, practiced breaths. "An eating disorder was her untimely demise."

The smile wiped from Randy's face, his hands now firmly placed on his hips. "Jenny Wilkins? The girl down the street?" Sunday answered him with a nod as she switched off the television and hopped off the bike. Her instructor would be there soon and all that was on now was soap operas. "Jesus. She was only sixteen."

"That's peer pressure, I guess." Sunday commented, searching the room for her water bottle.

Randy nodded, feeling an uncomfortable laugh coming on. He suppressed it, knowing that now was not the right time for any laughter. Uncomfortable or not. "Well... I came to run something by you."

"Shoot." She had succeeded in finding her water only when Randy had joined in on the search. She quickly squeezed some into her mouth, then dumped the rest over her head and neck. To Randy's delight, it left her t-shirt completely soaked.

"I invited the guys to come over for poker night tomorrow. We usually do it at the hotel everyone stays at, but..."

She held her hand up to him, taking his attention off of her eyes and towards where her palm was held; near her chest. She was dripping with a mixture of water and sweat, and her skin was a glowing pink. "You invited them over already without asking me?" It didn't really bother her, but it annoyed Sunday that Randy had asked them, then asked her. She was his wife after all, and she hated to look like the bad guy if she had to kick everybody out. "I don't care, but what if we were doing something?"

"I know..." Her hand was still raised. "Could you please not hold your hand right there?"

Sunday let out a small giggle just as the doorbell rang. "That would be Michael, my instructor."

- - - - - - - -

John jerked awake, his head pounding and unsure of where he was exactly. He was naked. This, he was sure of. He was in a bed, although not his own. He continued his search about the room, collecting his clothes from the green carpeting and sliding them back on his body. Pulling his shirt over his head, it all came back to him.

Glasses had been thrown. Dishes shattered. His drawers were emptied out onto the lawn, and all his possessions were either gone entirely or broken in to a million pieces on the chaos littered floor.

John just wanted to forget it all. Everything. He wanted to be numb, and he was looking for someone else to help him forget.

Captain Morgan.

Or Jack Daniels.

Either would do.

He had found a place named "Rose's Whistle", a run down old Irish pub where no one would recognize him. That's all he needed, another fan walking up to him while he was trying to get away from it all. At first it was just a smile here, a nod there. But then they had started approaching him in bathrooms. Hell, they had even come to his house.

He understood Madison had given up on him and tossed him out like she had.

Sure, he wouldn't have minded as much if it was all pleasantries. It would still have been annoying, but not as bad. It seemed that nowadays most of his fans had deserted him. Then he started getting hate mail. Worse. Things like, "I hope so-and-so kills you in that match." or "Whoever cheers for you should be shot. Then again, so should you."

By the lack of color on the walls and the floral pattern on the bedspread, John was pretty sure he was at a hotel. In St. Louis. The only reason he knew the latter was because the anchorwoman on the 10 o'clock news said that's where he was. Which meant it was Sunday, the day before he was due on air. Which also meant that he had three whole days unaccounted for.

After suffering through a shower, to make his head stop throbbing, he resumed his place on the bed and sank back down into the pillows. On the night stand was a half emptied bottle of Seagram's Extra Dry Gin, which he quickly scooped up. Placing his hand firmly around the neck of the large bottle, he brought the liquid to his lips and tipped his head back.

He had wanted to forget, and he was going to.

- - - - - - - -

Cody shifted onto his side, sat up, and quickly began to dress.

"Where are you going?" The sleepy voice next to him yawned at the end of the question. She sat up as well, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and began kissing his neck. "I thought we were having fun."

Cody sighed, concentrating on the zipper of his jeans. He stood up, forcing her to let him go and watch him as he got ready to leave his St. Louis hotel room. "We did have fun, Maria. But that's all it was." Just how many times had he had this conversation? How many more times would he need to? He saw the pout on the brunette Diva's face, her way of hoping he would join her again if she gave him the "puppy dog look". "This probably shouldn't happen again." But it would, he knew. It always did. He just couldn't pry himself away form the feeling of having a woman in his arms, completely in control of her as he moved inside her. The rush he got as he climaxed, exploding in such a sexual tension that it made his toes go numb.

Walking out the door, heading no where in particular, Cody was sure that Maria would be gone when he got back. That was the point of his leaving, after all.

(a) "way of coordinating power." A Korean martial art characterized by kicking without retraction and composed of three primary skills: nonresistance when meeting force, circular motion to countering and attacking, and the water principle - total penetration of an enemy's defenses.