Hi guys! I know it's been awhile since I've written anything but I think it's time for a return. I'm really striving to be a better narrative writer and I think fanfiction makes for really good practice.

I was initially set to go the Stacy/Randy route but that's a ship that's already sailed by a few years already. I think the use of Kelly/Rhodes will still be appealing to all you Stacy/Randy shippers out there, and their youth really gives me a lot to work with.

I can feel the spotlight's after burn as these middle aged men crowd for the door. It stings, and these star stickers for nipple covers are about to slip off from the hours of light and sweat my babies have been exposed to. Thankfully I've kept elastic tape within arms reach. If there was anything the pageant circuit has taught me was to always be prepared. I knew those lessons would come in handy for professions like these. Who said my mother didn't raise me right?

Well, my mother thinks so, but what does she know? We don't talk much nowadays, ever since I dropped out of Florida State. I have this peculiar obsession with words, writing on everything from scraps of paper to our high school paper, but then I came to a realization; words aren't worth as much as numbers, and I never excelled in arithmetic and there was no way I was about to go into accounting.

This was one of the many reasons why I chose this profession. My boss calls it modeling but really it's just glorified window ornaments to cancel out all the grimy looking businessmen that frequent this place. The only qualification is a functioning brain with basic motor skills, since all I do around here is walk around in nothing more than lingerie, and sometimes we have "Starry Saturday" specials when we all are required to wear these stickables. Yea it can be a little degrading but the pay is nice. Our manager even offered me a position behind the bar for better money but I declined. At the ripe age of eighteen, I can't afford lawsuits. I can wait a few more years, and besides, I'm around alcohol all the time outside of this place.

Go ahead and judge me. Just don't think I'm stupid. I'm a businesswoman you see, and I've placed my investments in something much more useful than college; tanning salons, hair-extensions, and a gym membership. Education? Anyone can pick up a book. Not everyone can adhere to the standards of beauty. I'm not about to waste my finest years in a prison cell cubicle they call a dormitory starving off uncooked ramen noodles and dry cafeteria leftovers. No, college is too pedestrian. It's for sub-par looking women who feel the need to compensate for their inability to attract guys. I'd like to think I have chosen a higher calling, one that is reserved for the few and beautiful; fame and Paris. There's an end to these means and that end is a place of flashing lights that outshine this one.

I've been trying to get my foot in the door since I was little. You know, pageantry and all. But less is more nowadays, and my agent has been booking me some minor gigs with photographers. I read somewhere that most starlets start from modeling and dig themselves up the totem pole. What I really want to be doing is Vogue editorials; size two, high-waist kind of stuff. Everyone keeps saying how commercial I look, but I could easily mimic a couture model with a month long liquid diet and a butch haircut.

To be a model in Paris; that place where lovers stroll down cobblestone alleys hand-in-hand, romance before reason, passions before virtues. It's smooth to the touch when I graze over the brochures, regal to look at in New Wave films. I'll be there one day, suffering from an existential crisis as I languish in the streets until I meet him. I'll carve out my own piece of home there, away from here.

Fully (well, by my standards) clothed, I was on my way out until I saw pair of guys still situated by the door. One is considerably older and better dressed than the other, and I could have sworn the old one's been eyeing me the whole night. Too bad, the young one's kind of cute, avoiding eye contact every time I glanced in their direction.

"Excuse me, miss," the old one said, "I have a proposition for you." Oh God, where is this conversation going? I've read too many craigslist scandals.

"You're Miss Blank right? Bobby, your agent, sent us your portfolio and we think you're the look our company is looking for," he continued, "here's my business card, just ask Bobby for the details."

I look at the card. "World Wrestling Entertainment"? This may just be my ticket out of here.

"Stand up," he said as he rotates around, prowling my body. If this guy wasn't such a queen and a talent recruiter I would've mistaken him for a registered sex offender.

"Take off your top," he said, "Don't look at me like that, it's part of the protocol." I look around wearily in this windowless room before he pulls out the measuring tape and a clipboard. Shit, I haven't tanned in a week.

"Let's see here, twenty-five waist? Not bad, trim that down by one and you're camera ready," he said, "Five foot - five? Your height is perfect."

"Thanks, my friends always told me I should be a mod---"

"Let's not get crazy dear," he said. This queen has some tongue. "Alright, get dressed, we're done with recording. Name?"

"Barbie."

"No honey, your God given name." He looks at me with those peculiar eyes.

"Barbara. Barbara Blank," I said. I could see his face recoil in a way only a contortionist's body would. That look of disapproval on his face, I'd love to smack it.

"No no no. That name won't do," he said, "let me talk to Johnny and the writers, we'll work out a character for you. You have a flight scheduled for Boston on Tuesday. Be there in top shape. Off you go now."

So much for a job interview.

This place was nothing like I had imagined. The extent of my knowledge with the WWE was from flipping through brief moments of that yellow Hulk guy from my now defunct childhood television and Google. Whatever happened to the world class corporation I've read so highly of? This was the big time? Seriously? This "backstage" looked like a prison cell - the food looked like a mess hall and the locker room looked like a cross between a porno sound stage and a janitor's closet. I knew leaving a good impression by coming here early was a bad idea.

It's okay, Babs, you're a professional, you can do this. Nothing has ever stopped you before from receiving a hefty paycheck, and this wouldn't either. Just read the script for tonight's ECW pilot and you'll get out of here alive.

"Oh there you are, Barbara, here's the program," he said. It was that recruiter guy again, looking as gay as ever.

I skimmed it over, "Kelly Kelly? Really?" I asked.

"Well Johnny liked that plastic Grace Kelly look you've got going and since your last name is well, blank, we decided that Kelly Kelly had a nice chime to it," he said.

How clever of them. A Grace Kelly that "strips in front of live audience then Knox (Mike) comes in with towel to stop topless shot". Are these people stupid?

The other employees are starting to make their way in. They all look so familiar with one another. I tried being friendly, you know, giving them smiles as they passed by the hallway. All I got were blank, sometimes cold stares. I could hear them snickering behind me as they faded into the corner. I didn't know what to do with myself, staying inside the women's locker room for the time being.

There were only two other women that entered the room; one gothic chick and an old looking Italian, and neither of them were very friendly. I pretend to be preoccupied with my phone, idly texting. I doubt either of them are interested in talking to me either.

"Have you seen the girls on RAW lately? That place has turned into a whorehouse," the Italian said.

The other woman laughed and replied, "Yea, and I heard they're planning on hiring many more especially with ECW up and running again."

"Well, that just means we have to work twice as hard to keep our spots. You know what they're planning on calling us? ECW Vixens."

"Fucking ridiculous. Next thing you know they'll be making us do soft-core on television."

"Oh, they already have girls hired for that." The girls started giggling and I could feel them staring right into my back. I need to get out of here.

I finally mustered up the courage to head towards the dining lounge. If those bitches want to play like that, I don't mind. I'll be the main attraction here in a few years to come while they'll be sitting in the back collecting paychecks. Still, there has to be someone here that's worth talking to.

I take my apple and water bottle and head over to the nearest empty table. I looked around wearily. This feels like high school all over again; guys and their "bros" huddled over in one spot, another set of meat heads in another. I feel like a fool, staring down on my table nibbling on my apple and water bottle as I await my striptease performance like an underfed whore. No one likes me.

I sit here, like I always did in pageants when mother would wait for my cue, preoccupying herself by scorning the other girls' bodies then found her way to mine. I always looked down and I started thinking, thinking hard about anything, everything that would distract me from everyone. I hate it here.

I could hear the sound of footsteps approach my direction. "Hey there," someone said, interrupting my thoughts.

I looked up and asked, "I met you before right?" His face was familiar. I'm sure he was that guy, the young one from the bar.

"Sort of," he said before pausing, "I'm Cody, Cody Rhodes." He placed his food down and stuck out his hand. He's so awkward being polite and all. I wanted to tell him this wasn't a business meeting.

"Barbara. But you can call me Barbie, or Babs. Whatever pleases you," I said. He was blushing and I couldn't help laughing. "You can sit down you know." He took cue and plopped down across from me.

"So this is your first day right?" he asked.

"Yea. How about yourself?"

"Sort of. I just got called up from OVW and now they've having me check out the brands to see where I would fit in," he said before he took a bite out of his sandwich, "they said ECW would be the place for new talent so they're considering to add fresh guys on the roster." I could hear his tone perk up like a fan boy, and that mustard left on his thin lips makes him too adorable. He's good-looking in a Neanderthal kind of way, with his face all scrunched up and serious. But his features lighten when it comes to talk about wrestling. Hey, I may not be too interested on the topic, but it's nice to talk to someone, or at least someone to look at.

"Oh really?" I asked. That stain was still there. His posture was so stiff yet his tone was soft spoken and stern at the same time. This odd boy.

"Yea, they're really interested in the next-generation superstars, trying to make a legacy off our fathers," he said. I couldn't help it. My fingers grazed over his lips then wiped the remnants off his mouth. He flinched, blinking at me startled making me giggle and him blush even more.

"You had something on your mouth there for awhile there, it's been bugging me," I said. His lips curved into a small grin then laughed along. Maybe he'll stop acting so serious now.

"So, how are you liking it here so far?" he asked.

"It's...unique to say the least."

He looked at me with empathy, as if he's been through this before too and said, "Don't worry, it's because you're new. They'll warm up to you eventually." That didn't make me feel much better and he continued, "I've gotten my fair share of ribbing from them and I'm not even on the roster yet. You have it easy 'cause you're a girl. Those guys I tell you, they put shi-"

"Alright that's enough," I said laughing, "I'm just trying to make it through tonight in one piece."

"Haha, alright, good luck then. Just don't screw up out there, we'll all be watching you," he said. I didn't know if that was a come-on or sincere encouragement. But with that boy, I never know what he's thinking.

This is like another day at work right? The flashing lights, the drunken men in the front row with their plastic beer cups (we apparently don't trust these guys with breakable objects). I can do this.

"And now, it's time for ECW Vixen Kelly Kelly in Kelly's Expose!" said the announcer while I made my way through the crowd. Alright, just like being underage in a 21 club; shake your ass a little while dancing with your man.

Except there is no man or a bar. Just a concrete platform and neon lights.

And there's children in the crowd.

Oh my god, I see children.

What the hell did I sign up for? Too late to start regretting, the music blasts and so do whistles.

Okay Barbie - no Kelly Kelly, you're a glorified cable stripper and you just need to get over the fact that it's the parents' fault for letting their children see this. It's not my problem, I'm not their mother, I'm just doing my job.

If only my mother could see me right now.

I start swaying for the crowd. I can't see anything with these goddamn lights, but I could hear the cat calls and whistling from the audience. I must be doing something right.

I was going to try dancing like a stripper, or Carmen Electra but I can't so I'm goinna have to pull out my senior prom dance moves which was essentially grinding on another boy's dick. Because I'm only dancing with myself out here I'm pretty much just ass humping air.

The crowd grows quiet. I guess the novelty of having a barely legal teenager potentially stripping would only last for so long. That's my cue then, give 'em what they really want. Off my skirt goes into the floor and out my panties show. The whistling comes back, though not as loud as before. This audience is demanding I suppose so I rip off my corset. Still not much of a reaction.

This isn't good. What is Vince going to think of this? This performance may be the only thing that's keeping me here and I can't afford to fuck it up. I'll have to go straight to the final act then.

I can feel the audience's anticipation as I turn around and reach for my bra, trying to undo this hook. I give it a good pull. Shit, it won't come undone.

I give it another try. Still clenched. Damnit. Again. Damnit. Again and again and again. Damnit damnit damnit.

I twist and pull the hook with one hand while trying to keep the music's rhythm with the other and I'm trying to dance and I can hear the crowd but I can't see them but I know there's children out there and their mothers must be ashamed of having to see this high school girl stripping in front of them and my mother must be ashamed of me right now but I can't see anyone but I want to be famous and to be seen in Paris but I just want to get out of here to Paris and I'll meet the man of my dreams and hold his hand down cobblestone alleyways and I'll fall in love so I won't have to do this anymore WHY WON'T THIS FUCKING BRA JUST COME OFF ALREADY!

I start crying but still trying until I feel something soft and warm envelop me from the world. The stage went dark and the music is off and the audience roars and boo's in anger. I could hear men cursing at me telling me to keep going.

"Fuck off and leave her alone," some guy said. I know that voice. I look up to see that chiseled face, Cody, bursting with red and anger as he clings on to his towel that's wrapped around me with such force, dragging me from the chaos outside to the deafening silence backstage. I peak out of his hold only to receive wide eyed stares, chuckles, and looks of both horror and ridicule from wrestlers and crew members. Cody doesn't seem to care and continued his pace until we reach a hidden corner and the concrete feels cold against my back.

I'm shaking but I have to regain my composure. What just happened? My first impression to the world - dumb, teenage girl that can't do shit, she'd say this. She always said this when I got off stage.

"Hey," he said crouching down face to face with me. Don't look at me. How could I look at him? I failed him, just like this job, just like family, just like mother.

I feel his touch above my neck, drawing me back to those eyes. His eyes, nice, gentle blue ones look at me with such concern. No one looks at me this way, well, anymore. Stop fucking crying. He's gone now, they all will be eventually. But still, it's not wrong to hope.

"Hey," he said. I flinch at his voice, he can't see me like this.

"Stop," I said and I find my way back on my feet. "I don't need your fucking pity."

Inch by inch I head towards the locker-room to pick up the remaining dignity I have left - past the walls of curious eyes and spiteful tongues in nothing more than a towel and a broken heart.

Just like Paris, I suppose.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I'm hesitant if I should continue with this or not so tell me what you think! Love it hate it? Suggestions on direction and plot will be considered. The more reviews the better incentive I have on continuing this project.