Disclaimer: This story is fiction. All the characters are my own, completely fictional with borrowed names to comply with the fan fiction genre. They should not be confused with any person living or dead. I am not now nor have I ever been affiliated with any professional wrestler or wrestling company. No disrespect intended.

Rewrite. Hope you enjoy it

Chapter 1

(DEAN)

"Get you're filthy hands off my girl, you pervert!"

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again. Just another Friday night in the small, dreary, beer stained hole in the wall. I uncrossed my arms and headed towards the bar where a three hundred pound hairy dude traded blows with a skinny pocked-scared kid over some fake lashed bar tramp with her lips painted too thick.

"Hey, guys, how about a drink on me?" I tried to solve the problem without resorting to violence.

"Mind your business." The big man's breath smelled like shit and I was tempted to offer him a tic tac, but instead, I cracked my neck, shook off the shove to my chest and grabbed the guy by his jacket collar. The adrenaline high kicked in somewhere between the bodies I pummeled the guy through and the drinks that went flying into the air as the trouble maker resisted, but I, although much smaller, had the muscle to back up my mouth – most days.

I gave the guy one last shove out the door. The dude hit the gravel, sliding, the rough texture shaving the top layer of skin from his face. Ouch, that was going to leave a scar. Oh well – it wasn't personal, it was business. I was the bouncer and the patrons had two choices, mind your manners or get kicked the fuck out. I didn't play games.

"Bar's closed – for you." I spat as I strolled back inside. My guys at the door would see to it that the guy didn't become a repeat offender – at least for that night.

"Shit." I sat at the bar, my hand finding the trail of blood running down my arm, tracing it until I found the three inch gash. Damn, I hadn't felt it when it had happened and I'd never seen the guy's knife.

"Ouch." The bartender sat a glass of whiskey in front of me. "Exciting night, huh?" He grinned.

"Boring work," I contradicted and rubbed whiskey on the laceration. I didn't care for the boring stuff – detested it, but boring meant safe, and after my stint in the Special Forces, a little bit of safe was welcomed. But damn I missed the action and the adrenaline rush that came with it.

"Sure – sure." The thirty-something foreign guy bought the place after becoming too obsessed with a movie. He wore his hair slicked back and wore terribly out of date suits. He lived vicariously through me – thinking he could become Dalton just by watching. "Need stitches? Got stuff here." He set a hard plastic box on the bar.

"Dude, you definitely got a screw loose." I lifted the lid with the broken latches. "Where the hell did you get this anyway?" It was old and battered. "You know you can buy this new at the surplus store."

"No joke?"

"No joke, Mo."

All that schooling and the guy possessed little more than an a functioning IQ.

I downed what was left of the shot just to irritate him. He didn't allow me to drink while I was working. It wasn't a global rule – just my rule – his Dalton. Yeah, it was about time to find a new gig. I was sick of living in that man's rerun fantasy.

I finished my shift and walked Mo out. We went our separate ways, with him getting in an high dollar Sudan and me unlatching the carabiner key holder from my belt loop. I watched until he exited the parking lot then hit the button to unlock the black four-by-four sitting by itself in the furthest spot from the building.

I made my way out onto the main road, made a quick right then, cruised a series of backroads. I was more than ready to settle in for the night.

I rented a small, over a garage apartment just outside of town. Not too far from work, not too far from the grocery and gas, and it was quite.

I turned off the engine quickly and carefully shut the door. Every night I hoped I didn't wake my landlord by coming in at a mid-morning hour. If I ever did, he never complained – Maybe he didn't wear his hearing aid at night.

I didn't own a lot. Couch, recliner, bed, a few basic appliances, and of course a kick ass entertainment system. I didn't see the need for much more. What was the point, right? Women were the ones who decorated everything and I didn't have one of those in my life – by choice. I had an array to choose from. Barflies, young things going through a bar hopping phase – and they were crazy about a guy who kick some ass, but I was turned off by chicks that had been dipped more times than they can remember. Face it. The kind of woman I dreamed didn't hang out in my kind of world and if they did, they wouldn't notice I was in it.

I opened the cabinet and took out a pan. Threw in a couple of pieces of chicken I'd put in the fridge to thaw, then chopped up lettuce in a bowl. I threw in some cheese and shit, then washed, dried and put away what I could while I finished the meat.

Everything had its own place in my house and I expected it to stay put unless it was being utilized. I was OCD like that – or bored.

I crunched on that salad – played a game on my Xbox, then went to bed, placed my arms under my head and stared at the ceiling. Yeah, that was my exciting life – boring job – quiet private life – plump bank account. The easy way – just as I'd always wanted.

I was the only son of two loving parents, but it wasn't always easy. They loved me, supported me, and worked hard, but they couldn't always give me what I needed. We struggled. We lived in a barely above condemned house. The heat never worked, the water was brown and had to be boiled, and the floors were weak and sometimes broke beneath our steps – and the landlord wanted too much for it. Like clockwork he banged on the door a week before it was due and returned every single day until he had the cash in his hand.

I despised that man and men like him who were selfish, greedy, and lazy. And people like my parents suffered, struggled, and died young – and I was bitter about that, but they taught me the value of hard work. Of chasing what I wanted, whether it was easy or not – and I swore I would never claw through my existence again.

I was just a street punk. On my own before my sixteenth birthday. I worked whatever job was offered, slept under stoops, and I brawled to protect what little I held in a battered backpack. Every night I laid my head down and I was proud of how far I'd come – but there was something missing – A hole I couldn't fill. The Army didn't fill it. My bouncer gig didn't fill. Hell, even money didn't fill it. It had been left there by a beautiful young girl I'd fallen in love with. I knew from the second I laid my eyes on her that she was the one for me.

It was my first day of work at a small grocery. I was stocking shelves when she came around the corner hunting some special kind of soup for her old man. I closed my eyes for the millionth time and savored the memory of her flowing brunette hair and deep blue eyes. An angelic vision of all I ever wanted in my life. She was intelligent and smart-assed at times that tickled the heck out of me because her voice was so sweet and soft.

I went back to high school for that woman. Busted my ass to catch up what I'd missed just so I could share senior year with her.

Then prom night. I wouldn't normally spend my meager wages on a chick, but I showed up at her door in a rented tux and corsage. I didn't have a car but the she didn't mind the bus ride. Tara had been sweet. Kind and she understood me and I was gonna get us both out of that damn ghetto.

That night I swayed with her in my arms and made promises I would never break. She was my first love. My first kiss and that night - the first girl I ever made love to.

We walked home from that hotel room that night and I admitted my undying love for her – moments before we were struck by a drunk driver. I don't remember much about that moment except our hands being forced apart as our bodies were tossed into the air.

When I awoke, my arm, my neck, and my heart was broken. She was taken from me. In a second, my sweet, precious Tara, with eyes like the sky was gone.

They told me she had died instantly with no pain. No horror – but I never could understand how I had survived, but she hadn't. I had been the one walking on the edge of the road – to protect her – as my father had taught me. I had to have been hit first – so how could it have happened. I wanted to give my life for hers. I begged and prayed to trade places with her – and I spent every day standing at her grave. Including our graduation day until this guy in a uniform approached me. He'd lost his wife while he was at war and after that talk I signed up for the military and volunteered for the most dangerous assignments I could get, hoping one of them would reunite me with my love – no such luck.