City of Angels
Summary: Randy Orton is known for throwing his own illegal parties backstage and in hotel rooms. But when Randy is suspended for sixty days, he does exactly what the WWE expects him not to do - he parties even harder in L.A. One night, he reconnects with Stacy Keibler, an old friend with whom he shares a dark history. This story deals with themes of drugs, violence and depression.
There will be a lot of brief appearances from other characters in the WWE. Expect 'regular' appearances from Triple H, Ric Flair, Batista, Shawn Michaels, John Cena, Edge, The Undertaker, Stephanie and Vince McMahon. The Rock might also make an appearance :)
The summer sun kissed his tan skin as water coursed through every ripple and curve of his torso. Fashioned like one of Michelangelo's masterpieces, Randy Orton stood on the edge of the hotel's rooftop pool under the blazing California sun. Twenty laps and a Long Island Iced Tea for breakfast were just some of the standard procedures to his day. He settled on the edge of a lounge chair and slung a striped towel over his shoulders. Behind him, a leggy brunette flipped through the latest issue of Italian Vogue. Her name was Carmen, but that was not important.
"So how long will you be in L.A.?" asked Carmen, setting down the magazine.
With his back turned, he shrugged.
He didn't know.
As far as he knew, the producers were not allowing him to wrestle unless he got his act together. Vince McMahon told him he had sixty days to straighten up, and if he didn't get his life fixed by then, he would be gone. He didn't know whether to believe Vince or not. He was a commodity, a household name, and a damn good wrestler. The top-dogs would never have the balls to fire him. So what if he came late and skipped out on meetings? So what if he refused to interact with the fans? So what if he treated the rest of the roster like shit? So what if he treated his own body like a test dummy for illegal substances? He was in control of his own life and that was all that mattered.
"Randy," she called out again, "are we hanging out again or what?"
He stood up and lifted his Raybans over his eyes. He began to walk away when she called out his name. She didn't seem too peachy.
"Randy, where the fuck do you think you're going?"
He slowly turned his head toward her, "I'm going to my room and you're leaving. Your stuff will be waiting for you outside the door. "
He watched her jaw drop; a smirk forming at the corner of his lips.
Finding himself alone in his hotel room and an opportunity to score some goods free of charge, he picked up Carmen's oversized handbag. He set the coral-coloured, leather monstrosity on his bed and dug through its contents. Blackberry, keys, ID, furry handcuffs, mints, mascara, and a Ziploc bag of his favourite white powder.
He loved the feeling of pushing the limits yet still having some semblance of control. Drugs gave him that opportunity. If he wanted a distraction, he had dope; and if he wanted energy, he had coke. Pain meds were his weakness though. It was one thing to want to feel something but it was a completely different thing to want to feel nothing.
He threw the bag across the hall and locked the door behind him. He slid the bag between his teeth and unzipped the edge to cut a clean line on the bedside table. Pressing a finger against his left nostril, he snorted the white substance. He could feel his eyes glaze, his muscles tense, and his breath accelerate.
It was an impulse decision, like many of his more recent decisions.
Produced in the early seventies and with just a little over a hundred like it, Randy purchased a midnight blue Ferrari Daytona as soon as he decided L.A. was the perfect place to get away from the WWE and his disillusioned family. He parked the car and twirled the keys on his finger before shoving them into his jeans. After kicking Carmen out of his hotel room, he realized getting coked up by himself wasn't much fun at all. He figured he would drive down to a trendy, new club at West Hollywood. Perhaps he would finally get lucky and actually score someone more famous than a model.
As soon as he arrived at the entrance of the club, he took a few steps back at the mix of press and paparazzi. The club had rolled out a red carpet and an assembly line of young Hollywood and reality stars posed for the cameras. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to make an appearance on some silly tabloid. No one knew he was in L.A. and he planned to keep it that way.
He forced a path behind the plywood wall that served as the stars' background and squeezed his way through a crowd of bodyguards and publicists. A bouncer quickly spotted him and barred his way. As soon as Randy looked up to meet his face, a wide grin formed on both their faces.
"Orton!"
"Masters!
"What the fuck are you doing here?" asked Chris Masters, pulling his old friend into a hug.
"Oh, you know, man. I got myself into a little trouble." Randy smirked. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, ever since Vince fired me I knew I needed to get a job right away to pay for my fucking credit card bills."
Chris had been fired after the WWE implemented a Wellness Policy which tested wrestlers regularly for drugs. It had taken three strikes for Randy to finally be suspended, but it had taken a low-carder like Chris one strike and one urine sample to prove he had steroids in his system. He was kicked out of the company immediately. A lot of the guys in the roster resented Randy for his special treatment so he wasn't sure how Chris would react to seeing him. He seemed quite surprised more than anything.
"I heard about your suspension, man. It must be rough," said Chris.
"It has its perks."
"Trying to score tonight?" Chris smirked, "I see things haven't changed."
Randy merely smiled at him. Yes, things hadn't changed since Chris and Randy became friends in mid-2007. The guy didn't know just how much had changed before that summer. Chris didn't know him well enough, and anyone who did no longer cared enough to know the difference.
Randy shoved his hands in his pocket and cocked his head towards the door. Chris took the message and lifted the velvet rope to the club. Randy patted his friend on the back, "I owe you one, man."
The electro-pop music blared through the speakers as throngs of scantily-clad women grinded against their partners on the dance floor. Randy leaned against the bar with his fourth rum and coke. A couple of women had already come up to him and asked if he wanted to dance but he turned them down. He had never recognized them so they weren't fulfilling his objective. He spotted a few actresses but they all seemed like they were attached to their boyfriends' sides. Just as he was about to settle on any attractive stand-in, a girl with long brown hair leaned over the bar and asked for two Jaegerbombs.
"Hey," a warm whisper tickled his ear.
Randy turned to her and he didn't know if he was supposed to respond. He recognized her. She was an actress, and at one point, he even found her quite hot. Standing in front of him, she had packed on a couple of pounds and her dishevelled appearance just showed how much her life had spiralled out of control. Randy shook her hand and forced a smile.
"I'm Mischa."
"I know."
"Oh, you do?" She smirked. Randy studied her features. She was still beautiful but the smeared eyeliner, the homeless get-up, and the silly jewel-encrusted headband across her forehead turned him off. She might have been an actress but she was too washed-up to fit the bill. He didn't mind girls who took drugs but she had gone beyond that and let the drugs take control of her.
Randy pushed himself off the bar, "If you'll excuse me."
As Randy set his empty glass on a table, he caught a familiar pair of legs right at the corner of his eye. There was no way you could miss them. He looked up to see a memorable face and his heart sank. For the first time in a long time, he could feel a sense of vulnerability wash over his dominant frame.
She averted her attention as soon as she realized a pair of baby-blues was affixed on her back. With Randy's feet planted on the concrete floor of the club, the blonde woman walked towards him and gave a faint smile.
"Randy," she kissed him on the cheek and wrapped her thin arms around his neck. He managed to loosely wrap his arm around her waist before she pulled away.
"Stacy."
"So..." she trailed off before she turned to her friend behind her. Randy glanced over Stacy's bare, sun-kissed shoulder to a guy with a head of thick, blonde hair. "What's up?" she asked, retrieving Randy's attention.
"Not much. Just hanging out in L.A."
"I heard you were suspended," Stacy paused and watched as Randy's head hung low, "I'm sorry about that."
"Are you?"
Her eyebrows shot up, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know, Stace. Last time we talked, you told me you wished I had died." Randy crossed his arms over his chest and Stacy took note of the new tattoos. "Isn't getting fired close enough?" He added.
"That was over a year ago, Randy. I was so caught up with everything that happened and –"
"And I wasn't?" yelled Randy.
It was a good thing you could barely hear anything besides the music in the club, but Randy's loud remark caught the attention of a few people standing nearby including the man whom Stacy was speaking to earlier.
"You certainly weren't showing it." It had been close to two years and for a long time those thoughts hadn't resurfaced in her mind, but it was now returning and fighting back. The emotion was crawling back inside of her and she could feel the electricity concentrating on her fingertips.
Randy scoffed, "You have no fucking idea."
"I'm not having this conversation again, Randy." Stacy shook her head as she felt a pair of hands rest on her shoulders. She turned up to look at her date.
"Is this guy bothering you, Stace?" He asked. Stacy shook her head in response.
Randy rolled his eyes and began to turn around when he felt someone grip his left shoulder.
"What's your fucking problem, man?"
Randy raised an eyebrow. Stacy stood motionless behind her friend; she couldn't even look at them.
"What?" he asked, "suddenly you don't want to talk?"
Randy blinked. He was so tired of stupid bar fights with people he didn't even know. He was twenty-eight years old and by the looks of the blond, he didn't look any younger. It was so petty. Randy attempted to walk away for a second time but almost lost his balance after Stacy's friend had pushed him. Before he could even think, he threw a fist right into the blond's left cheek.
He fell to the floor. Stacy crouched and assisted him as a crowd gathered around them.
The third time didn't prove to be the charm as Randy had hoped. When he attempted to leave for the last time, security stopped him and escorted him out of the building. Security led him past Chris Masters who looked absolutely perplexed, and they tossed him right on the curb.
"We won't be seeing you here again," spat one of them.
Randy picked himself off the floor and looked at the sight before him. The night had been filled with so much promise but it was utterly disappointing. He couldn't stand the cameras, the vapid California girls, their douchebag boyfriends and the nauseating music. He didn't belong there, and as he was walking towards his car, he considered leaving the city for good.
"I saw you tonight and I liked it," said a voice. It was a voice that had at least twenty years of chain-smoking experience and it belonged to the petite woman leaning on the hood of his car. Normally he would have protested at the sight of someone laying a finger on his baby, but the woman exuded confidence and power. He watched as she pushed herself off and walked towards him.
"Angela McBride. Agent. Interested in getting to know you, Mr. Orton."
He watched as her dainty, manicured fingers slipped a business card into the pocket of his shirt. She turned around and walked away; but before she was engulfed in the L.A. street fog, she raised an arm and said, "Call me."
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Much love, friends.