Disclaimer: I don't own Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins, or Dean Ambrose/Jon Moxley. Cinnamon, however, is my own creation.

Part II

She was embarrassed when she told him her name. "Cinnamon," she said, her cheeks turning a warm, pink color. "I was supposed to be Charlene, but when I was born with red hair, my parents, who were huge Neil Young fans, said that they had to call me Cinnamon. It's silly, I know."

He wanted to tell her that no, it wasn't silly, but he was too tongue tied around her at that point. He knew the song she had been named after, thanks to a guy his mother had dated who loved that old hippie music. And it fit her perfectly; Long, red gold hair, straight and so shiny it looked as if it were kissed by the sun. Also, green eyes, a small splash of freckles across her tiny nose. Except for those few freckles, her skin was a perfect pink and peach color without a blemish on it. He couldn't look at her without hearing the song in his head.

He met her when he was wrestling in one of the small, independent companies, about as far down as you could go to still be considered a professional wrestler, but it was okay, because he knew you started at the bottom to work your way up and he was young enough that he was going places. He was a week end warrior, doing day work during the week to keep him going until the weekends, when he could get to the shows. He knew a lot of people thought he was crazy and he sure did some crazy stuff, but he loved it. It was as if he could only come fully alive while he was in the ring. Monday through Friday? That was this half life, something he just tried to get through. He knew some of the other wrestlers felt that way, but he didn't know anyone else outside of the business who truly understood.

Cinnamon loved wrestling. None of this WWE crap, she thought that was too slick, too polished, too boring. She liked the independents best. Even though she was a sweet, gentle girl, she loved the gritty reality of hard core wrestling. She wasn't stupid, she knew it was scripted, but she also knew wrestlers really got hurt. That you could script and choreograph all day, but the old adage "Man Plans, God Laughs," was never truer than in the squared circle.

She was so different from the girls that usually came to the shows. One might be tempted to call it innocence, but it wasn't. There was just something sweet about her, something wholesome that made you think she'd wandered into the gym where the match was taking place by accident, thinking this was where she thought her church choir was going to practice. Even when she was on her feet, cheering for her favorite wrestlers, you still got the feeling she didn't fully understand that wrestling could be a mean pastime, that she was watching something else. Something very similar, but not exactly what everyone else was watching. "It's art," she told him once when he asked her why she loved it.

"Art?" He snorted. "Are you going to be one of those snotty people who calls it ballet for the ignorant?"

"No!" She shook her head to add weight to the words. "It's a physical art. Wrestlers, especially the hard core guys like you, it's like you make something... you push your bodies as far as they will go and pray for the best, but while the audience is watching it, it's pretty amazing. It's not a dance, dancing is usually predictable. If you want to call what they do on RAW, ballet for the ignorant, that's fine, because that is predictable for the most part. But with people like you, it's constantly changing, it's evolving. It's like art and dance meet the best action movie in the world. And everyone in the audience wishes they could do it too. That they had that much control over their bodies to do those things, but they aren't able to make the commitment that you guys are. So, we watch you, and we wish we could be like you, we wish we had that dedication, that love of something that's so strong that we'll gladly risk our health and our lives to do it."

She made professional wrestling sound noble. Not many people did, even the biggest fans.

He had seen her at a few shows before he met her. He had noticed her, because it was hard not to notice her. She usually wore skirts, blue denim or some solid color fabric, with old fashioned, pointed toe, white Keds sneakers, no nylons, and these blouses made of gauze like material that somehow managed to make her look both elegant and down to earth at the same time. He had wondered about her, wanting to meet her, hoping that maybe she was friends with one of the other wrestler's girlfriends and that would lead to an introduction, but she came alone, apparently friends with no one in the business. There were times when he swore she was looking at him, more than she looked at the other guys, but he told himself he was crazy. Why would she notice him? There was nothing special about him, he didn't even have the perfectly muscular build some of the wrestlers had, at that point he was a little on the skinny side compared to most wrestlers. His hair was unruly, because haircuts cost money and it was a lot easier to just let it grow. He thought he looked like one of those punk kids that was always causing trouble, which wasn't too far from the truth. She probably preferred the pretty boys, the ones that looked great in the ring and great in a suit.

Then, one day he was heading in the back after a rather long, nasty match, one where he had lost, and instead of being in the bleachers, she was standing by the door that lead into the locker room. He paused for a moment, confused as to why she'd be standing there. "Are you lost?"

"No!" she said, quickly, her face turning pink. "I-I" she stammered, then stopped.

He stared at her, wondering what game she was playing, wondering if she was going to tell him he really sucked in that last match, because sometimes people did that, even when they knew that it was scripted. "If you've got something to say, say it," he suggested, scowling slightly.

"I-I" she stammered again, then shook her head. "Oh, screw it," she muttered and before he could react, she moved closer, cupped his face in her hands and then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

At first he was taken totally off guard. He had been jabbed with a fork during the match, (ironically, it was his own fork he'd been stabbed with) and there was blood on his face and now blood on her hands, possibly even her lips. Why in the world would she want to kiss him? He hadn't even won the match, and he was a mess.

Then, something seemed to take him over, the same way it had taken her over. She wanted to play games? Well, he was known as Jon Moxley back then, and no one took Moxley off guard. So, he grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her back, full on the mouth. Her breath was sweet, her lips soft. At first she was stiff in his arms, then she relaxed and for a moment, he believed she was kissing him back.

When they drew away, he thought she'd freak, push him away and run off, possibly shrieking that he was a crazy man. She didn't though, she smiled and blushed again. He'd gotten some blood all over her gauzy blouse. "You're," she stammered, "You're m-my favorite."

"Wrestler or kisser?" he quipped.

"Both."

"Meet me after the show," he found himself saying. "I'll show you more."

"Wrestling or kissing?" she asked.

"Both."

She met him when the show was done. They ended up going to the McDonalds across the street and talking for hours. She told him how her parents had named her Cinnamon. She told them how they had both been killed in a car accident a couple of years ago, and how she still missed them. She was in college and working part time trying to make a life for herself. College was very important to her, she was there on a scholarship and if she didn't keep her grades up, she'd lose it.

"It's the most important thing to me," she said, "Well, except for Rocky."

"Rocky?" He frowned, expecting to suddenly hear about a boyfriend she had failed to mention earlier.

"My dog," she said, grinning. "Rocky is only family I have anymore. I got him from the pound a couple years ago. He was a rescue from a puppy mill and he was a mess when I got him. He's still an emotional mess, but I don't care, he's my baby."

"What do you mean by a mess?" he asked, praying that she wouldn't say that he was vicious with strangers. He was hoping to see more of this girl and having an over protective dog that would be constantly trying to bite him didn't seem like a great way to get a romance off the ground.

"He's insecure and constantly afraid," she admitted. "He barks all the time. I let him sleep on my bed, but at least ten times a night, he wakes up and barks for no obvious reason. I've tried everything, but nothing helps. I'm just glad I rent a place outside of the city, in the middle of nowhere, where there aren't any neighbors to complain."

"Couldn't you have his vocal chords snipped or something?" He asked, remembering he had heard somewhere that this was sometimes done on barking dogs.

"I could," she said, he voice taking on a chilly tone he hadn't heard yet. "But how would you like it if you were scared and you couldn't help it, so someone cut your vocal chords because they got tired of the screams you made when you panicked? Think that would help?"

Okay, he thought. Do not suggest anything having to do with the dog. If she wants to dress Rocky in baby clothes and sing him a lullaby, just let it happen. Obviously, the dog is everything to her. "Sorry, I really don't know much about dogs. I just heard that was something you can do with noisy dogs."

"Sure you can do it," she said, her voice softening slightly, but still holding on to some of that chill. "But it's mean and cruel. I could never do that to Rocky. It's not his fault he barks. He had a horrible beginning and I can't fault him for that."

He wondered at times if that's why she had fallen for him, because he was the human equivalent to Rocky. She had rescued Rocky because his past had damaged him and she wanted to make it right. Had she seen something inside of him, too? Some clue that his past had broken him and he had been forced to rebuild himself the best he could? Was that her goal in life, to rescue and heal broken souls?

They didn't sleep together that first night, but they did do more kissing, sitting in her little hatch back, seats pushed back as far as they could go, both of them in the passenger seat, exploring each others mouths and bodies, clothes on. He did get his hand under her shirt, and she did do some intense crotch rubbing outside his jeans, but that was as far as it went. She gave him a lift home, because he had ridden to the gig with another wrestler, and dropped him off. He didn't realize until she had driven away that he never got her phone number or an address, or even her last name. As he worked whatever mundane 9-5 job he was holding down that week, he hoped she'd be at the next show.

She wasn't at the next one, or the one after that. But she was at the one after that, sitting off by herself in the bleachers. Before he was scheduled to go on, he sneaked out the back and carefully made his way through the crowd. She never noticed until he was sitting down next to her. "Boo."

She jerked and looked at him. "Mox! are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

She would always call him Mox. A lot of folks did, it was on the back of his jacket in spray paint, so it wasn't a hard nickname to come up with, but there was something in the way she said it that made it seem like more than just monicker for his last name. When she said it, it sounded like a special name, meant only for him.

"What's up?" he asked her, ignoring her question about heart attacks. "I thought I'd see you before now. You usually come every week when we're local. Is everything all right?"

She looked down at her hands, twisting her high school class ring around her ring finger, stone on palm side, stone on back side, back and forth. "I wanted to," she said.

"But?" he prompted. Nobody said something like that without there being a but.

"But I was scared," she said, her voice softening. But he still heard it, even above the noise of another match going on. The gymnasium wasn't that crowded.

"Scared of what?" He asked.

"You."

"Oh." So, there it was. She had realized that he was crazy, that the personality he showed in the ring wasn't just an act, it was a real part of him, a part he could tap into, a part that sometimes took him over and ran the show. "Well, that's cool, I understand, I'm crazy and I can be a scary guy, I won't bother you-"

"-No!" she interrupted. "You don't understand. I'm not scared of you because you think you're crazy. I'm scared of you because I-" she swallowed hard, "-when we were in my car, kissing..." her voice trailed off.

"You realized I wasn't your favorite kisser?" he teased, trying his best to keep everything lighthearted.

"No," she shook her head. "I-I've never done anything like that before. I mean, I've made out with guys, I'm not that innocent, but usually we went out a few times, a few kisses at the door, movies, the whole dating thing before things got too physical. But with you, I eat a cheeseburger and a small fries and the next thing I know it, we're-we're..."

"Dry humping in your Hyundai?" he finished for her, which made her blush.

"Yeah," she said, turning away so he couldn't how red her face was, but he knew it was, he could almost feel the heat radiating off of it. "That's just not me. And that's not even the worst of it. The worst was that it took everything I had to stop it and take you back to your place. Because every part of me wanted...wanted..." Her voice trailed off again and she took a deep breath and blurted it out. "You. I wanted you. I wanted to drive back to my place and lock you in my bedroom and not let you go until-" Her voice cut off abruptly and he would have sworn he felt another wave of embarrassed heat rising from her.

"Go on," he encouraged. "This is getting really interesting. I wish I had a tape recorder, I'd tape this and play it late at night, when I get lonely."

"Mox!" She turned to face him, and he saw her eyes were glistening, but she was smiling too. "I'm not like that. This is not me. I mean, I barely met you, but I think I like you and I'd like to get to know you, if you want to get to know me, but I'm afraid that if we get too physical too fast, you'll just think I'm some, wrestling groupie." She looked down at her shoes, those pure white Keds with the pointed toes and the equally white shoelaces. "What's that expression guys use about girls that go all the way the first time they go out?"

"Hooray?" Dean suggested.

She laughed and pushed him lightly. "Don't be silly. You know the one, 'Can't make a housewife out of a 'ho?' or something like that?"

"Don't buy the cow when you get the milk for free?" he said.

"Yeah," she said. "I don't want to blow my chances that we could have something great because my stupid hormones are telling me unzip your fly...with my teeth."

A mental image of Cinnamon doing exactly that, entered his brain and he quickly pushed it away before things got out of control and she would see the physical evidence the suggestion had on him. Wrestling trunks weren't exactly subtle at hiding things. "Cin," he said, deciding to take a risk and reaching out for her hand. "We're not typical. You're Cinnamon Girl, I'm Mox. We're not Jennifer and Jason from Normalville. We're us. We don't have to follow stupid rules, because we're beyond them. If we want to have sex tomorrow, or the next day, tonight, or right now under the bleachers, that's our business, not anyone else. I never believed in that whole 'we must wait for a respectable amount of time' crap anyway. If something feels right and neither of us feels like they're being pressured into something, then who cares what the rest of the world might think? I'm not asking to spend time with the rest of the world, but I'd like to spend some time with you."

She curled her fingers around his. "I like that," She said, her voice soft. "We're us. And I want to spend some time with you, too."

"Good. Let's go out after the show." He was surprised at his bluntness, but there was something about her that just made him feel it was okay to come on a little strong, that she wouldn't hold that against him, that she wanted him to.

"Okay."

They didn't make it to the bedroom until the next week, but that was just fine. They went out after the show and talked again half the night and she dropped him off at the cheap boarding house where he rented a room. But the next week, she asked him if he wanted to spend the night at her place and he knew exactly where they would ending up.

She turned out to be playful in bed, not just eager to try new things, but eager to suggest them too. And while a lot of guys would have assumed that meant she had a lot of lovers in the past, Dean figured out the truth. She had mentioned one guy she had dated for a couple years back in High School, he was the first, and Dean would have bet money if he, Dean, wasn't the second, he was at most, the third. Numbers were no indication of experience, in fact, they worked the opposite. Dean had sex with a lot of women, but rarely more than a few times, which meant they never got past the beginning stages of feeling each other out. It was pretty clear with Cinnamon that she had someone in the past who she had done it with so many times that they had gone from the 'I need to become relaxed around you' phase to the 'let's work through the Kama Sutra' phase. So, he let her take the lead, willing to try everything she wanted, at least once and in many cases, twice.

The relationship didn't just work in bed, it worked outside of it, too. She already loved wrestling, which was great, because she was eager to drive him to just about any local gig. Seeing that his car was a piece of crap that defined the word "unreliable," this was really handy. She didn't care if she had to hang around waiting for him for hours because they had to film a promo, shake hands with fans, or talk about some other such stuff with the managers or promoters. She would bring along her text books and study while waiting for him. Some of his wrestling friends found her a little odd, this girl that looked as if she'd be more comfortable in the library, cheering him on at the top of her lungs, or quietly waiting for him in the corner of a smelly high school gymnasium, reading from a textbook almost as thick as the New York City Yellow Pages. But his true friends saw the truth. "She loves you," they said. "I mean, she really, really, loves you."

And she did. He didn't know what he did to deserve it, but she adored him. When he spoke, she listened to him with such wide eyed intensity as if she was trying to absorb every word. to make it part of her. Even on those nights when the darkness inside him seemed to take over and he couldn't stop talking or pacing the floor, trying to push the bad thoughts away, she stayed with him. She never freaked out, never told her he frightened her, she listened. And when he had paced or talked himself down, she was there for him. She would hold him, comfort him, stroke his hair and assure him over and over again that she wasn't scared by his dark side, because she loved him, all of him, dark side included.

They never made any formal declarations, but soon they started casually talking about what their children might look like. She was hoping they would look like Dean, he was hoping they would have her hair and eyes. Or they spoke about the future, casually assuming it would be the two of them. "Wow, look at that," he would say if a commercial for Disney world came on the TV, "Some day we'll have a family vacation there."

Or the commercial would be for some appliance, a refrigerator, and she'd say, "Some day, when we have our own house, we'll have one of those."

I wanna live with a Cinnamon Girl

I could be happy, the rest of my life

With my Cinnamon Girl

To Be Continued...


Author's Notes: Lyrics are from the song Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to the six folks who actually took the time to review part one of this story. Seriously, I'm not to proud that the only reason I post my fanfiction is in hopes of getting feedback. Favorable feedback makes me glow, critical feedback makes me strive to do better. If I don't get either, I feel like I'm posting to a vacuum. I'm tossing in what I have, without getting anything in return, and eventually, I'm going to be empty. Professional writing gets you a paycheck. Amateur writing should help you develop the craft.

To Bolieve, I don't think it's that unusual that we both came up with exact quotes of how women gawk over Roman Reigns. The man is almost unrealistically beautiful. The actor/sports entertainer who plays him must get awful sock and tired of being gawped and gaped at every time he goes out, because there is something about him that has the power to turn a brain stupid. While a lot of guys would be resentful of having a friend with that power, I always figured Dean just rides with it and keeps him humble, too. "Oh? You think you're special just because half the world goes mushy whenever you're around? Well, I'm here to remind you that you're still human and there is a downside to being a big, sexy, beast."

To Just A Reader I'm glad the first part of part 1 made you laugh. Dean reminds me a lot of an old friend of mine, who I think I channel when I write Dean. This guy was never happy unless he could make his friends crack up with laughter at least once a day. I'm so glad you like the way I write "the boys," and I hope this story and my writing continues to live up to your expectations.

The other four? I've answered them via private messages. I try my best to answer all feedback, positive or negative.

If you've read this far, you have to have formed an opinion one way or another. Why not take the time to share that opinion with me?