Nothing Compares

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, guys. They mean the world to me. This story is lighting a fire under my ass, and I've got chapters just pouring out of me. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

"Danny? Can you get my friend here another Bourbon and Seven?"

The bartender, an emaciated man in his mid-forties, nodded. While it was evident he didn't smile much, he did offer his favorite customer a faint lip curl. "Sure thing, Mark," he said, sliding the glass to the man at the end of the bar.

With a sip of the drink, Dave Batista's nose scrunched. "You're a fucking liar, man," he choked over the bitter drink. "That shit does not get better if you drink more than one."

Mark just laughed and smacked the slightly younger man on the back. "Come on, Dave. It's good for ya. Put hair on your chest. Make ya a man," he said, leaning his elbows back on the bar and sipping from his own straight whiskey.

Shaking his head, Dave just looked at his friend and then back at the bar. This was Mark's territory, not his. A seedy biker bar on the outskirts of Houston, Dave had no trouble understanding why this man that the world knew as The Undertaker, was comfortable within the confines of its quiet walls. Nobody bothered him here, or paid much attention at all to his hulking, tattoed appearance. It was the only place in the world that the man really blended.

"So you haven't answered my question yet," Dave pointed out finally, after a long moment of comfortable silence.

After another drink, Mark tilted his head, as though considering. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. "You were actin' like an ass, and he handed you yours," he deduced.

The fight between Dave and his teammate, Booker T, had been well-publicized already. And though Mark hadn't been there, bad news travelled fast. If anyone could give him an unbiased, but honest, opinion of the situation, it was Mark. And that was all he really wanted.

Actually, he wanted someone on his side. But that clearly wasn't going to happen. "Look, half the rumors are just bull shit. I don't know where they started, but their not even close to the truth," Dave started.

Mark turned his head slightly and met his friend's eye. "And the other half?" When Dave shrugged and lowered his gaze back to the bar, Mark cleared his throat. "Look, you're dealin' with a lot of guys who wanna be wearin' that gold around their waists," he advised. "The only way you're gonna get their respect is to earn it."

"I've busted my ass," Dave started.

Mark raised his fingers. "For three years," he nodded toward his hand. "Talk to me when you've been around for fifteen," he chuckled, shaking his head and draining his whiskey tumbler before pounding his large hand on the bar to catch Danny's attention.

Without words, the bartender made his way to them and topped off the glass. When he was gone, Dave opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the ding of the bell over the door, followed by raucous, high-pitched giggles.

"One drink, I promise," were the slurred words that filled the air. "I love this place!"

Dave and Mark turned their eyes to the door, chuckling simultaneously when they saw the five young woman approaching the bar. They wore tiaras and outdated wedding dresses. The drunken one in the middle, the only one without a gown, had a dildo on a string around her neck. "Bachelorette party," Mark laughed softly as the women took their seats at the bar.

"Bet this place doesn't see a lot of those, huh?" Dave asked. Mark shook his head, his eyes drawn to the young woman beside him.

Her long curls were dyed to a charcoal black, and pinned haphazardly at the sides of her head with white satin bows. The sparkling eyes that travelled the room were not deep sapphire, but an icy, baby blue that seemed to scream from behind thick, black liner. She wore a lace gown, circa 1975, that had been shortened by careless tears in the middle of her thighs, with fishnet tights and a pair of heavy combat boots.

It was the strangest combination he had ever seen, but there was something intriguing about her appearance. It wasn't the borderline gothic style, but the confidence with which she wore it, that drew the big man's attention. And the laughter that bubbled out of her throat when she ordered her Three Wisemen shot brought a smile to his lips without warning.

"You wanna bolt?" Dave whispered at his side, but Mark just shook his head and tipped his glass once more.

The woman accepted her drink from the bartender and turned her face directly toward him. "Can you hand me those peanuts, please?" she asked, meeting his gaze head-on.

Though she hadn't thought twice about asking the man at her side for the snacks that were just out of her reach, Winter felt her breath escape when met his emerald orbs. When his hand touched hers on the glass bowl, she let out a loud hiss.

"Fuckin' A," she sighed, her eyes wide in disbelief.

When she said nothing else, Mark allowed an appreciative smile to spread across his lips. "Did you want an autograph?" he asked softly.

Shaking her head, as if to clear the wayward thoughts, she cleared her throat. "Why? Is it worth money?" Without missing a beat, she leaned forward on her elbow and studied his weathered face. "Cause I got rent to pay, ya know?"

Mark felt his cheeks warming as he leaned back on his bar stool and reconsidered the expression on her heart-shaped face. He had been sure that it had been awe, that she was one of the kids who had grown up watching him, that her gothic facade was due, at least in part, to his Dead Man ring presence. But the blank look on her face said he was completely wrong.

And the laugh coming from the man behind him didn't help the blush that was slowly working it's way up his neck. "Uh," he started, clearing his throat and taking another drink. "I'm sorry," he started to backpedal.

Until a wide smile broke across her lips. "I'm just fuckin' with ya," she assured, resting a warm hand against his bare arm. "I know who you are." Laughing at the stunned expression on his otherwise stoic face, she rubbed her hand over his skin and added, "You don't grow up in Houston and not know who the Undertaker is, man," she winked, finally removing her hand.

Dave was still laughing behind him as Mark shook his head and tried to regain his composure. "Well, let me tell ya somethin'," he said with a soft smile, "there are not many people who get one over on me like that."

Raising her eyebrow, Winter turned back to the bar and slammed her shot back before turning to wink at him. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said.

He nodded and returned his eyes to the bar, unsure of what was happening to him. He wasn't easily affected. By anyone. Especially not by little girls in old, torn wedding dresses who were clearly well past inebriated. But she wasn't the usual ring rat. She wasn't draping herself all over him, promising him long nights of endless passion that she would never be able to deliver. In fact, she wasn't trying to impress him at all.

And he suspected that was exactly why he was so taken by her. "You ready to get outta here, Big Dave?" he asked, pushing away from the bar and dropping a bill beside his glass. Dave stood and Mark looked over at the young woman beside him. Waving Danny over, he motioned to the women. "Put 'em on my tab," he instructed.

"You don't have to do that," Winter assured him, reaching a hand out to touch his arm once again. "This is supposed to be my stop," she added.

Mark allowed his hand to linger on the back of her chair as he smiled down on her petite frame. "Consider it my apology for bein' so presumptuous before," he said, his low voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.

Standing from her seat, Winter wiped her peanut-salted fingers on the hem of her dress. Extending the hand to him, she felt her tummy flutter when his huge fingers wrapped around hers. Smiling shyly, she said, "I'm Winter, by the way."

"Winter?" he asked with a chuckle. "You look like a Winter," he added.

Winter held his gaze, lost for a moment in just how green his eyes were. It had been a long time since a man looked at her like he was - like he wanted to know everything about her. "My daddy named me after his favorite stripper," she said without thinking. She couldn't have formed a coherent thought in that moment if she had tried.

Mark couldn't stop the smile that was stretching across his face. She had gone from brash young woman to vulnerable little girl in the course of a handshake, and it was tweaking his insides to no end. "You have a designated driver?" he asked suddenly. She smiled good-naturedly and pointed to the end of the bar. A young woman in a white satin wedding dress, complete with puff sleeves and a lacey, turtleneck insert, sipped ginger ale at while her friends pounded back shots. "Well, you ladies have a good night," he finally said.

When he turned to leave, Winter reached out and touched his hand again. "You have a phone?" she asked. When he nodded, she held her palm out. Looking somewhat nervous, Mark pulled the small flip phone from the pocket of his motorcycle jacket and pressed it into her tiny hand. She punched a few numbers and handed it back. "Call me some time."

With a wink, she dismissed him and turned back to her friends, seemingly forgetting that he had ever been there in the first place. Another grin tweaked his lips as Mark followed Dave out of the bar, waving good-bye to a few of the regulars on his way out. There was no telling when he would get a chance to return.

In the parking lot, Dave laughed loudly as Mark slid into the passenger's seat of his car. "What are you laughin' at?" he asked.

The younger man just shook his head and started the car. "You gonna call her?"

With a shrug, he turned his eyes to the passing scenery and thought about those steely blue eyes. "She's just a kid," he dismissed the idea, as though their age difference would matter to Dave - most of his girlfriends were younger than he was.

"You're gonna call her," Dave predicted.

While he didn't agree, or disagree, Mark couldn't deny that the idea wasn't repulsive in the least.