It was uncomfortable and demeaning, a reminder of his new circumstances, and Shawn shifted nervously under the inspection.
Part of him was proud and injured by the treatment, but other parts reminded him of his earlier promise. He would endure
this for his family, for his punishment. Simply because.
After what seemed like forever, the man finally turned away from him and crispy summoned a sharply dressed valet. Both men subjected him to another withering examination, whispering between themselves as if he were unworthy to even hear their words.
Shawn felt his face coloring with shame. Memories flooded him. The falling water, stroking the man's cheek, feeling the warmth of that man's own shame. Shawn's eyes became wet, pained at the memory, and he had to fight the urge to bolt from the lobby. Finally, another man approached, introduced himself as Mr. Layfield's personal valet, and lead Shawn away into an elevator. After a silent ride up to the top of the building, the man lead Shawn to an elegant, richly furnished salon and instructed him to wait.
Shawn was tired and irritable. He plopped down indignantly in a plush chair and watched as a troop of various hotel staffers shuffled in and out of an adjacent room, apparantly the suite of John Layfield. Eventually, the weight of the day overcame him, and he drifted off to sleep.
The dreams came, and soon he awoke in tears, shaking, and aroused, again tasting the sweetness of skin. Shawn reached down for the cross he wore around his neck and solumnly resited his familiar prayer. After a moment, the sensations abated, and finally Shawn was able to clear his head.
How long had he been asleep and more importantly, how long had he been waiting? A quick check of his watch informed him that nearly three hours had passed since he entered the hotel. He was furious. Forgetting his earlier promise to silently endure, Shawn leapt out of his chair and marched over to the door of the suite and barged right in.
In the dimmed lights, he could see the figure reclining on the couch. Layfield was still dressed in the clothes he had been wearing that night in the arena, expect that his tie had been removed and his shirt was opened at the front. As Shawn drew nearer, he could see the big man's eyes were closed, his hands limply wrapped around a beeping cellphone. Layfield was sound asleep.
Sighing in exaperation, Shawn took a moment to collect himself, then reached down and brushed at the back of Layfield's hand.
The man's brow furrowed and he shifted, he mumbled something indistinct, then seemed to shiver.
Shawn lept back involuntarily when he bolted upright. For a moment, Layfield's eyes were wide with fear, he drew his shirt closed, almost protectively, then glanced at his watch and winced.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, as Shawn looked on in amazement, "I ..feel asleep. The staff have orders not to disturb me. I..." He paused, waiting it seemed for Shawn to speak but the Icon was stupified, he had never seen Layfield so ill at ease. "This is not now I wanted to start this conversation."
The man fumbled awkwardly at his shirt buttons, then snatched at his tie and hat in an obvious effort to collect himself, something in the gesture caused Shawn's anger to dissipate. He softened his voice when he spoke.
"I shouldn't have come so late, to tell the truth, I fell asleep in the chair outside."
Finally composed, Layfield rose at last to greet him.
"I'm glad to hear that." the big man smiled slightly. "I'd hate to think you'd been sitting there that whole time. Can I offer you something?"
The word offer rekindled the memory of Shawn's purpose here. Layfield's offer, which he had come to accept. He didn't want to delay, to think about the ramifications, and let his pride keep him from speaking.
"No, thank you," he said. "Let's get down to business."
