Chapter VIII: Collecting on Favors

The rain drummed hard against the sliding glass doors of the hotel room's balcony. Gusts of wind rattled them as lightning streaked across the sky. At ten in the morning on what should have been a resplendent Sunday, the gray cloud cover was so thick that it seemed to be about eight in the evening. "It looks like the rain has set in for the weekend," Orianne said with a sigh and tossed aside the remote control after turning off the Weather Channel. "No Sea World today," she added despondently. The photographer was looking forward to trying out a new lens and experimenting with water and aquarium shots. Dave had agreed to go 'play with the fishies' with her. She had wondered if there was a double entendre in that.

Dave nodded, his lips pursed in thought as he chewed the inside of his cheek. "Well, it looks like we'll have to entertain ourselves since there's absolutely nothing on television."

"It's a shame that we've already done a movie this weekend but, then again, I don't think I'd go out in this anyhow."

"We could always break in the new deck of cards you owe Rob."

Orianne chuckled and began clearing off the small table. "You owe me for forking out the money for them because it was all your fault."

The weekend had been fairly uneventful thus far with two exceptions. Friday night, she almost got caught by Randy Orton when she ventured away from the ring alone without Cara for a restroom break. The photographer had learned very quickly that Orton wouldn't approach her with the blonde around but the technician couldn't get away. After slinking around for about ten minutes backstage and grabbing Lita as an excuse to avoid talking to him, she lost Orton and got back in time for the house show to start. She almost told Dave about the younger wrestler and his stalking her but she was afraid he would interpret it the wrong way since they were supposedly best friends. The night was going too well to ruin, the tension of the previous weekend gone. She brushed aside a brief moment in the darkened theatre when she thought that Dave was going to kiss her. It was something that Dave would never do nor would she let him. Orianne had simply misconstrued the moment and she embarrassingly pushed it to the back of her mind.

The second exception, the one that she was laughing about now, was the photographer's big poker win last night. She was not a fantastic poker player but could hold her own against other amateur players. On her sixth night of playing with the guys, Orianne purely got lucky and won and Dave Batista was the loser. She had been sitting with her back to open balcony doors for the last hand. Upon losing first, Dave was sent out for more ice and Orianne claimed his chair beside hers at the others' insistence. He gave her that delectable smile that said "I'll get you back" and took the guys' teasing and he settled in her seat. When she beat out Shawn Michaels, Orianne clambered across the table to pull the large pile of chips, cards included, across the table. As she began to sit down, Dave jerked the chair out from under her, sending the cards and chips flying. They had managed to recover all the chips but one. The cards were less fortunate. The Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Spades, having flown out the balcony doors, had to be fished out of the pool. Somehow, Orianne good-naturedly got the blame, requiring her to purchase a new deck.

"I'll pay you for the deck of cards if that's what I have to do for you for losing," Dave offered.

"Oh, no, I have other things planned," she replied with a facetious grin.

"Well, it is awful romantic with the storm and we are all alone," he suggestively replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"In your dreams," she responded with a laugh. No, Orianne thought, in my dreams and every other woman's.

"What shall we play?" Dave asked, shuffling the cards.

"Just playing cards is boring. Let's add another element," she deviously smiled. He loved that smile—it was the essence of her personality. He had come to the conclusion after last week's confession that she hardly got the chance to display that side of herself often.

"Do I want to hear this?"

She nodded with that sly grin again. "Let's play Speed. It's quick and then whoever wins gets to ask any question they want and the other person has to answer it."

Dave seemed to think through this but he was eagerly willing. This could get interesting. "Deal it, baby."

Speed might not have been the best choice for Dave as Orianne's hands were much smaller and she could flip the cards out much quicker underneath his own. But it was worth the laughs over the mad shuffle to discard them. The black-haired woman won first and she leaned back in her chair and carefully pondered her first question.

"What do you wear under your wrestling trunks?" It was something she had wondered since she first started watching wrestling and especially after she got her first glimpse of Kurt Angle's shining buttcheeks. It was meant to be teasingly suggestive but also the only way she would probably ever find out the truth.

"Me? Or generally what wrestlers wear?"

"I don't know," she answered with a shrug of her shoulders. "You?"

"Well, they're double-lined for a reason but you won't catch me without my blue cup."

"Blue?"

"One question per win," he chided with a smirk.

"Fine," Orianne huffed but then smiled. "Deal the cards." She won again. "Blue?"

"Blue underwear is lucky for me." She started to form another question but he shook his head. "Next game." Eventually, the woman dragged out of him that he had been wearing blue underwear the day he aced his last exam to graduate from college, when he met Gabrielle, when he got the news he was being offered an OVW contract, and the day he found out he would be winning the Heavyweight belt. The last only solidified his prior decision to wear a blue athletic supporter.

Orianne also asked less intrusive questions, her curiosity now satisfied, finding out that he had one sister, Dana, and one brother, Derek, and one niece and two nephews that he dearly loved. He was a momma's boy but wouldn't admit it and he respected his father, the son of a poor Greek immigrant, most in the world. He had a degree in sports medicine from the University of Nebraska and his initial plan was to become a sports trainer. However, he found he had a natural talent and the discipline to be a bodybuilder. Between competitions, he worked in gyms as a personal fitness trainer until he was discovered by a scout and the rest was history. The physicality of wrestling was the initial draw as he reveled in being able to throw guys around like in football, which he played in high school and college, and have an outlet for his immense power but without all the competition and nitpicky rules. The wrestler found the rush absolutely exhilarating of making an entrance to the ring among the roars of the crowds. "It's almost orgasmic," he explained as she hung on his every word. He was a charismatic speaker but she had to lower her head and deal the cards again to hide the pink creeping up her neck and cheeks at his analogy to sex. At first, he was hesitant because he didn't want to talk on the microphone. He was shyer than most would think, something Orianne had observed anyhow. It was only around his closest friends that he opened up, making the woman wonder why he was so open with her.

Dave dug the basics out of her about her family. The question that he wanted to ask the most, besides about her injury, was about her name. Because her twin brother was originally thought to be a sole son, his name had been settled on as Orrin Isaac after their great-grandfathers. As a surprise, sarcasm intended, her name had to conform to his. Her parents had spent hours searching for something to complement his and then one evening in the Women's Missionary Union meeting, her mother learned of an Alabaman missionary named Orianne from the early 1800s and so she became Orianne Isabelle. Dave found out that herfavorite word was "epiphany" just for the way it sounded and the word she hated most was "fuck" because it was the epitome of crass and crude. He admitted he liked the word "quintessential" for the same reason as her favorite word and hated "lugubrious" because it sounded so nasty.

The wrestler prodded deeper about her love for taking pictures. Orianne latched onto photography in her early teens. "I just wasn't good at sports," she said with a shrug. But she loved them anyhow and photography was the closest she could become to being an athlete. She studied sports and the art of photography together. In classes at the University of Alabama, her teachers couldn't understand her balking at being required to take pictures of anything that didn't move. The photographer loved the energy of moving objects, particularly the human body. She became especially skilled at being able to capture motion on paper and make it stand still for that one frame.

The handsome wrestler then asked her a question that threw her off. "Tell me one thing that nobody knows about you," he said with a mischievous grin.

"Well, I can back up a horse-trailer into a parking spot. That's quite possibly one of the hardest vehicles to handle," Orianne answered matter-of-factly.

"What are you doing driving a horse-trailer?" he asked, distracted from the original intent of the question.

"My family didn't just raise horses. We were professional rodeo riders too. I was once Miss Wagon Train." Dave couldn't contain the laughter that bubbled up. "Don't laugh," Orianne protested and slapped his arm. "In my hometown, that's like being homecoming queen." However, she left out that it was a sympathetic vote after she finally left her wheel-chair behind and learned to ride again. "That's not to mention I was quite the barrel racer at age twelve."

"Why did you quit?"

"The rodeo wasn't where I wanted to be. I just wanted to take pictures of it," she answered with a lie.

Dave saw the shadow pass over her face and decided not to push his curiosity any farther. "When I asked for you to tell me something nobody knows about you, I meant something that not even your husband knows."

"I illegally bartended for frat parties in college."

"Sloan doesn't know?"

"Well," she slowly began, "he doesn't know that I did it for three years before I turned twenty-one. He thought I had a license my last year." One of the frat members who was a sweetheart in the sister sorority took her under his wing when they found out they were sixth cousins and he taught her everything he knew. Ethan had been in Hollywood pulling down hundred dollar tips for several years now.

"I thought you didn't drink," Dave replied before he could stop himself, even though it was more of a question. When the guys mixed drinks or brought beer to their poker nights, she always politely refused and nobody pushed her.

"You don't have to be a drinker to be a bartender but I don't drink because Sloan asked me not to. I got completely bombed at the last frat party my sorority attended—I unwisely tried that whole funnel thing—and he very sternly told me that an officer's wife would never do such a thing." She stopped and sighed. She did have a tendency to go over board and, after Sloan's initial reaction, he apologized and then pointed out that penchant. It was just best if she stayed away from alcohol and promised not to drink again without him, which meant nothing because he didn't drink. "It was three months before our wedding and I was so in love I would have agreed to walk backward for the rest of my life."

"Quit getting me sidetracked. What's that one secret thing you've harbored in your heart? Your sorority knows all about your illegal exploits. What is something that only you know?" Dave asked, softly poking a finger into her shoulder.

"You sound like a romance novel," she said with a laugh before contemplatively chewing the inside of her mouth. "Besides wanting to sleep with you?" the woman cheekily asked. By saying that, she hadn't truly lied. Forgetting that she was married, she definitely wanted to get him in bed even though it would never happen. He would hardly be interested in her. "Well…ever since I started watching wrestling, I wanted to be a diva. I want to wear those sexy outfits, have a hot wrestler fight over me…" Orianne sucked in her bottom lip as she imagined the scene with Batista. "Anyhow," she suddenly said, snapping out of her fantasy. "Another round?"

"Um, yeah," Dave replied, mentally shaking himself. He was picturing her in a sexy outfit as well and his body was reacting to the mental image in a disturbing manner. "So, uh, have you decided on your favor from me yet?"

"No, but I have an idea," she said with a leering grin.

"Wanna give me a hint," he queried, shifting in the seat to attempt to get more comfortable after the mental picture of her in something Torrie Wilson would wear.

"Nope," she replied as she laid the last card face down.


Friday night poker next week yielded no earned or owed favors for Dave or Orianne. However, the black-haired woman decided to cash in on her favor from the wrestler. Their friendship would end one day—she was sure of it because they were on the opposite ends of the spectrum. Therefore, she would claim something she had wanted since the first time she saw Kevin Nash jackknife powerbomb another wrestler.

"I want you to powerbomb me," Orianne stated as she stood in front of him in her hotel room after everyone had cleared out after the game.

"What?" he asked, his jaw dropping open.

"I-want-you-to-pow-wer-bomb-me," she enunciated.

"We can't just march up to ring and me throw you on the mat. I would hurt you," he replied, holding out his hands as if to excuse himself. It never crossed his mind to just simply refuse and ask her to choose something else.

"I've got it all figured out," the woman excitedly replied. "We'll pull the mattresses off the bed and stack them on the floor. The ceiling's high enough if you don't do that thing where you pick the guys up by their underwear before throwing them down."

"There's no room for me to sit down and that floor would hurt," he said to make excuses.

"This from a guy who blades and takes chair shots," Orianne huffed and rolled her eyes. "Besides," she continued more directly, "I said powerbomb, not sit-down powerbomb. It's so easy."

He shook his head as she clapped her hands together and held them out waiting for an answer. "I don't know."

"Get over yourself, wuss. It's not like you can throw me full force in a room this size." He slowly shook his head, still indecisive. Her response was to fold her arms across her chest and reply, "Don't make me tell the guys you won't do my favor. You know it's a condition of playing."

"Alright," he replied. "Why do you want this anyhow?"

"My dad use to twirl me up when I was little but instead of throwing me, he would just flip me on over. As a kid, it was better than Six Flags. With your sheer power," she gestured at his shoulders, "it's got to be even better than that."

Batista shook his head with an amused smile and reached for the mattress of one double bed while she began to drag the mattress off the other. He helped her to stack one on top of the other and situate them in the best possible position in the room. "Alright, are you ready?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," she excitedly replied, rubbing her hands together. "What do you what me to do?"

"Well, after I get you where I've always wanted you—between my legs—"

"How did you know that was my ulterior motive?" Orianne asked with a laugh and then licked her lips.

He inwardly groaned at the action and hoped that she wouldn't notice his reaction when she did put her head between his thighs. What was worse was the fact that he had found himself aroused by her twice in two weeks and couldn't explain it. It could only mean that since he wasn't regularly getting laid by his girlfriend—he couldn't believe it had been five months since he and Gabrielle last sleep together—he was simply having normal reactions to anything suggestive.

"Just get over here and bend over. Do you want me to jerk you in…you know, like in the ring?"

"I want it all," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes and then bent at the waist.

"Keep your legs stiff until I roll you up. Everything else will happen so fast, you won't have to worry about form and you hardly have to worry about protection from the mat."

Orianne turned her head sideways and glanced up at him. "Are we gonna do this or are you gonna talk all day?" she cheekily asked.

"You asked for it," he replied and thrust her shoulders up against his thighs.

She was already having trouble breathing and this stopped her lungs in anticipation. Her legs were growing numb from excitement and from the knowledge that she was between his legs. Her favorite part of a man was his thighs and Dave Batista had some to die for. Instinctively she grasped them, hardly having time for her brain to register what she was doing as he slapped her one good time on the butt and then rolled her up. Her world turned upside down and her eyes tried to focus during the brief pause at the top but then she was flying through the air and bouncing off the mattresses. There wasn't enough cushion and the air rushed out of her lungs in a grunt. The woman lay there unmoving as all the feeling began to slowly creep back into her limbs and her eyes finally began to focus.

"Orianne?" Dave asked. It was the second time he called her name but she hadn't heard him the first. "Orianne?" The wrestler snapped his fingers in front of her face and she finally directed her gaze toward him.

"That was awesome. Can we do it again?" she huskily breathed.

"No way. You didn't specify more than once," Dave answered, standing over and watching her put a hand to her chest. "Besides, I don't think you could handle another. Let me help you up."

He held out his hand to her but she grabbed it with both hands and jerked down. Completely caught off guard, he tumbled forward, limbs flailing to keep his body from landing on her. She scooted over to make room for him on the bed and patted the place beside her where he was sprawled half on and half off the mattress. "Is it always like that?"

"I've never asked the guys I've done it too and there's only one wrestler who can do that to me and he's in TNA," Dave answered, as he situated himself beside her. "I imagine it's something you either get used to or don't want to do again 'cause that mat isn't as comfortable as this bed."

With their arms and legs touching all the way down, Orianne realized she had made an unwise choice in gesturing for him to lie beside her on the small bed. She thought too quickly of what it was like to feel his thighs against her shoulders and her hands upon the hard flesh. The photographer had lusted after those thighs on numerous occasions but it was hardly a concern then because she knew she'd never get this close. "Well, I think I'll be alright now. Seriously, you can help me up now."

With an inward sigh of disappointment, Dave rose from the bed and held out his hand to her. She took it this time and pulled herself up with his assistance. He then helped her put the mattresses back and excused himself for the night, having caught on to the tension between the two and figuring it was safer for him to leave this late at night.


At first, Orianne thought this was the worse thing that could happen to her—Dave had won at poker Sunday night and she had lost. After what she had made him do two nights before, she was extremely worried about what he would require of her. When Flair had asked if Dave had indeed done her favor—they all kept track to keep everyone honest—she answered that he had indeed as his eyes went wide and the pulse quickened in his throat. He didn't want to admit the unconventional request or the unconventional relationship they had found themselves in. As far he knew, no one knew how much time they had spent together in the past month. The photographer announced that she had made him carry her luggage from the hotel to the airport last Monday. It would hardly be that easy for her though. She only had to wait one day before he collected.

"Orianne," Dave breathlessly called as he caught her coming into the arena and heading for the lockerroom.

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, her breath quickening in fear. They didn't talk at the arena even though it wasn't something they had agreed upon. It wasn't that they were ashamed of each other—although it would be more like him embarrassed of her, she thought—but that they weren't exactly the two most likely people to become friends. Dave never approached her because he didn't want Randy to know what terms they were on and Orianne didn't want to give anyone the wrong idea about the two of them. They hadn't encountered anyone while they were out in the cities they visited and both assumed, separately, they'd cross that bridge when it happened. The situation was odd in that they found the relationship comfortable.

"I want to collect my favor."

"Now? Here?" she asked, glancing around wildly.

"It's like this," Dave began. Only two of the three requisite bimbos showed up that the director had hired for a vignette with him and Triple H. The third one was stuck at the hotel puking her guts out from food poisoning. From the looks of the other two, he was surprised that she had eaten in the first place. McMahon was in an already irate mood. He wanted three unknown women—not two, not one. Any other day and he might have just let it go with two but someone had put a particularly irritating burr under his saddle and he yelled at the director to find him another anonymous woman. Dave had the solution and promised the man that he knew the perfect person for the job.

"Dave, I can't do that!" she exclaimed.

"Of course you can. Turn out that Orianne charm that you use with me," he persuaded before dropping his voice and whispering in her ear. "It's your secret wish."

"Okay," the photographer sighed. "But how do you expect me to turn into a diva looking like this?" She gestured at her jeans and the t-shirt touting Summer Slam.

"I talked to Maria and Lita and they're gonna take care of you."

Orianne resisted the urge to yell "What!" She had a minimal relationship with the women wrestlers and the divas and that was only because she needed a locker to stow away the various cases and camera equipment not necessary ringside. She and Lita were what one could call friends and Maria thought that she and Orianne were friends. Maria was an outcast like Lita because she was as dense as her character was portrayed. Orianne made the mistake of opening up a conversation with the woman on a day she needed a listening ear and the photographer wanted to pass off some prints. As bad as Orianne felt for her, she just couldn't tolerate the interviewer—before or after she met her.

"We'll be ready as soon as you're ready. Get going," he ordered and swatted her on the butt to get her going after he quickly glanced around to make sure no one was looking.

The hand-print on her behind burned, not from pain, but from the searing feel of his hand on her cheek. She had just about been able to put the thought out of her mind from when he had done the same thing days earlier. What the hell am I doing? she thought as she scurried down the hall. The question wasn't just about her doing this vignette for Batista, which had the crap scared out of her, but about how she was letting her feelings take over for a man who was merely interested in her as a good friend.

"Oh, good, you're here," Lita exclaimed, meeting Orianne at the door. "We've managed to scrounge up some clothes for you." The redhead tugged the photographer to the other side of the divided locker room where Maria was seated on a bench and rifling through a large make-up case.

TBC…


Author's Notes: Very quickly--I know I've referenced a past injury of Orianne's but I just wanted y'all to know that it is not some tragedy that Dave must save her from. I know that that can sometimes be a big turn-off for readers. It's just a part of her character that makes her who she is, which is why I haven't explained it yet (but I will).