I know, I know - it's been an ETERNITY since I last updated. Well, good thing I have a juicy chapter for you :)

Long story short, life got in the way and I wasn't able to put in the time to write. However, I did learn how to use Photoshop... and I've made a banner for Turn On the Lights! The link is on my profile page, so you can check it out after you r&r :)

Oh, also I tweaked the ending to the last chapter quite a bit because it was better for the forward movement of the plot, so if you feel like it you can go read the new convo between Hannah and Punk.

As always, thank you to everyone who has shown their support for this story, whether it be through reviews, follows or favorites. I hope this chapter is well worth the wait, and please let me know what you think!

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Hub
Tampa, Florida

Jon took a long drag from the cigarette in between his lips. His drink was two thirds gone and he needed another. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

There wasn't much outside the squared circle he enjoyed better than a good dive bar—the kind of place where the dregs of society congregated. Dive bars were dirty, gritty, unpolished; just like him. But this place was even seedier than the seediest places he had been. It looked like it hadn't been renovated since the 1940s. The floor was filthy; the chair cushions were ripped and worn; the air was dense and stale and he was pretty sure that was a homeless bum sitting at the bar. But the bartenders poured their drinks with a heavy hand, and that was all that mattered to anyone. Jon included.

He smirked to himself as he stamped out the finished cigarette butt. Hannah wouldn't be caught dead here, and certainly not with him.

She thought he was a monster.

He had seen it in her eyes. She was terrified of him, of what she had seen him do to Corey Graves. Why had she had to follow him into the locker room? He wished she hadn't. He wished she hadn't seen what he had done. But she had, and now she thought he was a monster.

But that bastard had deserved it.

There was never an excuse to put your hands on a woman. No matter how angry he became, no matter how destructive he could get Jon would never ever put his hands on a woman. He had seen it too much growing up in the projects of Cincinnati's eastside. He had seen it happen to his own mother. It made him sick. Just the thought of a piece of filth like Corey Graves laying a finger on Hannah made his blood boil, and when he had seen those bruises on her arm he had seen red. He hadn't been able to control his anger. It happened sometimes.

But Punk probably had Hannah thinking he was like that all the time.

Jon had seen him stop her after the show, had watched from across the parking lot as they had talked. It wasn't hard to guess the things he had said to her—the same things everyone said about him.

He's volatile. He's cold. He's crazy. He's a sociopath.

Oh, Jon was well aware of the things people whispered about him backstage; and, quite frankly, he didn't give one flying fuck. In fact, he kind of liked it. He liked being left alone. He liked being mysterious. He liked having a reputation that preceded him, even if it was only partly true. It complemented his gimmick quite nicely.

But as much as Jon didn't care what anyone else said or thought about him, what he didn't want was for Hannah to be one of the ones who bought into it all. He didn't want her to actually believe he was crazy. He didn't want her to actually believe he had no self-restraint.

If she did actually believe it all, though—well, he certainly wasn't going to try to change her mind.

"You got a light?"

Jon looked up from his glass. The question had come from a tall blonde in a tight red tank top and a pair of ripped jeans. He had noticed her earlier; it was rather hard not to what with the looks she had been sending him all night, biting her lip and making bedroom eyes. He scanned her over. She had a shapely little body.

He dug into his pocket and produced his lighter. He knew for a fact she had one of her own. He had watched her light up not twenty minutes ago. This was just an excuse to talk to him.

She accepted the lighter with long, slender fingers and lit her cigarette. She took a draw before handing it back to him. The way she wrapped her lips around the end was all too suggestive.

"Thanks," she said. She eyed him for a second. Jon could tell she recognized him. "Aren't you a wrestler?"

He smirked. Oh, the perks of his job were never-ending. "That I am."

She took another puff. "I thought so. My boyfriend watches that stuff."

"Does he?" he slyly returned. "And where's he at now?"

She blew the smoke up into the air, and when her eyes met his they smoldered like the end of her cigarette. "Not here."

Jon's grin turned devilish. He had never turned down a good skank, and he wasn't about to start.

"What're you drinking?"

Thursday, February 28, 2013
Hannah McMahon's Apartment
Stamford, Connecticut

Hannah couldn't remember the last time she had taken a hot bubble bath; it was a luxury she had nearly forgotten. But that night she had rediscovered it in all its glory and she was taking full advantage. Hopefully the lavender-scented bubbles would help her to forget about everything, if only for half an hour.

It had been three days since she had witnessed Jon attempt to rearrange Corey's face. Three days, and still she didn't know what to make of it. It had all happened so quickly; he had exploded like gas exposed to an open flame. It had been frightening. It had been eye opening—and not in a good way.

When Hannah had told Phil she was well aware of Jon's reputation it had been the truth. But she had associated that reputation with Dean Ambrose, not Jon Good. She wasn't used to seeing Jon behave that way. Dean was the erratic one; Dean was the one who beat people to a bloody pulp, not Jon. Jon was mysterious and misunderstood and rough around the edges but he wasn't violent, he wasn't dangerous. Not like that. Not the man she knew.

Who the hell was Hannah kidding? She didn't know Jon Good. Perhaps he was like that. Perhaps the man was every bit as violent and volatile as the wrestler. Perhaps his temper couldn't be controlled. Perhaps he was dangerous.

Perhaps everyone was right about him, after all. Phil included.

Phil. That situation was an issue in and of itself. There had been words left unsaid between them there in the parking lot; words, Hannah feared, that would affect a lot more than just the two of them.

"SHIT!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang out from atop the toilet. She hadn't even realized she had brought the thing into the bathroom with her. It was a bad habit she had, taking her phone with her absolutely everywhere she went; and when she saw who was calling she sincerely wished she had left the damn thing elsewhere.

"Yes, dear sister?" she answered with a sigh. Hopefully this conversation would be short.

"Well hello to you, too," Stephanie returned. "Are you coming to dinner tonight?"

Hannah felt a headache coming on. She had forgotten all about the family dinner that night.

"You forgot didn't you?"

"Yeah," she admitted. Honestly, she had probably forgotten because she flat out didn't want to go. It was just another thing she didn't have the energy to deal with at the moment.

"Well you're coming, aren't you?" Stephanie pried. "You have to."

"Yes, Stephanie, I'm aware I don't have a choice," she snipped. They were still testy with each other over the creative license Hannah had used in her match against AJ. Getting together with the whole family tonight was going to be an absolute joy.

"Dinner's at five. Don't be late," Stephanie ordered. "And pick up something for dessert. I want cheesecake."

That was all she said before she hung up. Hannah let out a heavy sigh—so much for enjoying her bubble bath.

Stephanie McMahon Levesque's House
Greenwich, Connecticut

For what had to be the hundredth time that night Hannah pressed the home button on her iPhone, illuminating the screen. It was only 7:17, and they had yet to cut into the cheesecake Stephanie had insisted she bring. She felt like she was dying a slow death.

"Hannah, you've been checking your phone every ten minutes since you got here," her mother noted. Linda McMahon hated when people used their phones at the dinner table. As she had always said, work should never interrupt family—even if you do work with your family. "I swear, you've gotten worse about that than all of us."

"Yeah, Hannah," Paul piped up. "Hoping to hear from a certain someone?"

Hannah rolled her eyes; here we go. The point of the night when conversation turned to her love life had finally been reached. "And who would that be, Paul?"

He gave a lopsided shrug. "I just couldn't help but notice that you and Brad seemed pretty chummy on Monday. Something change while you were down in Tampa?"

"Yeah, I thought you hated him," Stephanie chimed.

"I didn't hate him," Hannah argued. "He just went out of his way to help me in Tampa."

That was her story and she was sticking to it. It wasn't a lie—it just wasn't the whole truth. And they would never hear the whole truth. Ever.

"Are you and Brad getting married?"

Everyone chuckled when they heard that. It had come from Paul and Stephanie's oldest, Aurora. Hannah pursed her lips at her wide-eyed niece. The kid was lucky she was cute.

But, of course, Paul jumped in before Hannah could answer for herself. "Yes, they are! And they're going to live happily ever after just like mom and dad."

"You're lying to your six-year-old," Hannah commented. "Real good parenting, Paul."

Stephanie's eyes widened murderously at her sister but Hannah paid it absolutely no mind. She had been done with this dinner 30 minutes ago.

But that was when Vince decided to join the conversation.

"Speaking of Monday, why did you change the finish to your match, Hannah?"

The room fell silent. Hannah should have seen this coming. Of course Stephanie had gone and complained to daddy about the match, just like she had told her to, and of course he was taking her side. It had never mattered that Hannah was the youngest—Stephanie had always been Vince's little princess.

Hannah's answer was blunt. "Because I didn't want to lose by DQ. It's pretty simple, really."

"Lots of people don't like the way their matches are booked," Vince returned. "But that doesn't give them the liberty to change things."

His tone was calm. Ominously calm. It made Hannah nervous. Was she seriously in trouble for changing the ending to a meaningless match? But then she saw the haughty little smirk on Stephanie's lips and all her nervousness turned to anger.

"What difference does it make?" she charged. "The finish AJ and I came up with went over fine. Were you planning on continuing the story line or something? Because if that was the case Stephanie should have told me."

"That's not the point," Stephanie started, but Vince spoke over her.

"No, as far as I know there weren't any plans to continue the story line, but a DQ win would have kept that option on the table. There's always a reason for the decisions Creative makes."

Hannah could have laughed out loud. It sure as hell didn't seem like there was always a reason for the decisions Creative made. Sometimes it seemed like they spun the Raw roulette wheel and went with whatever it landed on, no matter how ridiculous or illogical it was.

"But despite your… disobedience, which I expect to never happen again," he went on, "I was impressed with the match."

Stephanie's jaw slacked. Hannah grinned. Take that, bitch.

"Who'd you work with down in Tampa?" Vince asked. "Besides Brad."

"Sara Del Ray and Kassius Ohno."

He nodded. His steely eyes were pensive. Hannah could practically see the gears working behind them. When it came to Vincent Kennedy McMahon that was rarely a good thing.

"Did you use Ambrose's DDT on purpose?"

Shit.

Hannah was like a deer in the headlights. Why in the world was he asking that? There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in her mind that he knew about what Jon had done to Corey—absolutely everything, no matter how trivial, eventually found its way to the Chairman. But even so, Vince never bothered with the backstage tussles; he let the talent deal with those on their own. He was their boss, not their father.

But he was Hannah's father, and that was more than enough reason for him to bother with this particular instance.

"No," she answered. "That was just how they taught me to do the DDT."

Again, Vince nodded. He was concocting something in that brain of his and Hannah didn't like it. After all, his last bright idea had left her charge of The Shield.

"Why?" she dared to ask, but Vince nonchalantly brushed it off.

"No particular reason. It just gave me an idea."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What sort of idea?"

"Don't you worry about it, Hannah. That's my job."

His lips curled into a cunning grin. All of a sudden Hannah wasn't feeling so good.

"Well," Vince clapped his hands together. "Where's that cheesecake?"

Friday, March 1, 2013
Raw Live Event
Ricoh Coliseum – Toronto, Ontario, Canada

When WWE brass had first told Phil he would be getting his own bus he hadn't been too keen on the idea. He had never wanted to be one of those guys. He drove himself. He was a road warrior, piling into a rental car with his fellow workers and trading off the steering wheel for as long as it took to get where they were going. He didn't need a bus.

It hadn't taken long for him to change his tune.

Some nights the bus was a lifesaver; to be able to flop into his bed in the back and sleep until the next city was an unbelievable luxury he had never thought he would have. Other nights the bus was a sanctuary away from the chaos that was backstage, particularly when he wanted to be left alone, when he needed to think.

Tonight was one of those nights.

When Phil had heard Hannah would be making the jump from talent scout to on-screen talent—and as the power behind The Shield, no less—he had had his reservations. It had been over a year and a half since they had interacted, and honestly he had no clue how it would be working with her.

But of all the scenarios he had imagined absolutely none of them had been like this.

It's hardly ever anyone's intention to hurt someone, Phil. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

Those words had been echoing in his mind since the night she had said them. And ever since that night Phil hadn't been able to stop thinking about what he had done.

At the start of 2011 Hannah and Phil hadn't been much more than acquaintances. She spent her time out on the road searching for the next Superstar; he spent his time out on the road performing every night. It wasn't until early that summer, when word got out how unhappy he was with WWE that they really got to know each other—and their worlds had collided in a way that he never would have expected.

When Hannah had learned that Phil didn't intend to renew his contract she put absolutely everything else on hold; keeping him in the company became her number one priority. So they had met, and they had talked, and during those many hours of discussion one thing had stood out above all the rest: they disliked all the same things about WWE.

So Hannah had devised a plan. "How would you feel if you were allowed to publicly air your grievances?" she had asked him.

"It would be like defusing a bomb," he had answered. "Because I'm damn near ready to explode."

That was all the word she had needed. Hannah worked her magic, and when Phil had sat cross-legged under the TitanTron at the Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas on June 27, 2011 and delivered his game-changing promo indicting the McMahons and pointing out everything wrong with WWE it had been thanks to her. That had happened because of her. And it was because of her, in part, that he had renewed his contract and was still with WWE today.

She had helped to save his career when she had absolutely no obligation to at all, and he had returned the favor by being a complete and total douchebag.

During the time when he was considering leaving WWE, Phil had just ended a serious relationship—one with three-time Women's and one-time Divas Champion, Beth Phoenix. Things had just turned sour between them. She had become a person he didn't like, fake and insincere, and all his respect and admiration for her had gone down the toilet. Due to that, and the circumstances surrounding his contract, he hadn't been looking to get involved with anyone anytime soon.

But then Hannah had come along.

They had just clicked. She was intelligent and witty and so passionate about the things that mattered to her. She was fun and gorgeous and she understood; and soon enough he had found himself talking to her just because he wanted to. Soon enough they had moved from acquaintances to friends, and from friends to something more.

And then, for the very first time in his life, Phil had chickened out.

He couldn't tell you why. Maybe he just hadn't been ready for another relationship; maybe he had been more hurt by what Beth had done than he had realized. Hell, maybe it had even been because Hannah's last name was McMahon. Whatever the reason, he had told her he just didn't want to be involved at the moment.

So imagine her surprise when, not two weeks later, she found out he had gotten back together with another ex-girlfriend. Amy. Hannah had every reason in the world to despise him.

Ever since that summer Phil had wished he could go back in time and fix it. He wished he had handled it differently. He had thoughtlessly hurt someone he both cared for and respected and he wanted nothing more than to fix it; and so far he hadn't been able to.

But in recent weeks Phil had begun wrestling with something other than just his guilt. Watching Hannah out in the ring had re-awoken everything that had drawn him to her in the first place. Seeing her smiling and laughing backstage had made him realize he missed spending time with her.

And seeing her with Dean Ambrose had made him realize that maybe he wished he had never walked away from her in the first place.

Phil shook himself from his thoughts and checked the time—6:09. Little more than 45 minutes until the show would get underway. He should probably head back inside.

He grabbed his things and just as he was about to leave the bus his phone rang. He glanced down at the caller ID and paused. It was Amy.

Phil pushed the phone into his pocket and opened the door to the crisp Toronto air. Whatever Amy had to say, it would have to wait. He couldn't talk to her right now.