Disclaimer:IdonotownanythingotherthanDrea,Lane,andotherOCcharacters.Unfortunatelyenough,Idon'tclaimanyownershiptoanyWWESuperstarsortheWWEitself.I'mentirelytoopoorandunluckyforthattobethecase.
Sorry if you've been waiting for the update, oh faithful followers of Drea! Please send all complaints to my employer, lol. I'm also needing a little feedback about how Drea is letting herself run amuck, so let your voices be heard! Speak up! And in the mean time -
CHAPTER 29
The tavern was local – it was easy to tell. There were kids faces adorning the walls for awards, games, and random notes written on the walls under the clippings. John nodded to a couple people as he lead us inside, and they instantly parted the waters for him. There was a large table in a back corner where we took up residence. I was getting the feeling that this may have been his usual spot when he graced them with his presence.
A slim blonde traipsed over and I heard John's voice sing out, "I'll have a beer, what about you?" John nudged me from the menu I was busy reading to order my drink.
"Oh, beer is fine with me, too. Thanks." I went back to the menu, trying to decide if I was hungry, or even capable of eating, after remembering that smell of the horrible pot simmering on the stove at John's house. I guess some fries could be safe; but I should probably make sure they didn't come covered in chow-dah.
"So this is your local spot, huh? Pretty swank." I grinned as John smiled and nodded to our beer wench, handing me my bottle.
"I've been in worse. The chow is good, the booze is plentiful, and it's close to home. Plus, there is usually-" John was interrupted by a rowdy crowd rolling through the door. A group of guys were cheering and yelling; I caught something about someone's last night of freedom. Either one of them was going to the clink or getting married; I really believe in about 75% of the situations it's the same thing.
John's voice boomed over to the new group of patrons, "Jared! Hey you jack ass!" John slide away from me to go claim the guy he knew. It was like watching a group of dogs that hadn't seen one member in a while – they lost their effing minds over the new smells. Hugs, laughter, cheers – it was all around. And then, much to my own chagrin, John told them to come on over and join us for the time being. I was immediately introduced to so many drunk assholes, I couldn't remember many names. The groom's name was Pete, and Pete was a tool. On more than one occasion, Pete attempted to discuss the finer points of No-mah's impact on Red Sox baseball and look down my shirt at the same time.
"Uh, Pete is it? Well, you Jimmy Fallon knock-off, if you don't keep your hands and eyes to yourself, I might have to kick your ass prior to tomorrow's festivities when you marry Rachel Dratsch and discuss the finer points of No-mah's game."
"Who is that?" Really, Pete? You've never seen the SNL skit that you are so desperately trying to replicate? Pete was not very bright, and I do not suffer fools very well. It was a deadly mix and could not be headed in a positive direction.
I motioned for the waitress, and told her to just start bringing shots. Hard, full-force shots. Lots of them. Then I turned back to Pete, "Nevermind, Pete. Oh, wait – shots!" This is the last coherent memory I had of the evening…
I rolled over the next morning, but was unable to open my eyes. Apparently my mascara had clumped itself in my eyelashes, which usually tells me I cried at some point in time before I fell asleep. After some work, I managed to have my fingers assist my eye muscles in prying my eyeballs back open; I should have kept them closed.
I looked around and there were bodies everywhere – it looked like the morning after at Jonestown. My head was pounding and John was snoring right next to me. I rolled a little further away from the nook of his arm where I had been resting, apparently; there were make-up marks ground into John's shirt where I had just been. There was another guy splayed out in a nearby recliner, one arm tucked up behind a face that had been drawn all over in black marker. I finally realized we were in a basement, and by the looks of the pictures hung and random memorabilia, it was at John's house. I glanced across the room, and yet another random man was curled in a little ball near a table. Before I could stop myself, I spoke a little too loudly. "What the fuck happened here last night?"
John snorted lightly as his eyes fluttered open. He leaned up and was now sitting next to me as I rubbed the side of my pounding head. "Morning Dr – oh, God, what the fuck is going on?" He started to look a little more worried and surveyed the damages. "Dude," he hit his friend snoozing in the recliner, "what the hell did you do to us last night?" His friend stirred slightly, licking his lips as he opened his eyes slowly.
"I knew that fucking stripper would lead to no good," I scooted more behind John as his friend spoke. It was Jared – the jackass. I snuggled back up against John's shoulder, whimpering softly at the pain that was eating away at my head. He immediately responded with a quick press of his lips against my head.
"You feelin' bad, killer? Don't worry – I've got you." John wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me tight against him. I need to keep a mental note about this – I bet he might even be sweet enough to take care of me during flu season if he could stand me hung over.
"John, stupid questions – why is there half a bridal party passed out in your basement, and what stripper is he talking about?"
John decided the smart thing to do would be to wake up sleeping beauty in the corner (that just happened to be Pete's brother and best man), and then to forage for coffee upstairs. Jared and his other pseudo-fraternity brother followed John and I into the kitchen. Now, I'm normally not a coffee drinker, but I was begging for a cup to try and quiet the marching band that had taken up residence in my head. John happily obliged and handed me a large mug half-full, which I promptly filled to the brim with sugar and cream.
"So who is going to explain this to me, 'cause I have no recollection of just what happened last night." Jared was grinning, as was John, but the Best Man and myself were left out of their little inside joke. "No, seriously – what the fuck happened? One minute I'm being subjected to a torturous conversation about Boston baseball, the next I'm waking up to hear about strippers. This is a new one - even for me."
John looked at his buddy Jared, and they both busted out laughing hysterically. "Drea, my details are fuzzy at best – but I'm pretty sure we helped them celebrate."
"Helped us celebrate? It was your idea to head to the strip club, Johnny." Jared had busted him out. John flushed and laughed. I could believe it, and had snorted out laughing before I could stop myself. "Don't live it up too much girlie – we had to drag you off stage at least three different times before you were convinced you didn't work there."
"Oh, God." What the eff was my problem with hilarity and stage shows? Especially at strip clubs; you'd think I'd spent time there as a child.
"At least her tits were prettier than some of the others we saw. AND, she convinced the strippers to come hang out with us, didn't she?" John looked pensive as he spoke. My cheeks turned eight different shades of red as the night's evening was recounted, and his affection for my natural blessings was revealed. I'd heard enough – I never should have opened that Pandora's box. The conversation halted there for a good five minutes of awkward silence before I had to break it, and open my mouth again.
"Oh-kay, well we've established a great time was had by all. Ya'll saw my goods. What's say everyone who isn't taking up residence here for any amount of time vacates so that they are not late to some poor girl's idea of her happiest day ever?" Jared giggled under his breath as he smacked the Best Man, who had his head buried in his hands on the table.
"Dude, let's hit it so John and his girl can have some alone time. You know how a new couple is…" Best Man grunted and raised from his makeshift grave. I watched with steel eyes as they said their good byes to John and he walked them around the corner. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I'm sure it was some kind of random dude joke, and a really bad one at that. John came back around the corner alone, and skidded to a halt as he met my eyes.
I opened my mouth before he could give me another random look. "So, do I get let in on the inside joke there, or?" I was coming off a little more bitch than I normally would have been after such a night of fun (or so I was told that it was). Thank you mister hangover hell, so nice of you to make an appearance today.
"Whoa there, darlin. I didn't say anything-" John grabbed some cereal off the top of the fridge and brought the box back to the bar where I had taken refuge, and took a seat next to me.
"You didn't say it, no, but what were they talking about? Did I miss another event of the drunken Olympics that I participated in? Did I at least medal in this one?" I laughed softly at myself – I'm so effing funny sometimes. Humor is the best defense when you get that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach – the bottomless hole feeling where something happened and you're just waiting for the news to drop.
"Well, I think you may have, but you weren't the only one on the podium." Watching him dive head first into that bowl was enough to turn my stomach.
"You up there with me?" I had to turn my head – watching John eat with this bad of a hang over was a retching experience. John said nothing but stuffed another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. This was an obvious attempt to keep from talking about this. "John…"
All I heard was a jumble of grunts through the chewing. I raised my eyebrow and waited. At last, he gulped. "There might be a little bit of something to be said," John instinctively shoved another mouthful of food in. Again, I was forced to wait out his mastication.
"John, please; my head hurts, I'm being filled in on bits and pieces of a night I spent out and don't remember, and now watching you eat is churning my alcohol-soaked stomach. If you know something, spill it." I heard a strange jingle coming from John's pants. He set down the bowl long enough to pull out his cell and hit some buttons. His eyes about bugged out of his head, and he looked at me, panic stricken. I pulled the phone from his hand; the sight caused me to drop my coffee a little gruffly on the table and gasp every bit of breath from my body…
'JohnCenahasvisitedicecreamparloragain – hasnewflavorofthemonth!' The video was imbedded on a dirt sheet site, and my stomach lurched – I almost lost it. Before I could stop myself, I hit the play button, and the pictures sprang to life. There was a back view of John, and you could hear him laughing hysterically. There were limbs wrapped around him, finally silenced as he turned, female attached to his face…she looked familiar. Then I noticed the deciding factor; the chick was wearing my bright yellow watch. Ohamygosh – what the hell happened?
John attempted to talk to me, and I just couldn't do it. I held up my hand as I clamored out of the chair, and almost steam rolled his dad as I ran to the nearest bathroom. I began my very loud, and violent, prayers to the porcelain god. John snuck in while I was busy trying to regurgitate my socks from my stomach, so it wasn't until I heard the snickers that I knew I had any company.
"I'm really glad you find this funny." I rested my head against my arms, breathless from my latest round of digestive pyrotechnics. "I can't believe this."
John's laughter was echoing off the walls, "I never thought I would see the day when a girl puked because she hooked up with me."
I managed to catch his eyes. He was leaning up against the sink, arms crossed and a mischievous grin across his lips. "John, I'm sor-" I buried my head again, much to his amusement. "I'm sorry. It's not so much the hook up as it is the circumstance." I was pleading with my head to keep the tears in, and my stomach to keep the remaining spec of coffee down as well.
"It's cool. Here," John grabbed some mouthwash and a tooth brush, setting it on the side of the sink and patting next to it. I begrudgingly raised my shaky body up next to his formidable frame, and started my toxic clean up. Thank you Lord for your invention of mint toothpaste and Listerine; I revel in His bounty.
"Can I go lay down now? 'Cause I don't know about you, but my head still hates me and now, I hate me too." How could I be this stupid? Not only do I allow myself to be corrupted and drink away the remaining brain cells I have (all 3 of them, and am coincidentally paying the price for it now) because of Red Sox fans, I apparently thought that it would be tragic if I didn't plaster myself all over John's face. I was fast becoming the office slut – great.
I followed meekly behind John to a large, overstuffed couch in the living room. He sat down against the corner, opening a spot up for me as he reached for the remote. I could barely get over how comfortable John seemed to be with me snuggling in against his chest. It was like everything was right with the world – he calmly flipped through the channels, settling on some cartoon show, his arm enveloping my shoulder. This spot seemed like it was chiseled out specifically with me in mind.
"Drea, I can hear your brain going from here. You're really going to have to just let some shit go." Easy for him to say – he looks like a playboy, and I looked like a hooker. Great, I'm sure my mother will be super proud of me. I'm guessing he knew where I was headed when he continued, "So what that it happened? It's over and done with, and whatever. You don't see me complaining about it." John slunk down further on the couch, allowing his steel blue eyes to close and try to find rest.
My best attempts to analyze what I had found myself in were thwarted by my body's need for rest. As I closed my eyes, exhaling against John's chest, I allowed myself to entertain John's thoughts…what if this wasn't a big deal. Maybe he was right – for once.
