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CHAPTER 35
"Janine, are you serious? There is no way this is going to work." I kept pulling at the dress hem, tugging it as far down as possible only for it to ride back up as soon as I stood up straight again.
"Drea, it was ordered for you specifically for this event. The instructions were clear – tight, white, short, preferably spandex." Janine stood with a hand on either hip. "Besides that, all this worrying and working out you've been doing is making you look really good – own that shit, girl." Ugh, was there anything worse than being shoved into a dress you're really not fond of and then being pushed out for millions to see? Oh, right – doing it all without Spanx.
An hour later, I found myself schlepping back to John's room, pouting about my hair, make-up, wardrobe and shoes. Normally, I loved the girls and what they did for how the talent looked, but Vince had done some massive staffing additions in the last few days, so I was just getting to know my new wardrobe mistress, makeup artist, and hair stylist. While I'm not really upset in the slightest that I was no longer answering for several grown mens' property, I was also not quite used to how it felt to be one of the sheep and no longer the border collie.
I pushed open the locker room door, hoping to find a welcoming set of arms and lots of reassurance. Instead, I found…a chair and several gym bags. I've seen old western movies with more activity from the tumbleweeds than what was going on in that locker room. "What the fuck? Where the hell is he?" God, I love when I feel the need to talk to myself out loud in an empty room; sanity is not a friend of mine. I guess I truly was an island.
Catering tables normally don't lend themselves to time for yourself, this time, however, my impersonation of Hawaii was uninterrupted for the next hour or so. Barely anyone came in or out of the room, no one stayed to chat, and my textapalooza was not garnering responses. Any responses. At all. This was worse than I ever felt in middle school when Jesse Maynes told everyone I had gotten mono from making out with Louis Benton. I shuddered at the very thought – if you knew what an insult that was, you might be scared too. Had I been blacklisted and not realized it?
"Drea, sweetie…" The voice in my ear was calm, soothing, and was the first human interaction I'd had in over three hours. I slowly lifted my head from my folded arms, blinking slowly as my eyes adjusted to the light of the room. Beth was smirking, "Uh, you may wanna head back to make-up. I think you may just need a touch up."
"Gee, thanks, you're a pal, but this is how I'm being sent out into the world. Someone sure has a sense of humor, huh?" I rested my chin against my hands, slumping further onto the table as Beth slid into the chair next to me. "So where is everyone around this place? I looked all around for John, and I couldn't find him or anyone else for that matter. Did I become a leper? Beth, do I smell funny?" I started sniffing on my shoulders, then pulled the ends of my hair forward to give it a quick sniff.
Beth smirked to herself before responding. "Seriously? Oh my Lord, Drea, you don't smell – stop being weird. I do, however, think you were left out of the last minute Creative meeting on purpose."
"What meeting? There was a meeting?" I'm guessing that this is exactly what she was talking about.
"Vince had all the talent come into the conference room to discuss the last minute changes, and we were all dismissed," I started open my mouth, but Beth answered my unasked question, "John and Randy were asked to stay behind."
"Why didn't I get invited to this little party? I'm always fun at parties…" I was being a total whiner; we both knew it.
"Drea, shut up. I don't know what happened with the guys, and it makes no sense to really stick on it. You know John's easier to read than a picture book, so when you track him down, you're going to know everything. Now go back to make up, get fixed up, and get ready for the ride. It's going to be insane." Beth never realizes her full strength, so when she punched me in the shoulder, I fully believe that she thought it was playful.
"Fine, jeez – no reason to try and beat my ass." I stood up, rubbing my shoulder, wincing at the instant pain. Beth pointed me to the door, and like the 4 year old who had been told to go to her room without dinner, I skulked my way out of the catering room and back into the depths of the arena.
Why did I suddenly feel so self-conscious? I'd only been parading around in a white spandex bandage dress, awaiting my Wrestlemania debut, for 10 hours now. Sadly enough, I was becoming one with my clothing; I suddenly had the urge to either troll corners or go get married for less than 3 months. I felt like a mix of Lindsay Lohan – pre-rehab, Japanese harijuku , and a Jean Paul Gaultier runway gone wrong. My hair had been teased to its limits, my white eye shadow was brushed into wide cat-eye tips with dark black charcoaled rims, and that push up bra was working overtime. I still had yet to see John for the first time of the evening; apparently the meeting did not go well, so there was another marathon session between John, Vince, and his Creative directors. Or at least that is what every PA told me on my walk to the gorilla, where I now stood, awaiting my fate.
I heard him approaching before he ever got close to me. I was watching the monitor, staring at how horrible Michael Cole's pores looked that close up, and heard the growl behind me grow louder. "White is your color, baby." I swear that his body gave off more heat than the surface of the sun, and despite my wishes to the contrary, I felt exhilarated by his proximity. "I'm hoping that you keep that dress to hit the town with me after this all goes down. I'll have to keep you on a short leash, though; you look fucking amazing."
I tucked my chin against my shoulder, "Who said anything about me doing anything with you ever again, Randy? You finally give in to that whole mental health issue? You must have forgotten that John and I are together, and I'm sure that once he hears about your little commentary, you're going to be incapacitated from any extra curricular activities – I'll make sure someone alerts the local call girls."
He snorted loudly. "Good to see you haven't lost that edge, baby; it's sexy. But I'm guessing that you must not know…" Randy slid to my side, his eyes dancing back and forth as that trademark smirk crossed his lips. "Ol' Johnny boy finally popped that vein during our meeting with Creative and management. Vince threatened to fire him on the spot if he couldn't chill out – he's supposed to put me over by an injury, and if he doesn't, they are going to suspend him." Randy puffed his chest out wider, "Either way, you're going to be working with me. John is heading back to FCW for a while to help out a new recruit, and we are going to be making the rounds."
It was as if someone had told me again that Santa Claus wasn't real. I was going to be bounced back to the dark side, and it was all due to John's temper. Vince had it out for John; he'd been plotting his downfall since I changed his mind about the divorce story. More than that, I'd pissed off Creative so I'm now combined into this little plot for revenge. I am so going to put Ex-Lax in a few peoples' coffee when I got the chance.
Randy's music hit, and with a wink of his eye, he slithered out the curtain to a deafening pop of the crowd. I immediately demanded that the nearest assistant found out where John was holding himself hostage; and no sooner did I ask but did he appear around the corner, marching my way with his face red hot.
"John!" I perched a hand on my hip lightly, "Where have you been? What is going on?"
He reached me and skidded to a stop, running his hand over his clenched jaw before speaking. "This whole fucking company has gone fucking retarded, that's what's happened! Every-fucking-time I get to a good place and get working really well, they have to fuck with me. Every Fucking Time!"
"John, calm down – what are we going to do?" I reached out to grab his arm, but it was wrenched away from me. John's face was hardened and pointed; his eyes were narrow and cold.
"WE? We?" John stepped toward me until he was nearly nose-to-nose. "WE aren't going to do anything. WE haven't been sent packing, and WE haven't just lost the reassignment of the title." John ground his teeth while staring me down; I started to wilt backwards slightly.
"John, I'm…sor…" I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
"Suck it up, Drea. I'm fucked. Let's just get this over with because I have to be on a plane to Tampa tonight. C'mon." And with that, John went through the curtain, I followed, and I tried to keep the tears off my bright red cheeks.
I grabbed John's arm as he started down the ramp to the ring, "What the hell was that, John?"
John stopped short, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked into mine. "Drea, this is all your fault. If you hadn't pushed Creative's buttons and somehow made Vince think he was wrong about something, I'd never be in this position. Here I am, having to pay for your mouth, and you could care less!"
"Are you fucking kidding me? How do you know any of that, or that this is my fault? From what I hear, someone," I jabbed my index finger into John's chest hard, "lost his ever-loving mind today, and it sure as hell was not me!" I couldn't control the anger or my tears anymore.
"Sure, it's all my fault. You're trouble, Drea. I don't know what I've been thinking, but it's been made very clear to me – being around you is not good for my career." His words were bitter and full of disdain. I ducked my head away from the camera that was trailing us to wipe away my tears, and John ran straight off to the ring, leaving me there with my own internal misery.
The match went back and forth for at least 35 minutes until the end drew near. My mind was still reeling from what John had said to me. I was pacing the ring, trying to keep my hurt inside and the pretend face on. I could barely believe how John had acted – it was like he was a pissed off teenage boy who just got turned down for his first lay. It was no where near the John I knew and loved; he was horrible.
John and Randy were attempting to run a quick reminder about their next moves when John lost it again. Randy had him in the corner. "Look, douche bag, I'm out. Pin me and get it over with." John opened his chest up as Randy threw a shot to his pecs hard.
"You know I can't do that, John. You have to go over the announcer's table to make the injury believable." Randy grabbed John, and flung him out of the ropes. I was getting closer to the action, peeking around the corner post before I walked around the stairs.
John stood up and started back towards Randy as he slid out of the ring under the bottom rope. "Fuck you." John rammed himself against Randy's shoulders, jerking Randy back violently against the frame of the ring. This was going to be more than a scripted injury if I didn't pull these two apart.
Before my own brilliant self-preservation instinct could come back to life, I lunged forward and grabbed onto John's arm as he drew it back. He turned instantly around, throwing me off his arm and down to the ground. "What the hell are you doing, Drea? Stay the fuck out of this, you've already done enough!"
Randy's eyes met mine as I looked up from the ground, stunned at what John had allowed himself to do and say. In an instant, that crafted face went blank; his eyes were dark and pointed. Randy drew his left hand back and thrust it into the side of John's face as it was turned. John's head whipped back, and he dropped to the floor next to me. Randy's chest was heaving, John was in a heap near where I was located on the floor, and both my hands were attempting to cover my gaping mouth. "Fuck you, Cena – you want me to do this the hard way, so be it, but don't you ever treat a female like that, especially not her!"
Randy walked over and threw the cover to the announcer's table off, grabbed a monitor and threw it down against John's exposed chest. The crowd was going nuts at this explosive outburst, but I was more scared he would end up doing more than temporary damage. I crawled over to John and tried to help him up to his feet as Randy's back was turned to grab the next monitor to hurl.
"John, get up. Get up now." I had my hands wrapped around John's bicep, trying in vain to lift up his mass from the ground. Randy turned to throw the next monitor and froze.
"Drea, move. Now." Randy's face was scary and vacant – it reminded me of the look I saw on him the night he let the scuzy bartender have it.
"Randy, please, don't hurt him. Please," I let John's arm drop and lightly placed a hand on Randy's chest. "He's down, stop." Randy's arm dropped to his side as he held my stare; I was pleading for a shred of discretion to return to his eyes. Slowly, they thawed and he leaned down to speak, trying in vain to avoid the cameras or the audience catching his words.
"Drea, he's out of line, and you know it. I saw what he did to you coming down, and he laid his hands on you again. I fucking warned him. He's begging for an ass kicking, and you know it!" His tone was a harsh whisper, but having him so close brought chills down my spine. Why was I arguing for John's pardon again? Those juicy lips were spewing some very good, tantalizing points right now.
"God damn it, Drea, what the fuck are you doing?" I was pulled from my little bubble when someone forcefully grabbed my upper arm, whipping me around like a rag doll. John was beet red and seething; his hand had my arm so tightly it was cutting off circulation to my hand.
"Ow, John, you're hurting me," I winced as he jerked my arm up higher with more force.
"What the fuck are you doing? Are you selling me out? What the hell?" This was not the John I knew; he was gone with no note telling me where he went. I wasn't sure what had ultimately been jarred loose in that head of his by Randy's fist, but instead of doing anything ballsy in my own defense, my eyes poured out tears like it was their job.
"I was keeping him from completely murdering you, you asshole! I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but this is fucking bullshit!" I ripped my arm out of John's hand, standing nose to nose and attempting to be unafraid of the behemoth before me. I was starting to crack as John leaned in closer, hands near my shoulders…and then I heard him.
"Touch her, Cena, and I'll kill you." Randy pressed up against my back, his hard breathing was pushing his abs against me.
"Stay out of this, asshole. This is between us, not you." John leaned up, trying to extend his height to match Randy's, but failing by a few inches. I was suddenly the lunch meat in this sandwich that was about 30 seconds from exploding.
"Fuck you, bitch. I've watched you yell and scream at her, then you throw her down…touch her again, and I will fucking end your time here." John stared at Randy, both men growling low under their breath at the other, waiting for someone to flinch.
"Leave now Randy, or this doesn't end well for you. Drea," John took my forearm in his hand, and the next moments were a blur. John pulled, and as I started to fall forward into him, I felt Randy push me aside before jumping on top of John. They both tumbled down to the floor, throwing punches and elbows right, left, and center. The crowd was eating this up, and I was frozen – unable to move to try and drag one away from the other. After what seemed like an eternity, Randy stood up, took a couple steps back and lit up the side of John's head like he was kicking from 45 yards out for the Super Bowl trophy. The thud was sickening, and John lay on his back – out cold. Randy picked up John's limp frame and tossed him back in the ring before pinning him down. I was left outside the ring, still sitting on my knees, as the ref counted the 3 and the crowd erupted again.
I had never been let in on the secret about how Randy had been told to make John's injury seem believable other than using the announcers' table, but I doubted that this was the way they had thought it would end up.
Randy had effectively done what he was sent out to the ring to do; John's body was in shambles, much like his career would be for the time being once he came to. I stayed on the ground, watching the medics strap John to the backboard, tears having stained my face. Randy stood at the corner until John was wheeled to the back. The shrieks of the women behind the barricades were escalating as Randy rolled under the ropes, slowly strolling over to where I was seated. He held out his hand and I simply couldn't move – he had just won, in convincing fashion, and beat the shit out of the man whom I loved. The same man who had blamed for me for every bit of his recent troubles, and the same man who had left visible bruises on my arms. Randy crouched down, his hand still outstretched to me.
"Drea, you have to walk back with me. Let me help you up." His eyes were piercing right through me, but had regained some of their warmth. I stood up, numb, without his help. I stared at my shoes and pulled the hem of my dress back down as I felt the draft flow up my legs. I started back around the ring, heading up the ramp toward the back entrance. I could hear the crowd's reaction as Randy followed me.