Disclaimer: All wrestlers are owned by WWE. The song "I Want Your Girlfriend To Be My Girlfriend Too" is by the very awesome Reel Big Fish, whether my Rico muse likes it or not

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There's a little girl I know,

You might know her too.

She looks so good, she looks so cute

Standing next to you.

And I don't know what to do…

So I'm just walking down the hallway, wearing my leather jacket over another tight T-shirt and with my shades where they should be - over my eyes, so as not to mess my hair when I've just spent so long restyling, and I see her, a vision of loveliness, as always. I want to kiss her, and not only because she's wearing candy pink leather pants with a sheer black long-sleeved but midriff-baring top, thus shunning the current blasé style of peasant tops and flowing skirts. They work for some, but not for Torrie. You see, Torrie doesn't need little girl dresses and skirts to show her femininity. She is gorgeous, she is sweet and no matter what she wears, she always looks incredibly sexy. Still, I love the fact that she's a fashion leader, and not a fashion victim. How can that ever be a bad thing?

No, a bad thing is the fact that someone has her arm around her and that someone is Billy Kidman. That's right, a man who feels that a backwards baseball cap and greasy hair are legitimate forms of expression when you're nearing thirty. I want to tell him…tight white singlet…good…belted jeans…also good, especially if your thing is construction worker chic, but someone needs to get to him once a week with a clarifying shampoo that will actually relieve his hair of all that product he must use in order to make it so depressingly greasy. And that's before I even get started on his ring attire. And yes, he's not a complete loss. He has a nice face, good skin and wonderful cheekbones and, like me, he realizes that prominent teeth make for a stellar smile. But I can't even give him that much credit right now because he has Torrie and therefore I hate him.

I can feel the beginnings of tears fill my eyes and that's so what I don't need right now, especially with my anti-redness eye drops back at the hotel, so I suck in my chest and my pride and keep walking. Maybe Billy and Chuck are finished so we can leave this place and I can forget this ever happened, focussing my attention on a new diva. Dawn Marie, perhaps? Now there's a woman who's in desperate need of a stylist.

"Hey Rico? Wow, we keep running into each other tonight."

And just like that, she's talking to me and I have to come up with something to say. Something that will knock her out of those shoes…oh, are they Prada? Stunning.

"Stylistic magnetism," I reply enigmatically and she takes this on board, turquoise eyes portraying her thoughts.

"Yeah," she nods at last. "Speaking of that. Billy…" She lays a single delicate hand on his chest, right over the strap of his singlet. "Remember I was telling you tonight about developmental style? Rico was the one who told me about that."

"Oh yeah?" Kidman asks, eyeing me somewhat suspiciously, but he clearly doesn't see me as a threat, because he goes on with the last thing I was expecting. A compliment. "Well, I don't know much about designers or labels, but you've got some talent. Your match with Rey-Rey was fantastic. And don't feel bad that you lost. See, you and me are good, but Rey's out of this world."

"So, what are you doing right now?" Torrie asks, gripping tightly to her boyfriend so her voice reaches me before I even had a chance to reply.

I shrug nonchalantly, or at least nonchalance is what I'm shooting for. "Oh, just waiting for Billy and Chuck to get themselves decent before we make an appearance at a club or two."

"Hey, that's what we're doing!" Torrie cries, sounding genuinely excited and it's all I can do to keep myself from drooling. But of course, saliva would be a disaster as it would necessitate wiping it away and I know better than to touch my face after I've finished cleansing, toning and moisturizing. Even freshly washed hands can replenish their oil stores with frightening speed. "You can come with us if you want to. Tell your friends where we're going so you can meet up later. Then you won't have to wait. He can split a cab with us, right, Billy?"

"Sure," Kidman shrugs. "If we're all going the same place."

"Then it's settled," Torrie nods. "Rico, go talk to Billy and Chuck, then we can go. Okay?"

Okay? Was that okay? What, is she crazy? She is my goddess. Of course I want to go clubbing with her. Just wait until she sees me dance. That's something I know Billy Kidman won't have on me and maybe, just maybe, I'll impress her enough to show some interest in me as more than someone who just happens to know a little something about fashion.

"If it's okay with the two of you, it sounds delightful."

So that's how I happen to find myself in the backseat of a cab, sitting so close to Torrie Wilson that our thighs are actually touching, and I'm staring at those legs of hers, those magnificent legs, and wondering what it would be like to run my hand along one. And so sue me, I decide to find out.

She whips her head around to face me, nearly flicking Kidman in the face with her hair, and even in the dark she looks confused and perhaps a little offended. Instantly I decide that it's time to make like a fat person in a thong bikini and cover my ass.

"That finish is phenomenal," I gush, touching it again for good measure. Firm but supple and I feel like I've died and gone to heaven, not just because it's Torrie but also because it really is great leather, glorious to touch. "Where did you get these?"

"Oh, you like them?" she smiles and again my dimple alert is going positively off the charts. "Some little boutique in LA."

"Well, they're fabulous," I announce, finally putting my hand back in my own lap, much as I don't want to.

"Thank you," she replies, cocking her head slightly to look me straight in the eye and I'm glad she goes on because at this moment I'm really not capable of speech. "That really means a lot, coming from you."

It's not until she finally looks away that I manage to exhale and resume breathing in the normal way. Oh, she is so beautiful, so sexy and I want her more than I've ever wanted anything, even more than I want tickets to the new season Valentino runway show. But now she's talking to Billy Kidman and I've lost my chance, if ever I had a chance to begin with. Still, I allow myself hope. We're still to reach the club…

* * * *

I love it here. The bass in the music reverberates through my body, bringing me to life as if I'm waking from a sleep in which I never knew I was trapped. And yes, it's smoky to the point of being stifling and there's wall to wall sweaty, gyrating people, but I decide my lungs can handle this single night of decadence and, as for the people, here they are, swelling all around me like a dazzling, multicolored hot air balloon. And I look at them all, men and women, with their amazing clothes and flowing waves of hair and I know one thing for certain. I've come home.

I've lost Torrie and Kidman in the crowd, but at the moment that just doesn't matter, because I'm here, I'm dancing, and it's swelteringly hot, and I'm sweating like Rikishi at an all-you-can-eat buffet and this is probably playing havoc on my skin, but I don't care because I'm dancing, I'm moving, I'm happy. I feel alive.

A girl moves into me and it takes me a few moments to realize that I'm dancing with her, but suddenly I'm sure and I look at her completely for the first time. She's pretty, not too tall, but thin, perhaps too thin in a red sequined halter-top and form-fitting black pants. A cascade of chestnut ringlets swirls crazily about her head as she moves to the music, moving, dancing, close to me, our bodies touching. She has large facial features, wide hazel green eyes and full lips and she blends her foundation well, but her lipstick is just too dark, too bright for the rest of her face. I want to tell her this. I want to tell her that a plum or mauve would look amazing with her coloring and that a convertible push-up bra would do far more for her obviously small breasts than a halter top and no bra at all, but I hold my tongue because she's not Torrie, so she's not perfect and that's not her fault. And besides, I don't even know her name, but I do know that this is the closest I've come to a woman since before I joined the WWE, before people started recognizing me and I'm not going to blow it for the sake of a few minor style flaws, even if I myself wouldn't make them in a million years.

I stop for a drink, something wildly alcoholic and certainly not my first for the night, but she finds me again and we pick up right where we left off.

We're dancing even closer and I hear her yell something, though I can't make it out over the music. I do notice her teeth, however, and one is slightly crooked, making me wonder why she hasn't sought orthodontic treatment before now when she's obviously well into her twenties…like my gorgeous Torrie.

"What?" I shout back, craning my neck to try and lip-read her even as she yells right into my ear.

"You're an amazing dancer!"

"Thank you," I grin and suddenly her mouth is on mine and it's nice because we're still dancing, our bodies still moving together, still gyrating in time with the music. Her lips are soft against mine, she tastes good and from here I can smell her perfume, picking it immediately as Estee Lauder's 'Beautiful'. So what if she's not who I want to be kissing? It feels good, she feels good, my body's hot and so's hers and we're really getting into it now, her hands inside my jacket and sliding along my torso and mine in her hair, in those long flowing curls that I've already decided are most certainly her best feature. And the music still pounds in my ears, the beat and the bass strong and steady, like it too is a heartbeat, the center of the hot, swelling body that is this club.

And then there's a firm hand on my arm and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back on the dance floor, having been well and truly sucker-punched. Before I can pick myself up, I'm being hauled to my feet by the lapels of my jacket and I'm staring into angry blue eyes. I decide that now would be a really good time to put into use all of my martial arts training and I begin to fight back, but the crowd suddenly parts for us, surreal as that sounds, and then we're outside and it's cold out here. The music still plays, still beats on but it's muffled now by a concrete wall and I get a look at him, at my attacker, for the first time. He's about my height, wearing average male club fare, nothing special, but the frosted tips of his hair are so three years ago I just want to die from embarrassment on his behalf. But here's a young man who obviously thinks he has something to prove because he's screaming at me, screaming about his girlfriend and then he's trying to hit me again, but I counter, as I would in the wrestling ring, and trap him in a sleeper. He tries to struggle and of course this only tightens the hold, but just when I think I'm the one who's proved a point, I hear more voices.

"Hey, it's that Rico dude from the wrestling."

"Oh yeah, WWF."

I want to correct him, but this could be my out. Not that I'm afraid or lacking in confidence, but suddenly there's five guys including the one I have trapped and, should this get ugly…as ugly as these five not so brilliant specimens of humanity…I know I'd be in some trouble.

"He's a fucking faggot."

"Yeah, watch out, man. He'll fuck you up the ass. Look how he's holding you!"

"He's gonna fucking fag rape you!"

And then the one I'm holding manages to kick his lower leg up into my testicles and I cry out, releasing him. The pain screams right through me and out of my ears and I'm doubled over with tears in my eyes when I feel the next blow…and the next…and the next. I try to get up but they kick me down just as fast. I try to use self defense but I'm grossly outnumbered and there are fists and feet…boots…ooh, steel caps, nice, but not nice for me…legs…forearms…heads…everything, anything… And I hear the music again, loud, thundering, through my ears, through my body, a heartbeat, pounding, pounding…with pain, with heat…pounding.

"No!" Her voice, I can hear her. My goddess, my Torrie "No, stop it! Leave him! Leave him alone!"

And the other voices, grunts as they beat me, shouts that I'm gay, that I'm a son of a bitch.

"Leave him alone, you jerks! Billy! Billy, help!"

She's an angel. She's my angel. And she's come to save me, to take me to heaven. And then I hear nothing and everything is still.

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A/N - Still with me? Thanks heaps for the reviews. You've definitely made me want to continue this and I'm glad there are so many Rico fans out there!! Please keep reviewing, because this story isn't set in stone yet and any ideas and/or feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially if you can suggest some songs that you think would 'go' with this fic as I'd like to have one for each chapter. Thanks!