PART 12

"John?" she asked quietly, stepping out into the hall and eyeing him in disbelief.

Trish gazed at John curiously, blinking a few times to ensure that it was really him standing in front of her. John Cena stood before her, clutching his right arm as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. He glanced at her nervously, hoping that she didn't pick up on his apprehension. It wasn't like him to be nervous about *anything*, so this was most certainly not a welcome feeling.

"Yeah..." he began, clearing his throat with a cough, his eyes finding and locking on the floor. "I, uh... I was hoping you and I could talk."

He drew his gaze back up to her, studying her chocolate eyes intently. He anxiously awaited her response, taking his hand off of his arm and placing it on his hip. His lips curled down into a frown when he noticed the expression on her face transforming from disbelief to disinterest.

"You wanted to talk?" she asked, tossing a short, cross laugh into the air. "You actually think I'm going to *talk* to you? What are you on?"

"Trish, please," he requested, reaching up and taking off his hat, smoothing out his hair before placing it on again, this time backwards. "I just want a few minutes to... explain myself."

"A few minutes," she repeated, making an emphasis on the word minutes. "Do you *really* think that after all you've done, after all the shit you put me through, that a few minutes is all it's going to take to clear this up?"

John's eyes widened slightly at her outburst. He hadn't expected her to greet him warmly, but he hadn't expected such an attitude from the blonde woman.

"Well, no, of course not, but Trish, I..."

"Save it, John!" she cried, placing a hand in his face and turning her head away. "I don't want to hear it! There's no way in hell I will *ever* forgive you for what you pulled with me, so there's no point in you even trying to explain yourself. Please, just leave me alone."

Heaving a loud, dramatic sigh, Trish moved forward, trying to push past Cena in an effort to get as far away from him as possible. John grabbed onto her, gripping her tightly and holding her still. He held her steady in front of him, ducking his head as she freed one of her hands and took a swing at him, just missing his face. She struggled for another minute or so, giving up after realizing her fighting was no match for his strength. She pulled herself out of his arms, taking a step back and glaring at him in a frustrated manner.

"Trish, please!" he begged, reaching out for her arm again, wincing when she violently swatted it away. "All I'm asking is that you hear me out. Even if you never talk to me again, I just want you to know how I feel, which is a big reason why I acted the way I did. Don't you think you deserve to hear this?"

Trish gazed at him pointedly, pursing her lips together as she took his request into consideration. As much as she wanted to have absolutely nothing to do with the pathetic excuse of a man in front of her, she had to admit that she was extremely curious to see just what type of explanation he came up with.

"Just how do you plan on explaining this to me? Did you write up a clever rap to tell me how you really feel?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"What? Trish, no. I want... no, I *need* you to hear me out. I need you to take me seriously so I can tell you the truth," he insisted, his eyes pleading.

"About time someone decides to do that," she quipped dryly.

She glanced up at him, her eyes resting on his... and them something inside her cracked. The look in his eyes was almost indescribable. He looked a mix of confused, hopeful, upset, and a whole strew of emotions that Trish found unreadable. She suddenly got the sense that she had to hear what he had to say... for *both* of them.

"Okay, listen. I'm being cold, I know, but you can't blame me for that," she said, watching carefully as he nodded. "If you really, truly want to explain this to me, and this isn't part of some big setup, I'll listen. But you have to promise me with your life that this isn't some big joke to you, because I don't think I could handle that."

"Trish, I swear on my life that this is not a setup. If it's any reassurance, Rob was the one who suggested I do this in the first place... you know he'd never do anything to hurt you. Just give me some time - let me take you for a drink or something - and I'll do my best to answer all of your questions. You have my word," he swore, placing both hands in the air.

Trish's gaze was still somewhat skeptical, but she accepted, reaching out and taking the hand he extended to her. Then, he led her down the hallway, silently praying the before the night was through, their problems would be over.

THE NEXT MORNING

John's eyes slowly fluttered open before he snapped them shut again, the brightness of the sun streaming in - even from behind the curtains - nearly blinding him. He placed his hands over his eyes, groaning in pain. He sat up quickly, immediately falling back onto the pillow as his head started spinning uncontrollably. He clutched his head again, waiting for the movement in his brain to cease. He shifted his eyes around the room, careful not to move his head, and then he realized something. He had no clue where he was, and even less of a clue how he had gotten there. In fact, the only thing he was sure of at the moment was that he had an agonizing hangover. Still clutching his head, he rose from the bed, getting up very gingerly to avoid moving his head around too much.

Once he was standing, he carefully scanned the room again. The only thing he was able to conclude was that he was in a hotel room. Raising an eyebrow curiously, he yawned tiredly, placing his hands over his ears in an attempt to stop the ringing blaring through them. Then, he felt a churning in his stomach, and jumped, making a mad dash to the bathroom. He threw the door open, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, vomiting the second he made contact with the ground. He leaned over the bowl, keeping his head hanging in it until he purged his system of everything left in it. Once he was sure his stomach was empty, and the dry heaving had ceased, he took a deep breath, resting his head on the rim of the toilet seat.

A light breeze blew in through the open bathroom window, causing John to shiver. He placed his arms around his sides, hugging himself in a warming manner. It was then that he made a somewhat shocking discovery. His eyes widening slightly, he glanced down slowly, noticing that he was very naked.

"What the hell...?" he muttered to himself, now feeling more confused than he had since waking up.

He stood carefully, wiping his mouth as he did so. What the hell was going on? He shook his head slowly, taking a few steps over to the sink. He grabbed a cup and filled it with water, taking a long, slow sip before spitting it back out in the sink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he caught glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. Cocking his head to the side, he picked the object up off of the window sill, studying it curiously. It was a razor... not just any old razor, but a *pink* one.

Just then, it was though seeing the razor sent off a signal in his brain, and images of the night before shot through his head like a photo album. He saw himself in a bar with Trish Stratus, ordering a drink... followed by another drink, and another, and another. He recalled Trish getting so obliterated during their conversation that by the end of the night he literally had to carry her out. He had brought her back to her hotel, led her to her room and helped her into bed. Next thing he knew, he had visions of Trish forcefully pressing her lips to his, pulling him on top of her and clinging tightly to him so that he couldn't leave. He could practically feel her soft, pouty lips pressing against him, the image of her pulling off both of their clothes and wrapping her legs around him rushing through his head. He closed his eyes, wincing painfully as he recalled what happened over the next hour or so.

Walking back out into the bedroom, John looked across the room, noticing his clothes tossed into a pile beside the bed. He couldn't believe it. He had actually had sex with Trish, and he wasn't even sober enough to remember it. Shaking his head, John fought the urge to kick himself for having such a macho thought, the realization of how serious the situation was hitting him like a ton of bricks. The two of them had sex... on any normal day, the thought would have thrilled the Boston native. But he knew that had Trish not downed 5 margaritas in the few hours they were at the bar, she would have never so willingly given herself to him.

Sighing, John tossed his arms in the air, walking over to the other side of the bed, his bare feet gently padding against the carpet. He glanced on the floor beside the bed, frowning when he noticed that none of Trish's garments were there. In fact, as his eyes scanned the room, none of Trish's things seemed to be in the room.

Okay, so he was completely nude and had found a women's razor in the bathroom. Had he made up the entire encounter with Trish in his mind? He sauntered around the room, pausing at the window and pushing the curtain open to look out, his eyes finally able to withstand the brightness of the sunlight. He gazed out at the busy city below him, watching as cars bustled by and people roamed the streets. Then, a thought occurred to him. He thought back to the past few months, and his previous encounters with Trish - one in particular. All of a sudden, he knew exactly why Trish wasn't there. Once again, someone walked out...

Only this time, *he* was the one who was left behind.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait guys!!! As some of you probably already know from my most recent updates of With Open Arms, I had a really bad case of writer's block. But I'm back!! Hope you like the chapter… you know what to do!