Scar Tissue

A/N: So, I don't know how you guys feel about "heel" Randy, but I have to admit that I love him! I love the Legend/Lady Killer, the cocky bastard who thinks everyone should bow to his greatness. If you don't agree, you're probably not gonna like this chapter, because it's oozing selfish Orton. Anyway, I think it's fun to write, so I hope you find it somewhat fun to read. Thanks for the reviews- you guys really are the best. Feel free to tell me whatever you're thinking when you read the chapters - whether you love the characters or hate them. If you're truly disgusted by Randy, then I know that I have to work that much harder for him to win you over in the end. And if you're pissed about the way Trish handles something, maybe I can explain it in the next chapter, ya know? I'm all about giving you guys what you want, even if you have to wait a few chapters to get it. Alright, I don't own anyone in this chapter, except the dog (since I don't know if Randy's personal feelings on canines, or whether he has any). Enjoy!


Being Randy Orton was a high maintenance, and sometimes dangerous, job. Over time, he had forgotten more girls' names than he remembered, and he knew he couldn't pick most of them out of a line up. He had been physically threatened by more than one husband, boyfriend, and father. While he had yet to take a paternity test, he was fairly certain that day would come eventually.

Not that he was careless. In fact, Randy Orton was nothing if not the height of caution. He wasn't a loose canon – there were rules. The best advice Ric Flair had ever given him was to always, ALWAYS, use protection. Doesn't matter how hot she is, Randall. Don't buy that 'it's better without a rubber' bull shit. It almost surprised him that he didn't get Christmas cards from Trojan, as he was probably single-handedly keeping them afloat.

The other rules were less about physical consequences, and more about emotional ones. He never took a woman back to his house. He assumed his mom had seen his bedroom when she was house sitting – otherwise, it was off-limits to females in general. He could ask a girl to come over, have some dinner, play with his dogs, and spend the night. Or he could ask her to suffocate his social calendar, call him four times a day, and drop continuous hints about a ring and kids for the next eighteen months. It was all the same in Randy's eyes.

On the flip side, he never spent an entire night at a woman's house, either. Get in. Get off. Get out. It was a simple three-step method that seemed to like him just fine. He had perfected the art of holding her until she fell asleep, and then slipping out of the room before she could notice he was gone. Once in awhile, he actually stopped to think that this girl would wake up and realize that she had been used and tossed to the side, but it didn't change things for him. He wasn't interested in a relationship, and he wasn't going to get tripped into one by the occasional guilty thought.

He never gave out his phone number, at least to random groupies. The divas all had his digits, but they saw him every night anyway, so he felt like he couldn't avoid it. Other girls, though, didn't need to get ahold of him once he had moved on to another city. He didn't have time for their rambling messages about how magical their time together had been, or about the connection they had made. And he didn't need them calling to yell at him because they felt bad about themselves.

The next rule, at least in his mind, was what made him the master. A lot of guys in the locker room thought the one-night stand was all about making a girl do whatever made them feel good, whether she liked it or not. But Randy prided himself on having never told a woman what he wanted. With enough "innocent" suggestions and questions, he could get whatever his body desired, while she thought the ideas were all hers. Whether they hated themselves in the morning or not, they loved every minute they spent with him.

There was one, final rule in 'Orton's Guide to Fuck and Run Encounters': Always have a fall back. There were no sure things. If he got a woman naked, and she decided to bail? He was done. He wasn't going to pressure anyone, or ask them twice. Not when there were twenty more in the hotel lobby waiting for him. Though no one would really believe it, he respected every woman enough to make her own decision. And none of them were worth the law suits and bad publicity that would accompany taking what he wanted without permission.

So, instead of worrying about what happened if Girl A freaked out, he just set up a contingency with Girl B. Sometimes he would actually find time for both of them in the same night. And if not? Well, they didn't have his number, so they couldn't call and whine about why he hadn't shown up.

Roster chicks made great fall backs, since they were always around anyway. Stacy had been his "Girl B" for awhile, and before her, Gail Kim had served as a pretty good time. Both were tiny and flexible – Randy's favorite package. "Tiny" meant that he didn't have to exert much energy to keep them sated, and "flexible" meant that they could do damn near anything to keep him happy.

But the ultimate fall back had been, and would always be, Lita. No one knew that Randy had been sleeping with her since his OVW days, and neither seemed all that excited to make their affair public. They were friendly enough during the day – sitting together once in a while at lunch, or helping each other out of sticky situations at a club. But Lita had been with Matt when they met, and now Edge, and Randy wasn't interested in breaking up those relationships, or any other. He didn't want a girlfriend, and if he did, it wouldn't be Lita. She wasn't his type, in the traditional sense, and sometimes they would go months at a time without seeing each other. She fully understood that he only called if there was no one else. And he understood that she was only really attracted to one part of him.

So, after Trish had bailed on him for reasons he still didn't understand, he had called Lita, who had welcomed him over. Edge was doing some in-store in Toronto right before Christmas, so he had gone home early to visit family – she had a whole house to herself, and was more than willing to share it with him.

He was in, off, and out by 4 am, remotely pleased with the way the evening had gone. Sure, the penultimate would have been finally fucking Trish Stratus, but she changed her mind, and he wasn't going to violate any of his rules for anyone. Even her.

Truth be told, Trish was like his World Heavyweight title. Before he had won that belt, it had been his driving force, the one thing that he couldn't wait to slip around his waist, to hold in his possession. Watching someone else wear it amplified his need for it, his desire to touch it, to own it.

She was really no different. She was always held by someone else. She was within his reach, but so far out of his grasp. He would get close enough to taste the victory, only to have it yanked out of his hands at the last second. The longer she was dangled in front of his face, the more he wanted to reach out and take her. And he knew that, even though it frustrated him to no end, it was his favorite part.

That night in Toronto, after he won the belt, he had been so proud of it. He hadn't let it out of his sight for about a week. And then he got bored with it. He was incredibly proud of what it meant, how he had earned it, and that the title would always precede his name. But the belt itself became an accessory, just another thing he had to remember to pack before heading to the next city. And he feared the same thing would happen with Trish, once he finally won her over.

With no hangover to speak of, Randy knew he should have been doing something other than sitting on the couch, watching ESPN, and being lazy. But he really didn't feel like going anywhere or seeing anyone. He rationalized, telling himself that Cena was probably still sleeping off the night before with Stacy, and that Dave wouldn't pull himself out of Victoria's bed until well into the afternoon. Plus, he didn't want to answer any questions about what hadn't happened with Trish.

The loud beep of his cell phone's "message alert" startled him slightly. With a questioning eyebrow raised, Randy picked up the tiny phone and checked the screen. One missed call? Who would be calling him at eleven o'clock in the morning? He hit a few buttons and held the receiver to his ear as one of his dogs, a large bull dog named Maguire, pulled himself onto the couch and rested his huge head on Randy's thigh.

Running his hand over the dog's head, Randy listened, and then winked at his companion's sad eyes. "Hey, Randy, it's Trish. Look, I know I totally bailed on you last night without explanation, and you're probably all indignant or whatever." She stopped and laughed. "What the fuck am I saying? You probably just went to Lita's, right?"

His heart dropped into his stomach. Of course, he knew that Lita and Trish had been friends at one time, but had the red-head shared their secret? Wasn't she the one who always said no one, NO ONE, could ever find out. Normally, he wouldn't care. But if Lita's true confession messed up his shot with Trish, he was going to be one pissed Legend Killer.

"Um, so I was hoping to make it up to you. I thought we could get together sometime this week, maybe after a show or something?" She waited for a moment and then sighed. "Oh, and to answer your greeting there – my wildest fantasy involves a blindfold, baby oil, chocolate chips, and a pair of stiletto boots. I'll talk to you later."

Maguire's eyes drifted shut as Randy disconnected the call and tossed the phone back to the end table. "Great," he groaned, slumping further into his seat. "Where am I gonna get a pair of stiletto boots?" He continued to rub the dog's head and watch television. He would until he saw her the next night to respond, and then he would show her a night neither of them would ever forget.