Scar Tissue
A/N: So, thanks to everyone who has been reviewing so kindly. Your love of bad-ass Orton means that I can keep writing him downright bastardly without too much fear of losing readers. Yippie! On a side note, did you see him wrestling Benoit on Smackdown last night? God, he was just oozing that sexual arrogance, right? My roommate was totally laughing at me every time I groaned or threatened to start drooling. NEway - keep the reviews coming - I don't own Trish, any of the other Superstars mentioned here, or Orton, but I know what I would do with him if I did. It's a good thing this site doesn't allow really explicit content, or you might know, too. Enjoy!
Trish stood in the hallway of the hotel, her hand hovering above the door. Lita said that everyone was getting together, like old times, in John's room and that she should stop by, if she felt like it. But Trish knew that "getting together like old times" meant Randy, John, and Dave would be entertaining every diva who didn't have anything else to do. If she went inside, she had to watch the three of them flirt with everyone while pretending to be interested in whatever basketball, football, or baseball game was on ESPN 2.
The only thing that had brought her this far was the idea of spending some quality time with Lita, Victoria, and Stacy. They had been really close, once upon a time, her best friends. But then Carter started traveling with her, and Trish found herself opting out of the "group hang" in favor of quiet movie nights with him. After three years, she felt like she hardly knew the women who were supposed to be her 'girls,' let alone the new ones who paraded through the locker room all the time. Tonight would be good for her – she could forget about the tragic farce that had been her holiday vacation and move on to the future.
But as beneficial as it would be for Trish to spend time with old friends, Randy was in there. Since leaving him the ill-fated voice mail, she had done everything in her power to forget she had ever called in the first place. She didn't need to be the girl who threw herself into a sexual relationship just because she didn't have a steady boyfriend. She wasn't the girl who needed a man in her bed to make her feel complete. And when he didn't press the issue, she had taken it as a sign that she was supposed to steer clear of the Legend Killer and just focus on getting the old, firey, independent Trish back.
And then Christmas happened. Since she was ten, her family and Carter's always got together for a big holiday dinner, and this year had been no different. But Carter hadn't come to the event alone – he had shown up with a fake-ass stripper named Candy, who didn't seem to realize it was Christmas in Toronto, not 4th of July in South Beach. He told Trish that if they were really done, and she wasn't going to take him back, that he was moving on. And it had hurt.
She had watched them flirt and paw at each other the entire night, and instead of the indignation she knew she should have felt, her ego was bruised and her dreams were shattered. Any hope she had been holding on to, any idea that Carter was going to change for the better because of their break-up, was gone. They were done, and her perfectly-planned future was now a blank slate.
The sadness created feelings of self-doubt and depression, and Trish found herself questioning everything she had been sure of in the past. Was there something wrong with her? Why hadn't Carter wanted her enough to change for her? And after five years of repeatedly reminding anyone who showed a remote interest in her that she was unavailable, would anyone approach her? Who was going to want Trish Stratus now?
Returning to work at the beginning of the new year, she had gone to Randy's locker room, fully intent on saying nothing, only letting him fuck away all the paranoia and doubt that was crowding her thoughts and making her crazy. And that's when she had heard him talking to John – about her.
"Have you tried calling her?" John asked, as though it were the most obvious solution.
"I don't call the girls, John. They call me. They come to me. I don't have to ask," Randy huffed. From outside the door, Trish could feel her eyes begging for permission to roll toward the ceiling. He really did think he was all that and a can of Pringles, didn't he?
"Yeah, but Trish isn't just another girl, Randy. I mean, I've seen you with normal girls, and you ain't never been like this," the East-Coast native was quick to point out. "I mean, clearly, you have feelings for her – why else would you let her get inside your head?"
Randy had laughed – it wasn't an agreement, or even a warm concession. It was cold and directly challenging. "I don't have feelings for Trish, man," he insisted. She swallowed hard and braced herself for what was coming next as she pressed her ear closer to the door. "I mean, having feelings for her would imply that I give a damn about her personality. It would mean that I wanna sit around and listen to her talk, even if it's about her problems or whatever." He laughed loudly and it startled Trish for a second, causing her to jump back and check the hall. The last thing in the world she wanted was to be caught eavesdropping outside Randy's locker room.
"The only reason I care that she broke up with that motherfucker she was dating is because now she might actually give it up," he added. His voice grew slightly more distant and Trish assumed he was moving to the other side of the room. "You might be right, man. I do wanna know her," he conceded. "I wanna know what every inch of that amazing body looks like naked and sweaty. And I wanna know how hot and wet she feels around me. I wanna know what she sounds like when she screams my name.
"It's like she's my fantasy woman at this point, the one that I think about when whatever girl I'm with just isn't doin' it for me. It's like I gotta know if she lives up to the hype, ya know?"
There was a long silence, and Trish wondered what had happened. For a split second, she thought about charging in the room and telling Orton to believe the fuckin' hype. She wanted to dare him to take what he wanted right then and there, even if John was in the room. The way he spoke was so commanding, so hungry. Instead of being repulsed by his lack of interest in anything but her body, she found herself incredibly turned on. If Carter had ever – she stopped herself from thinking it as John spoke.
"Man, you're right. She ain't your crush. She's your fuckin' obsession."
With one more deep breath, Trish knocked on the door of the hotel suite and waited for someone to answer. She didn't need a man to keep her happy, or make her feel fulfilled and satisfied. But the more she let her thoughts wander to him, the more flattered she found herself, knowing that he fantasized about her, and wanted her more than anyone else in the locker room. The more flattered she became, the more curious she was about the legend that was Randy Orton. And the more curious she became, the more determined she was to find out if he could really deliver what he claimed he could.
When no one answered the door, Trish pushed it with her shoulder. It was so familiar, all of them sitting around, laughing and watching television. But the players had changed somewhat, and she wasn't sure how she would fit in. Cena was on the floor, Stacy and Maria stretched out at either of his sides. Dave sat on the furthest end of the couch, his arm draped behind Victoria, who was resting her head on his massive shoulder. Christy sat on the floor, braiding Candice's hair like they were junior high girls at a sleepover, and Ashley, the newest Diva Search winner, was on the nearest end of the couch, cheek in her hand, staring blankly at the television.
As she shut the door behind her, a sound in the kitchenette to her left made her jump. Turning, she found Lita bent over in front of the refrigerator, mumbling something as a beer can shot out of her grip and slid across the floor. "Fuckin' cheap-ass Canadian beer," she mumbled, noticing Trish's tennis shoe first, and then sliding her gaze up her friend's legs, finally resting with a sheepish grin on the blonde woman's face. "Hey."
Trish smiled and picked up the can, as the rest of the party-goers finally noticed her and offered small waves of greeting. She moved to the other side of the counter and turned her back on the crowd. "So, who the fuck drinks Canadian beer?" she finally asked.
Rolling her blue eyes, Lita shrugged. "I don't know. I think it was left over from our last trip up there. John can't seem to throw a good beer out," she sighed as though Trish should already know that.
She did remember, but turned her nose up offending container once more. "Yeah, but that's not good beer," she reminded.
"All beer is good beer," a deep voice sounded out of nowhere, as Randy reached around Trish to grab a can from Lita's hand. With easy fingers on her shoulder, he bent low and whispered in her ear, "I didn't think you'd show."
Her first instinct was to stare at the countertop and deny that he was affecting her at all. But he was so close, inches away, and she couldn't resist the urge to turn and look up into his eyes.
That's when she realized it – Randy wanted her. Of course, she had known that, but she hadn't realized how uncharacteristic it was for him. He had a reputation for wanting all woman, but he never dwelt on any of them. He never wasted his time with one when he could have five others. Until her.
Oh, you could make him do things, Trish. You could make him do things he never thought he'd do. This could be fun, she thought as she ran a fingernail down his chest. "Yeah, well, there's a new girl around," she nodded toward Ashley and then looked back at him, only to find his piercing crystal eyes still fixed on her face, "and I didn't want you to take advantage of her too soon or anything. So I thought I better come and make sure you were being a good boy."
Randy licked his lips and sat his beer back on the counter, resting his arms on either side of her. She was trapped, and close enough to smell the faint whisper of soap on his skin. His voice was low, and it reverberated with hungry desire. "Baby, trust me – when you come, you'll be glad I'm not a good boy."
A rush of embarrassed heat flooded her face and a tiny giggle escaped her throat. Passing it off as an amused cough, she pushed him back a few inches and took the can from her side. Popping the tab, she took a gulp and wiped the remains from her chin with one manicured finger. "We'll see who's coming later," she winked, using the shock-factor of her words to push away from him and join the rest of the group.
Randy groaned at the image of Trish wiping her mouth, closed his eyes for a second, and regained his composure. Following her toward the over-stuffed chair near the couch, he grabbed her arm and sank to the seat, pulling her into his lap. She had avoided him long enough, and while he appreciated the challenge, tonight was the night that he took what he wanted. Tonight was the night he let her think that taking him back to her room and bringing his fantasies to life was her idea. Tonight, he claimed Trish Stratus and added her to his list of conquests.
Trish wiggled against the bulge at her ass and rested her head against Randy's chest. "What are you doing?" she giggled, more to herself than him, as one arm slid around her waist and rested just under the hem of her tee shirt. She was fully aware that Ashley, and a couple of the other girls were watching them, but she didn't care.
"I'm not lettin' you get away again," he answered easily. When Trish turned to challenge his statement, he drank from the same can she had moments ago, and raised his eyebrow.
Trish remembered, in an instant, the days before Carter. In the three years that the pair had been separated, Trish had become, well, "experimental." She had a reputation with the fans, but it was nothing compared to the reputation she had with the men who had known her back then. Orton hadn't known that Trish, and if he had? He could have learned a thing or two.
He thought he could get whatever he wanted by fooling her into thinking it was what she wanted. But Trish smiled to herself and wove her fingers through his, forcing his hand slightly lower on her stomach. He ran a tight game, a damn-near flawless one, she had to admit. Awe, but guess what? Biting her lip, she laughed inwardly and shifted her weight into his groin again, as she thought, You can't play a player, Orton. You wanna see how one gets exactly what one wants? You stick with me, Kid. Tonight's gonna be the longest, hottest, wettest, greatest night of your fucking life.
