Published September 2011; This didn't come from the public Beyond The Mat roleplay website. This came from elsewhere; Randy's character with another writer's character were in a long-term relationship. This relationship's beginning can be found in our story "Ladies, Do Not Let RKO Buy You Anything". It ended badly, though. Here's how it went down.
He felt Hunter's hand on his shoulder. Protectively? Pointing him in the direction in which to go? Now I know where I picked that shit up from. I do that to Cody all the time. Christ. Hunter did, does that to me. Jesus. He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk, nearly missing someone walking, not apologizing, and heading in. Randy led Hunter past the desk, as admission was already paid, and ignored the few people who were working out and staring at The Game and The Viper together at this Gold's location.
"NO," he'd barked when this skinny guy..kid..whatever the fuck..came over and asked for an autograph. "You're just gonna sell the fuckin' thing on eBay anyway. Go away."
His jaw clenched when Hunter shot him a glare and called the guy back, and signed first, then instructed Randy to do the same. There was even a picture involved. No, Randy didn't smile in it. Didn't raise an eyebrow either. Just a robot face. He was on the jerkoff's left, Hunter on the right. So there, asshole. You got your picture taken with 2 of WWE's Finest. You look even more pathetic when flanked by us. Douchebag. Go get hit by a truck.
"Sorry," he muttered to Hunter after the guy walked away. "I just...look. I asked to meet with you for a reason. I know you're pressed for time and I really didn't want any losers interrupting."
Hunter stopped short of saying "It's ok," because it wasn't ok, but the reassurance almost came out. Because inevitably, it was ok. Even though Randy's character was something of a face, he wasn't a clean face. Behavior like that was almost expected in public, and it's not like he hit the guy. Or spit on him. Or shit in the guy's gym bag.
"What did you need to talk about," Hunter asked, as he got into spotter position, motioning to Randy to use the bench as Hunter stood behind it. Over the years, Randy seemed to be able to have conversations of serious issues while working out like this. The controlled breathing seemed to work well when choosing what it was he wanted to say. Whatever it was, Hunter instinctively knew it was important. "We've got about an hour, and it's clear I need to know."
He hovered over the bar, making sure the plates on each end were attached well, so there wouldn't be any accidents. The weight was enough, to get some good reps in, to slightly challenge but not strain Randy. "Go, Champ." He instructed Randy to start the series of lifts. "3 sets, 15 reps. 2 minutes in between."
Fuck. I gotta go first? Figures. You're gettin' old, Hunter. You used to go first. Unless you're livin' this COO shit and doin' Synthol to keep your definition.
He got on the bench with a wince, feeling a tweak not in his shoulder, but when his back rested against the bench. The tweak was from the wipeout on the hardwood floor last night, when he'd gone flying on the runner rug like it was some Arabian fucking magic carpet and landed hard. His feet positioned on the floor as he prepared to start lifting. He also preferred 10 reps over 15, but Hunter said 15, so fuck it.
He lifted the bar, and made eye contact with Hunter before starting.
And as the bar went down, he started to talk.
When he'd lift it up, back almost into place, under Hunter's spotting, he'd breathe.
When returning it to his chest, he'd talked some more.
Lifting again, breathing.
15 times this was done, each slow descent of the bar to nearly touching his chest, he'd end up spilling quite a bit of what he needed to say.
He wasn't happy. No, it wasn't the job making him unhappy. Of course he loved the job. The company. He's legit bled for this company. No, he's not an ingrate. Hopes that when Tyler's time comes, the Orton name is an asset and not a liability. Is trying to hold it together. No, hasn't talked to Cody or Ted about this. Nor Cowboy. Nor Ric, oh hell no, or Big Dave. No, this was something he really had nobody but Hunter to go to on, and was coming to him more as an advisor and a friend, but not a boss.
The rest period came up and Randy remained flat on the bench. He'd broken a mild sweat, nothing serious, and rather than sit up, continued as if he was on a psychiatrist's couch. No, he'd stopped going to therapy. It wasn't fucking worth it. It was couples shit and he wasn't part of a couple anymore. Eve found out about Layla. That had blindsided Randy.
Hunter told him that it was time for the 2nd set. Randy nodded and the words slowed again as he methodically lifted, lowered, breathed and spoke.
Had she not called him out on Layla..she never was supposed to have known. What hadn't meant anything to him OR Layla, what was supposed to have remained a secret, got out somehow. All the mad respect he'd paid Eve's father...well, it all seemed false at that point. Hunter had daughters. Randy had a daughter. How would any father feel if some dude who'd tapped BOTH his daughters had been respectful to you? Randy would want to kill the fucker. Hunter conceded that point.
So even though the mad respect was legit and sincere, it was all undermined and made fake in feeling once Eve found out what he and Layla had written off as nothing. Because Randy couldn't ever look Joseph Sharmouta in the eyes again.
He admitted he'd basically stopped even talking to Eve after the flyer Hunter put out regarding Wellness. He admitted he'd pointed a gun at her; admitted he was ready to physically put her teeth through her skull last night.
And then stopped talking a moment as his muscles started to really have to work the last 3 reps before resting. Hunter had added weight during the last break and Randy just realized it now, as his mind had been somewhere else. The 40 lb. increment was no joke.
He glanced up and saw the expression on Hunter's face had changed. Fuck. No longer listening, he looked pissed. And here's Randy, vulnerable and on his back on the bench.