Angel Dust

A/N: So I didn't think that I would get a chance to post another chapter this weekend, but things are not going as I had hoped with the moving. And since I am now the proud owner of an apartment furnished with a television and a computer (and not much else as of yet) there's nothing to do but write more for you.

I wanted to say thanks for all the encouragement, especially for my decision to include Eddie in this story, which is not one that I made lightly. It's important to note that I respect Eddie Guerrero more than some members of my own family, I think, and it means a lot to me that you think I'm doing his memory justice. I hope I can continue to do so. Y'all know I don't own Randy any more than I own a private villa in Stintino. Though I can't say I would mind owning either! Enjoy!

"I said I don't know," Randy's voice raised as he paced the living room of Courtney's home, cell phone to his ear while his free hand ran over the top of his dark hair. "Look, man, I'll be back when I get back. Until then, I don't care how many voice mails you've already left," he huffed, his shoulders tightening. "I don't fuckin' care if you look as desperate as an ugly bitch on prom night, you're gonna get that interview."

Courtney let herself in through the front door, a paper bag of groceries in her arms. "I'm home," she announced, and then bit her lip apologetically when she realized he was on the phone.

With a permissive grin, Randy raised his hand to greet her as he listened to his assistant make another lame excuse. "Shut up and listen to me, Lashley," he finally snapped. "I'm gonna explain this in small words so you can understand me. If I have to call the Prime Minister's office myself? You're fired." He shrugged and winked at Courtney as he snapped his phone shut. "Hey."

With a laugh, Courtney walked into the kitchen and sat her bag on the counter. "How many times have I heard that conversation?" she asked over her shoulder.

Randy entered the rustic room and leaned casually against the oak island in the center. He looked anything but an executive, in his well-worn jeans and gray tank top, but something about him demanded attention. Maybe it was his crystal blue eyes. Or the tilt of his chin when he spoke. Courtney thought it very well could have been his broad shoulders and his lean build. Standing nearly six and a half feet tall, he was impressive, to say the least.

"Yeah, but I did what I was told," Randy grinned, tossing a grape into the air and catching it between his teeth. "What are we doin' tonight?"

Turning her back to him, she busied herself with putting the groceries away. "I thought I'd make dinner," she answered, turning and leaning against the counter. Leveling him with her stare, she shrugged. "We have to talk."

"Uh oh." His heart sank, though he wasn't sure why. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Courtney's lips twitched in a small smile as she pushed off the counter and took a grape from the bunch on the island for herself. Shaking her head, she popped the tiny fruit into her mouth. "I wouldn't do that," she winked. "I could never leave you, Orton." With the swish of her blonde hair, she turned on her heels and started out of the room again. "I'm going to take a bath. Think you can keep yourself occupied for a little while?"

He just rolled his eyes as she flounced out of the room. He had been struggling for three days with the decision to tell her about Dave's letter. Would she be mad if she found out Dave wanted him to watch her? Would she laugh in his face? Would she kick him out and refuse to ever speak to him again? Worse yet, what if she didn't?

As he sank to the couch, he thought about the possible ramifications of their discussion later. She could very well tell him to go to hell. And he wouldn't blame her one bit. But what if she accepted? What was he supposed to do with her once he got her back to DC? Did Dave expect him to marry her?

In an attempt to clear his mind, he leaned forward and took a photo album off the table. Flipping the front flap open, he rested his head against the back of the couch and perused the contents.

My Princess, Randy read the words Dave had written inside the cover. It has been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I hope these photos show you a fraction of the beauty I behold when I look at you. "Sappy ass motherfucker," he laughed to himself as he flipped the page.

The first picture was a young-looking Courtney with chin-length blonde hair, sporting a Columbia sweatshirt and a cup of coffee. She was smiling brightly. The caption read This is how I saw you the day we met. You were radiant, even hiding under that baggy sweatshirt and your glasses. I think I loved you in that moment.

Randy turned the page and smiled as he gazed at the photo of Courtney on the couch, one thin arm over her head as the other wiped the corner of her eye. She was beautiful, even first thing in the morning. The puffy pout of her sleep-plumped lips begged to be kissed, and he shook his head. He couldn't think about waking up next to her, it still didn't feel right. But damn if he didn't want to experience that natural beauty firsthand.

The next pages were more of the same – Courtney caught off guard around the house, always dressed in some huge sweatshirt, or one of Dave's even-larger dress shirts. She had an undeniable smile, one that started at her lips and went all the way into her eyes. It was the first thing he had noticed about her when Dave introduced them for the first time. And it was the thing he missed most about her now.

Determined to look at only one more page, Randy flipped to a divider section. Silver ink on a black backdrop caught his eye as he perused the words Dave had scrawled.

Christmas 2004. It has been said that nothing is black and white. There are always shades of gray – tones that add definition and flavor to a world that would be otherwise drab and dull. I disagree. My love for you, Princess, is as black and white as these photos. Without variation, without tint or taint, I love you.

He felt a bit voyeuristic in turning the page, but Randy couldn't contain his curiosity. The next four pictures were the most exquisite photographs he had ever seen: Courtney, dressed in stiletto boots, her knees drawn to her chest to cover her nakedness as she leaned against a black wall. Courtney, wearing only a white sheet, her hair tousled as she stood in a darkened doorway. Courtney, sporting Dave's black dress shirt, opened to reveal the valley of her breasts, and the slightest hint of her little white panties, as she stood before a mirror in a dim bathroom. And Courtney, fully nude on a bed of black sheets, her back arched as she gripped the slatted headboard.

Randy didn't want to be aroused. He didn't want to want her. Dave was his mentor, his friend, and the closest thing to a brother he had ever known. And Courtney belonged to Dave. Randy knew the man almost better than he knew himself, and he knew that, even in death, she still belonged to her husband.

The final page only served to cement his suspicions. Dave sat on a stool at the center of the photo, his muscular back, and the tattoo that adorned it, a dark contrast to the white floor and walls that served as their backdrop. Over his shoulder, Courtney's eyes teased the camera, a smile in them, though her lips were pressed to his shoulder and virtually unseen. Her hair fell around his shoulders and his head bent to kiss her neck.

Wrapped in a naked, lovers embrace, Randy saw all the confirmation he needed. He shouldn't. . . He couldn't. . . He wouldn't touch Courtney Lane. Shutting the album, he moved to the veranda and gripped the railing, gasping for some much-needed fresh air. I can't do it, man, he whispered, looking into the heavens. I know what you're asking of me, and I can't do it. She is, and will always be, your wife. It's not right, and I can't help you. I'm sorry.

"Hey you," the sweet voice sounded behind him, nearly causing Randy to jump. Courtney's eyes narrowed in concern when he turned to her. "You okay?" He nodded and ran a hand over his face as she winked and motioned for him to follow. "Help me make dinner."

Clad in a soft, yellow sundress, Courtney led the way toward the kitchen, but Randy's thoughts were far from the traditional seafood dish she was teaching him. And, as though he were right there beside them, Randy could have sworn he heard Dave's voice whisper in his ear, Stop making excuses, Orton. I gave you an assignment. Don't fuck it up.