Fifteen

Gavin Rossdale's "Adrenaline" blared through the arena speakers as the pyrotechnics exploded in short fits all the way up the ramp, climaxing at the top of the stage in a spurt of twenty. Jim Ross, Jerry "The King" Lawler, Michael Cole and Tazz checked in on commentary to welcome the millions of fans around the world to Unforgiven, promising the people at home a great show. Jim and Jerry sent things over to Michael and Tazz, who then sent things over to the Spanish announce tandem of Hugo Savinovich and Carlos Cabrera. It promised to be a big night. Chris Jericho and Ric Flair were colliding for Chris' Intercontinental Championship. Billy and Chuck had a match against 3 Minute Warning for brand supremacy. If Billy and Chuck lost, then Stephanie was going to be forced to make out with another woman later on in the show. Triple H was putting his World Heavyweight Championship on the line against Rob Van Dam, and Trish Stratus was taking on Molly Holly for the Women's Championship. The main event, the match of the night, was going to be focused on the escalating rivalry between Brock and the Undertaker, with Mark hot on the trail of Brock's championship.

Backstage, Mark stood alone in his locker room, jumping from foot to foot. He was trying to get himself in the zone before he stepped through the curtains. He knew this was going to be a good, old-fashioned brawl, just the way he liked it. He was a striker by nature, good with his fists. Before heading to the arena, he called Celeste. She ordered the pay-per-view, and she admitted she would be watching through her fingers. She was still paranoid; the nightmare had thrown her for a loop. He knew that she was taking the end of her relationship with Brock very hard. But he commended her for being strong enough to walk away when his treatment of her became really unacceptable. But he knew there were lingering feelings. He was sure that she hoped they wouldn't kill each other later on.

There was a knock on the locker room door. "Yeah?" he called out, moving his arms around.

The door opened. Trish Stratus walked in, dressed in a black shirt and black vinyl pants. Her bleached hair was down around her face. She flashed him a smile, crossing her arms over her chest as the door closed behind her. "How's she doing?"

"Good, good," he answered. "She's still extremely paranoid that he's going to track her down and drag her back, but she's starting to bounce back. It's good to see her coming out of her shell a little more."

"Has she left the house at all?" she asked with a suspicious eyebrow cocked. Mark shook his head.

"No. I'm working on it, though. I told her when I get back this week, I'm going to take her out for dinner and she's not going to say anything about it." He saw the amused smirk on Trish's face and sighed. "Trish, get the thought out of your head. It's just friends going out for dinner. She can't spend all of her days inside. Jesus Christ, I swear to God you and Stephanie McMahon share brainwaves or some shit." Trish giggled.

"It's called women's intuition, Mark, and don't ever doubt it," she told him. Her expression became serious. "You haven't tried anything with her, have you?"

"Trish, I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that," Mark told her darkly. Trish nodded. She knew better than to ask; Mark had a reputation of being an overall nice guy. A little on the scary side at times, but overall nice. "Are you ready for your match with Molly Holly?" She nodded.

"Rey Mysterio showed me how to do this variation of a bulldog, so I'm going to try it out in the ring tonight," she told him. "I don't think Molly is going to know what hit her." There was a pause between the two of them. "What about you? You got a sound strategy for your match with Brock?"

"Hit him hard, hit him fast," he answered. Trish laughed. "I've been doing that for twelve years. Can't argue with what works."

The door swung open, and Paul stormed in. Trish jumped, startled. Mark grabbed Trish out of instinct and ushered her behind him. "Aren't I popular tonight. What do you want, Shortstop?"

"I told you to bring her here," Paul snarled. Mark shook his head. "Where is she?"

"I don't know how many times I got to work it through your thick skull, Paul - I don't know where she's at."

Paul turned his attention to Trish. "She with you, Stratus?"

"If she were, I sure in the hell wouldn't tell you," Trish retorted. Paul moved to lunge at her, but Mark stopped him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Paul. You're in my locker room, in enemy territory without your muscle. Think about what you're doing," Mark growled. Paul and Trish glared daggers at each other. Paul backed away, leaving the locker room. "Not over."

"Just starting," Trish snapped back in agreement. Paul slammed the door behind him. Mark turned to Trish.

"Your mouth gets ahead of your brain often, doesn't it, Trish? Can you imagine what he's telling Brock right now about you?" Trish shrugged. Mark looked at her, exasperated. "Trish, I'm serious. This guy isn't above roughing up women. This could get dangerous for you."

"Oh, fuck him right in the ear," Trish snorted, staring at the closed door. "If they think for a second I'm going to let them get their hands on her, then they're out of their minds. If he loved Celeste and she was so important to him, he would never have treated her the way he did." She let out an inaudible shriek and then took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. Mark smiled; Trish was a real firecracker. She didn't put up with a lot of stupid things, and Mark admired that. "I have to run and get my makeup done," she told him. "Good luck out there."

"You, too. Be careful," he told her. They slapped hands and she walked out.

Trish spotted them walking towards her down the hallway and she shook her head. Brock was eyeing her angrily, practically salivating at the sight of her. And not in the good way, either, she thought to herself. She knew that Paul had gone to Brock and put it in his head that Celeste was in hiding with her. Instead of turning away, Trish walked right up to them, attempting to move past them. Brock grabbed her. She wheeled around, her brown eyes blazing, shaking out of his grasp.

"My name is not Torrie Wilson, Brock, so you will not put your hands on me," she snarled. Brock scowled back at her.

"You're the one who told her about that, weren't you, you little bitch?" he snarled. Trish stared at him, her gaze just as red-hot as Brock's.

"If you think you can intimidate me like the others, Brock, get over yourself. I am not afraid of you."

"You should be," Paul cut in. Trish answered by putting her hand in his face. She kept her eyes on Brock. He couldn't believe the stones on this woman. He was six foot four and almost three hundred pounds. He was a foot taller and almost two hundred pounds bigger than her. Yet, here she was, standing up to him like she was the Big Show or something.

"Where is she, Trish? I'm not going to ask you twice."

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

"That's your problem."

"You have a lot of nerve..."

"And you have a lot of balls talking to me like this," she informed him, keeping her tone hushed. She didn't want to make a scene. "I'm playing nice, but you come at me again, and I'll make a real big scene. Then you'll have to answer to Vince. Stay away from me, boys. I'm not a Diva to fuck with." With that, she pushed between the two of them and stormed off to the Divas locker room. Paul and Brock watched her leave.

"Fucking bitch," Brock murmured under his breath. Paul slapped him on the arm.

"Focus on the match. She's nothing." Brock nodded, but Paul knew that Trish Stratus and the Undertaker were in his head.

An hour after the show had ended, Celeste was still waiting for Mark to call her.

The match had been thrown out after the referee got roughed up. That didn't end their fight, however. Mark got his hands on Brock and threw him through the Unforgiven sign. Celeste's eyes had widened and her jaw had dropped. The two of them went at it with everything they had. It had been a hell of a fight, and from the looks of the match, their feud wasn't over by a long shot.

Just hearing Brock's music and seeing him on the TV had sent ice cold chills down her spine. She had held the dog a little closer to her and watched, silently praying that they wouldn't hurt each other too badly.

The phone rang. She answered it quickly. "Hello?"

"Hey, beautiful. Did you see the show?"

"Yeah, I did," she replied. "I can't believe you threw him through the sign!"

"It felt good," he replied. She laughed. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. The bruising is almost gone," she confessed. "I've made really good friends with that ice maker in your fridge."

"That's good. Because I meant it: you're having a night out with me when I get back." She shook her head, a smile crossing her features. He was hopeless.

"When are you going to be home?"

"I'm catching a red-eye Tuesday night, so I'll be in really early on Wednesday. I'm telling you now, Celeste: don't wait up for me."

"I don't know; I seem to be up and down all hours of the night these days."

"Are you still having nightmares, Celeste?"

"Everything is fine," she answered. "As much as I appreciate it, Mark, you don't have to worry about me so much. I'm okay." Mark didn't want to come right out and say it, but he liked having somebody to worry about. He liked coming home with the knowledge that there was someone waiting for him that wasn't Zeus. "Look, I'll let you go so you can get some sleep. You've probably got a lot to do tomorrow, and then with SmackDown..."

"I'll see you Wednesday morning, all right?"

"You know it. Sweet dreams, Mark."

"You, too, Celeste." She hung up the phone and leaned back against the couch. She still wasn't keen on the idea of going out. She looked in the mirror above the fireplace. The bruising was a faint yellow now, enough to cover with concealer, but it was still going to be noticeable to her.

No Mercy was next month in Little Rock, Arkansas. She wondered if she should go. She wanted to put everything to rest with Brock once and for all, to close the chapter on what she had once thought was a fairy tale. There was a part of her that thought staying far away from him was for the best, especially while the pain was still so fresh. But she was going to have to face him sometime. It was something she had to do for herself. She had to be strong. As much as she hated the situation she was in and as grateful as she was to everybody who helped her through these tough times, she knew that she had to get closure for herself.

Mark lay alone in his hotel room, staring up at the dark ceiling. The clock was taunting him on the nightstand, constantly counting the time away before he had to get up and go about the daily activities before SmackDown. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fall asleep to save his life. His thoughts were with Celeste. He wasn't sure how he was going to help her make her situation easier. Six years was a long time to be with someone, and he knew there were lingering feelings. He was sure she wanted to run back to him. It astounded him that she wasn't.

He was also worried about Trish's safety. She had a guts, and she was a fighter, for sure, but Brock and Paul weren't above intimidation and physical violence. He liked her fire; it was why they were friends. This wasn't Trish's fight, and it wasn't her place to get involved. He was pretty sure that it wasn't his place to get involved, either, but he wasn't about to leave her with a man who handcuffed her to the bed and roughed her up. While he was worried about Brock and Paul making Trish's life miserable, he at least took solace in the fact that she had his back and that she was on Raw, a completely opposite brand. But he sure wished Trish hadn't opened her mouth. With an aggravated sigh, he rolled onto his side and tried to get some rest.

If only he knew how bad things were going to get.