By the time Torren had actually reached the doors to the arena, it was a little after 9pm. The show had already started and surely Randy Orton was already inside. This was not the way things were supposed to work out tonight. She was supposed to see him before he went inside. He was supposed to be getting out of his rental, or limo or whatever the hell way he was traveling in these days, and set his eyes on her. He was supposed to drop his gym bag and stare at her with a quizzical look. He would give her a cocky smirk and then she would run into his arms. His big, strong arms would encircle her entire body as his hands could cup her ass. Her legs would wrap around his waist as her tongue slid in between his opened lips, all the while she was desperately clawing and ripping at his shirt.
Randy was supposed to be slamming her down on the hood of the car and push his face into her cleavage. She should be finding a way, under his weight, to put her calves on his shoulders, nevermidning the blood on his face from where her stiletto boot made contacted with his cheek, while trying to get in that position. And while he was licking and sucking her tits, and her hands would be madly raking at his hair. Right now she should be feeling the wetness and tasting the redness of the blood on his cheek; it would be hot and sticky, much like she was supposed to be at 9 fucking 15.
Instead of playing out what was supposed to be their destiny, things were now fucked to hell. Between the car, parking, and Randy probably showing up on time for the first time in his career, she had missed him. She was horny as fuck and her heartbeat wouldn't slowdown from anticipation of seeing him and the thought that she may have actually killed that schmuck that stopped to help her. Her senses were in overload and she needed to do something about it immediately. Now, the only thing standing in the way between her and her man, were the 15 steps to the arena door.
There were only a handful of smokers standing outside of the arena, all looking like trailer trash. Didn't they take any pride in their appearance? Didn't they know that important people like her Orton were inside? Acid washed jeans, t-shirts, and was that a mullet? What the fuck was wrong with people? Torren actually felt a little sorry for them. They didn't have the love of their life waiting for them inside; that's probably why they were outside looking like toothless wonders. They weren't about to rekindle an 11 yearlong secret love affair. They had no idea how lucky she was. The thought of how wonderful her life was about to become and how desperately fucked up theirs was, was enough to put a smile on her lips. Those poor fuckers had nothing to look forward to in life, instead of their smoke breaks. Fuck 'em.
Torren walked quickly to the Will-Call counter, and tapped her long black nails impatiently on the Plexi-glass between her and woman behind the counter. "Yeah…I got tickets waiting," she said calmly, giving the woman a serious stare. This would have gone much easier if it had been a guy back there. She didn't have to try with a guy. But, this bitch? The look she was returning definitely suggested that Torren wouldn't be walking out with her tickets as quickly as she had hoped. The key, however, was to keep calm.
"Name?" came the impatient, distorted voice from behind the counter. Maybe this bitch was mad because she was forced to wear that ugly ass gray striped shirt. Or it could have been because she had on black Polyester pants that were already 2 sizes too small and held up by an unnecessary belt. Company mandated uniform or not, there was no excuse for her to be stuffed into that outfit; nor was it a reason for her to be looking at Torren the way she was, totally unaffected by the fact that she was in a hurry.
"Smith," she replied shrugging her shoulders. She didn't know anyone with that name, but it was common. Surely someone with that name had tickets waiting. Orton had been the name that Torren used to use when trying to steal tickets to a show, until she realized that it wasn't that common. Common names worked better, not there hadn't been the rare occasion when Orton actually worked.
She watched as the woman fumbled through the box of unclaimed tickets, reading each name out loud. This was taking forever. "Think we could hurry this along," trying not to start yelling at the top of her lungs at the utter incompetence of this ticket Nazi, she squinted to read the nametag, "Debbie?"
With a roll of her eyes, Debbie replied, "I don't have no tickets for a Smith." She didn't look through the box past the letter C. She didn't need to. She had been dealing with these slutty types all night. Her co-worker, John, a wrestling buff, had told her they were called ring-rats. She would never understand why these little, young, white girls acted like that. Sure, some of the guys she had seen on TV, when her 15 year old watched wrestling, were attractive. But come on. These guys had pussy thrown at them all day. Why in the hell would they want these little girls dressed like crack-whores? And this one was especially slutty looking with those crazy, wild ass eyes.
"Well, Johnson, then." Torren hardened her gaze and placed her elbows on the ledge of the counter. She had been trying to remain calm for about a minute. That's all the patience she had managed to muster. She had an agenda and timeline was already thrown off. All this talking and shit was just delaying the inevitable. Torren, for one, was fed up with it. "You gotta box full of tickets there - just gimme one."
"Look," Debbie said rolling her neck, "if you want tickets, you need to go over there and buy 'em like everybody else." She pointed toward the ticket counter and rolled her eyes. The last thing she had time for was this crazy looking bitch giving her an attitude. It was already 9:15, and she was getting off in a half hour. If she could get things at her station in order in the next 15 minutes, she would still have time to reconcile her drawer and pass the rest of the unclaimed Will-Call tickets over to the customer service desk. It didn't help that she was already going to get home with dinner late no matter if she left now or in at 9:45. She was still going to get into it with her husband when she finally walked through the door. It was bad enough that he'd been calling her since 8:30, probably pissed about dinner not being there, and the fact that he wanted to go out to the bar with his friends, but he couldn't because he had to be home with the damn kids until she got there.
Why did he have to be such a dick? She was the only one in the house working. Granted, it was a shitty job with even worse pay, but it kept the lights on. Maybe if he got off his ass, stayed out of the bar, and looked for a job, they wouldn't be in this situation. He wasn't hurt from that damn car accident, he was just trying to collect an insurance payment. But, it had been over a year and his disability had run out. As soon as he got his settlement, she was leaving his ass, with half of his earnings.
With a life like hers, she was liable to zap the hell out on a customer. Dealing with this girl, looking all ratchet, like she was hopped up on Mollies, was bound to turn out unbenefit for one of them. But she couldn't go apeshit. She was already on probation because her pimply face supervisor, who was young enough to be her youngest child, claimed there had been complaints about her shitty customer service skill. If that dickhead stupivisor knew anything about real life he would have known that grownups have real life issues and can't be happy-go-lucky all the damn time. Plus the public sucked. Fuck this job, and fuck her.
Debbie noticed how Torren arched her back as if she was about to start some shit. But, instead of engaging in an altercation with this crazy bitch, she put up the counter closed sign and turned her back. Jesus just saved this little heffer's life.
It would have taken more time to fight than she had. Torren almost never backed down from a fight, but right now time was of the essence, and there was Plexi-glass between them. What good would it do to expell all her energy banging on the glass, when she needed to save it for her night with Randy?
Actually the thought of buying a ticket had never crossed Torren's mind. Still, she probably could have crafted the box office guy into letting her into the show for free, but that fucking Debbie was so loud about this shit, that she was sure he had heard them. Now she was faced with a choice – pay for a ticket, or go to Plan B.
Plan B, it was. "Bitch," Torren said as she walked out of the lobby, and back outside into the humid night air.
The show's production trucks were parked to the side of the arena, near the garage doors. More than likely this would take about 10 minutes to pull off, but at least she would be inside. From the sidewalk, she noticed that at the end of the driveway, the roller door to the arena was open and people were milling around inside. The only thing between her and that door were bike racks and the crew people… all with badges.
Casually, Torren leaned with her back against one of the WWE trailers and waited, never taking her eyes off of the roller door. It took about five minutes before a guy with a black WWE shirt, lanyard, and a headset made eye contact. She gave him a coy smile, before batting her lashes and looking shyly at the ground. This is too fucking easy.
"Hey," he said with a smile, blowing smoke out of his mouth when he talked. "I'm Scott. I'm part of the stage crew," sticking his chest out in pride, Scott started to twirl his lanyard around his finger. This was too easy. Chicks digged the stage crew because they thought they knew the talent. Truth be told, the two classes never met, but ring rats didn't need to know that.
"Hi, Scott."
Scott considered her for a moment, before motioning his cigarette toward her. He shrugged when she shook her head and started to look around. "You waiting for somebody?"
"No. They couldn't find my tickets at Will Call. I don't have a way to get in," she said sadly, batting her large dark eyes at him. He was standing close enough to her that she could smell him. Was that Axe or Old Spice he was wearing? Whatever it was, she could tell that he got it at Wal-Mart. He must have believed the commercials that girls really liked the way that shit smelled. "What are you wearing? You smell nice." That was all it took. Two minutes later, Torren was inside the storage closet inside the delivery entrance of the area.
Torren had placed her jacket on the floor so she would have something to kneel on. This guy, Scott, was gross. He was fat. He was one of those guys who wore his pants lower than his waist so his beer gut had plenty of space to hang free. And he was old; probably 40 or something. However old he really was, it was too damn old to still be a roadie and not have a real job. And let's not talk about the fact that he was hairy and sweaty and stunk of stale cigarettes. There was nothing worse than an old fat guy that had that blue collar, Axe mixed with Camels and sweat smell.
Randy didn't smell like that, that is for damn sure.
No matter how appalling Scott was, Torren played the role. She ran her hands up his thighs and licked her lips seductively, not totally sure that he could even see her face over his big ass stomach. She carefully unbuttoned his pants and let her nails softly scratch the soft hairs on his thighs as she pulled the jeans down from his hips. Torren looked up at him with a smile.
Poor Scott, she thought staring at his small, flaccid, uncircumcised, pink dick. What in the fuck was she supposed to do with this? She took a deep breath and raised her brows before sticking her tongue out of her mouth to expose how she could dimple it in the middle. She held him in her hand and pointed it at her mouth. With only her tongue on the tip of the foreskin, she separated the flesh until she had touched the head. Scott flinched at the sensation.
There wasn't time for a good blowjob, not like the ones she would give Randy. Those would be slow, with a lot of biting and teasing, licking and sucking. She would rub him all over her face, and neck and down her chest. She would bury her face in his thighs. She would sniff and smell him, hum and blow on him. Randy's blowjob would be a pleasure; this one was a job.
She wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that his gut hung over his waist and she had to hold her left hand against it to actually keep is dick in sight, or the fact that he had red pubic hair that gave his balls a weird burgundy color. Sucking him off was the equivalent of sucking on a bland undercooked pork chop. It was greasy and she was sure that what she smelled was smegma. She knew that he would cum in no time. Hopefully his knees wouldn't buckle and he would fall on top of her.
She hadn't timed it, but it surely was the quickest hummer she had ever given. Judging by how giddy Scott was pulling up his pants, it was probably the only one he'd ever gotten. "So, where is back stage?" she asked standing up wiping her mouth.
Scott opened the closet door and pointed down the hall, "Through those doors." He looked behind him to make sure that the coast was clear, before letting her step in front of him. Placing his arm around her waist, he whispered in her ear. "Look, I'm gonna be done around midnight. If you wanna…"
"Thanks, Scott," Torren smiled and gave him a hug, while unhooking the backstage pass from the metal clasp on the lanyard.
As she walked down the hall, she applied more lip-gloss, turned to blow him a kiss, gripped the credential tightly, and then stepped through the door.