A/N- Filler Alert. Mini plot w/ the VIPs. Skip to the bottom bolded paragraph breakers!
My whole Beatles artillery later, my set is up and over with. Way more than I signed up for – I should've asked for a clear job description – because I doubt whatever I'm stacking up at the end of this gig is enough to cover a hospital should I'd gone into shock. Thankfully my stand-in band mates had a familiarity with Beatles songs. Improvisations and all, the set went smooth as could be expected but a major part of the audience seemed lost with most, if not all, the songs. This generation – the next hundred – should be taught to appreciate such classics.
Tonight's singer replaces my presence and I blur off into the backstage shaking hands with lovely compliments and whatnot – anything to occupy my mind and wear off the adrenaline. My boss skedaddles into the unknown leaving me to fend for myself. Let me say, it's a pack of wolves once my heels reach the bottom steps. The bitch left you for a session, ha!
Men are lined up ready with drinks to offer, some are even shoved at me, like it's the Pope who's touched ground at the LAX or the JFK. It's a tedious crusade from point A to point B – the bar – but I find it in me to smile as to not have someone bludgeon me for not accepting their shady ass drink.
Danny strokes my shamed ego with various compliments and a round of whatever on the house. I said round, let's go for rounds because I'm the lone castaway on Despair Island, "Another one, please and thank you?"
"I'll be on it real quick, some of these bastards getting rowdy. I'll a second, okay?"
Waving her off, I rest my head on the countertop. Going with that first song was a fatal mistake. No, looking at him was a fatal mistake. He knows, he does – he has known. Now he knows that I know that he knows. It's all in the eyes. You need a fucking drink, over analyzing ass.
In the midst of sinking into my overactive mind, I'm hoisted from the quicksand by a sly dopefuck who thought it, the best approach, would be by sliding in, nice and tight, in my bubble and place his bear paw of my lap, "You have three seconds to think about the safety of your product placement, buddy," my growl is muffled which amplifies the warning.
"Whoa, whoa," he removes his hand. Good choice, "No need to neuter me, gorgeous. It's just Randy," I lift my head for confirmation and slump back into position, "You put on a good show. I was surprised. you don't come off as somebody who has the pipes."
"The shower isn't exactly a perfect judge…"
He laughs, even that simplicity is sexy and sophisticated, "Does that have a hidden message I'm not getting?"
I shoot right up with a no, he looks at me with amusement, "You have such a dirty mind…"
The six foot giant shrugs, "Can't blame me for it, you're provocative. Ask any of these fuckers and they'll write about it."
A minuscule laugh rumbles through me, "Where's Batista?"
"Am I not attractive enough to keep your fancy?" even though I can't physically see it, I can picture it…his mock pout.
"You're world renowned Randy Orton, walking wet dream. Live it, embrace it. Now, where's Mr. Dave Bautista?" Rico Suave replies with class that he's, Batista, is enjoying a potty break, "You could've been vague, you know?"
"I could've, should've, would've, but I didn't!"
"Sorry for the wai – holy Jesus…" I lift up my head and spot Danny, her chipper demeanor turned into a spurned glare. A glare that has Randall Keith Orton written all over it, "Here," she sets the fragile margarita glass onto the counter with a loud clack and the poor papier-mâché umbrella pops out . Her eyes are solely for Randy.
A single sip, I put it down and it's still silent. There would be a shrub rolling by if this were out in the South, "Danny, this shit it good…props."
The clear blue eyed man lifts a brow, "Danny, huh?" he gives a light snicker, "Cute."
Said woman grinds her jaw, "Yeah and what?" Oh boy…
Rubbing his jaw pensively, "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just like Samantha better,"
He makes to twirl a tendril of her silky hair but she flinches away, "Don't," she orders, "Marleene, I know you're chasing money but save yourself the trouble. This isn't the way to the promised land," surveying the area for a quick getaway, I curse Wes, "He'll charm you and the whole nine yards till you're another sack on his bed. Then, of course, he'll slither away. You'll wake up feeling like yesterdays paper with a kid as a reminder," did she say "kid", did she?
Previously smirking and reveling in his giddiness, Randy sobers up and nervously shoots me a wink, like that'd do something to erase what I've just heard, "Come on, you act like you weren't in it for the cash!" she rolls her eyes, probably wishing she could do more, "I give you money don't I?" He's a baby daddy! The melanin from my skin disappears. What have I been doing to get tied into all these melodramas?
"If my memory serves me right, two years ago you were a rising star, a pathetic frat kid that still sucked off his mom's right tit and wiped his ass with Daddy's money! Forget that though because you giving your daughter a monthly obligation don't replace that her Daddy is irrelevant in her life!"
I'm narrating this soap, I mean I could say that Randy's frantically looking about to see if any words ran past any ears, "Be quiet! People can fucking hear you," he mumbles.
Shock, it flashes past her muddy orbs like he's sent a lightning bolt through her brain. She laughs, the kind of comic laugh that's used to bury opposite emotions. Danny, err, Samantha stops and reaches into her bra. I'm slightly uncomfortable but see a wad of bills and then a photograph, one she slaps down in front of Randy, "You're scared people will make light of this? Make light of what kind of man you are?" her head sways side to side, "Pathetic, just…" she bites her lip, "I'll tell you something; I don't care if you're in her life. I don't. She has all the love she needs and more. But there'll come a day when she realizes she doesn't have what all the other kids do. Think about that," another repulsed glare and she stomps off through a swing door.
It's all a collapse of emotions. It's quiet. People still yap on about mundane shit that with the help of alcoholic beverages seem rather amusing. Eyes still linger on perfectly sculpted bodies, legs still wander around and receive mesmerized leers – the world is still the same but I have a feeling Randy's isn't.
Lying flat on the countertop is a poorly preserved photograph, creases and crinkles adorn it. It captures within its' colors a sweet child, a girl no older than the assumed two. Her shabby hair hides her precarious smile that resembles her father's quite well, to the dimples, her squinty eyes hiding bright brown eyes. She's an Orton.
"What?" the lone question must be for the ridiculous smile etched on my face.
"Take a look for yourself, handsome."
ΔΔΔΔ
"Can't say it happened 'cus I was young 'cus I'm twenty-four years old and hell, God knows I haven't been a saint in the least bit..." rambles Randy as we head on back to his and Dave's tables, wherever he may be, "You can go ahead. Tell me, tell me that I fucked up and stuck it good."
"Ain't my place to say, Randy," I swerve to make room for a passing waitress, "I'll take away that it was a hit and quit though, right?"
The Playboy cranes his neck and I can see the faintest of smirks, "My old man and I were out here for business. She was a showgirl, those chicks that wore close to nothing and line danced. We got to talking and somehow got to fuckin'," I scoff at his bluntness to which he chuckles and ushers me into the seat.
"When did you figure out that you were a baby daddy?"
Tapping his chin, "Probably the next time we came around. The kid was like three months old? Yeah, three," he pauses for a second, "All I was looking for was a quick bone but she threw responsibility like…fuck?" he shakes his head, "Told her I wasn't looking for all that. I threw some bills her way and told her that she'd receive another set next month if she kept silent."
"Bastard," I hiss. He's got this look like he's been bitten and mangled. I mean, at least he's honest but, "You got a game plan? You saw her and I'm bettin' the two dollars in pocket change that I have that it was the first time."
Randy sighs and hunches back, "No idea whatsoever."
There's a clear view of two trays full of delicious looking drinks. They're calling to me, like a lull in my ear saying, "Drink me" I look over at deadbeat baby daddy and decide to comfort him…or put it straight.
"Look, Randy, we might not ever see each but if you remember anything about me it should be what I'm gonna tell ya'. Family is pushed like no other onto kids through the works of literature and television. It's always mommy, daddy, a brother, a sister, and a dog. You kid, this girl, she'll grow up seeing that. She'll resent it, believe what she will, and turn to whatever will help console her. In my case, Moms was never in my life. I'm all hard about it but in reality, yeah I wish she'd been there. Pops ain't ever know what to tell me about boys or cramps. Look where I am, look at what I'm wearing, hear what people say about me," breathing in relief, I saunter over to that tray of drinks and snatch two without so much a "thank you".
Silence overruns our table for a stretch of time. My words and tonight's circumstances probably sponge through to Randy. I lean back and enjoy the sound of Ms. Hudson's melodic voice…or try. My eyes keep on wanting to wander in a certain direction. Lucky for them, they spot a magically reappeared wrestler, Batista.
The man in question has a look of distraught and his appearance makes it apparent why he was gone for so long. He dons a vampire's kiss – a hickie. Thought those stopped back in high school? I thought so too but then again Noah used to…I hated hickies. They always gave one away as being some sort of slut.
Batista corners in on us and I smile, tapping my collarbone. He catches my drift and shakes his head. I zip my mouth and throw away the key, "I guess I was missed, seeing as how quiet you two are," he comments and slides in, "You put out, sweetheart," he mentions, readjusting his sleeve cuffs.
"Thank you."
"Might I ask for the name of the poor bastards that got his heart broken?"
Liquor's always sparse when it's much needed. From the corner of my eye, there's a platinum blonde taking orders. I'm here to entertain…so, why not? Snapping a finger to catch her attention, "Blondie, get over here!" jerking back she scowls, "Be a doll and get us a couple glasses and some bourbon or something, please."
"I saw you in the locker room. It's your job to service our valuable patrons," she says all sweet and candy assed about it. She was one of those who were hawkeyed set on watching me undress in shame.
"And that's what I'm in the process of but seeing as how they have no drinks, that's where you come in," I reply in the same smug tone that she deserves, she's asking for.
Ridiculous, this fake tit has some nerve to scoff at us, them. She just bites her tongue and stomps back to the bar. I hope she steps on a Leggo. I turn back to the men and they have a universal grin on their panty-droppingly handsome faces.
"What were we on?"
"You were about to tell us about song."
Oh, yeah. Right. Fuck. My eyes zero on in on that table they wanting to wander to. They observe how those beautiful, crow's feet affected eyes twinkle with laughter. Blink wondering how it was possible to be so close yet so far, in a literal sense as well as non-literal.
Poetic, in a way, how I consciously put myself through this unnecessary pain. I could be happy, should be. This, chilling and laughing with WWE stars doesn't happen to any nimrod. If only I had the ability to disregard people's feelings, disregard how my actions affected those around me. Punk didn't leave me behind, he left family and friends.
"We're never going to meet again and frankly, I need to vent…" and where's that damn blonde?
ΔΔΔΔ
Time passes by – no, it speeds by without notice. How do we know this? We may be buzzed out of our rockers but we do notice how sluggish, drunken patrons stumble on their asses out of the cabaret, retaining what little dignity they have left. Jennifer Hudson has left the building. Waitresses and band members have switched out of their getups and slink by the bar; they drink and mingle like normal people. Bartenders chug half-empty bottles under the bar. We've successfully welcomed in another day…or it has us.
Somewhere between our eighth shot, Randy blanked the fuck out. Not entirely, we know he's alive as he has spurts of undivided consciousness. The Animal himself is out cold, not even a poke can save his soul. I do have make note that he didn't go down with class and sophistication, no. Poor guy gushed out secretive tales of how his marriage is circling the drain and shit like that. Seeing how I'm still fairly aware of Phil and Maria's presence, I'm not drunk enough but sure as hell no use on my feet.
Kicking someone's shin, I slur, "What time is it?" nobody's home to pick up so I struggle to kicked more fiercely, "What time is it?"
Randy spasms back to life, "Wha…what?"
"The time!"
He covers his ears, but I'm pretty sure it hurt me more than it did him, "Stop," he whines," he pulls out his phone and flounders about trying to figure out how to read and balance.
"What's…fucking time?" I shout once more and the phone jerks out of his grasp. I do the honors myself and dwell on the fact. It's six. Six in the morning. I was promised eight in the least and worse of all, I shitfaced myself into doing nothing but pour out my heart, "Fuck!"
In a hasty effort to get up, I nearly twist my ankle. High heeled shoes aren't the way to go when inhibitions are dropped out the nest. Steadying myself, I glance back to make the boys are well accounted for. They're out. With that in mind, I stumble my way to the bar. I don't know what for but it's my destination.
"Marleene!" I hear, "Marleene!" it's a woman freaking out of her pants. I stare up and it's Danny or Samantha or whatever the fuck she goes by. At least I didn't face plank before walking too far.
"Girl, hey!" I greet her, "Have you…have you seen Wes?"
She eyeballs me wearily, "You had a little too much, didn't you?" she smirks as I burp, "I'll take that as a 'yes'. And to answer that question, I saw him about four hours ago. He was headed to Dips' office."
Nodding, "Send for Orton and Bautista?"
"A cab, you mean?" I raise a brow, "Sure, why not. Go scrape them off of whatever ho they're on and get them sobered up."
Another nod and I go on about my business. Being tipsy, I find myself having to take a complete journey around to get to the passed out VIPs. In my journey through a vast amount of chairs that weren't pushed in, I find – or am found – by the one and only, couple of the moment, Maria and Punk! Whoopee!
"Marleene, you're still here?" calls out Maria just when I thought I could slide by undetected.
Well, gee, I dunno, "Yep. Here I am," I respond.
"Where's Dave?" she searches, "And Randy?"
"The table."
"Wow, you haven't fuck-" Maria elbows Phil and he winces out, "What?"
By now, I'm above being irate. This man, his audacity, "No. They're passed out so I didn't get a chance. Does that humor you enough or do you need detail how I planned to go about it?"
At this response, Punk scowls at me and I'll be damned if I don't as well. I can play with the big dogs – bitches too – but Maria steps in with her radiant smile, "Where's your friend? Do you need a ride home?"
"He's…somewhere, around here. I think. Nah, thanks but I'll probably go-"
"With Randall and Bautista, right? Yeah, babe, she doesn't need you good will. Marleene knows her way around." My ticker blows. To hell with manners. I grab his glass of soda and splash it in his smirking face. That'll show him. I stomp off, "Hey, what the fu…my Pepsi!"
ΔΔΔΔ
Various pitchers of water and flushing toilets later, I pace about outside freezing my tits off while my dependants – Randy and Dave – support themselves however they can. It's safe to say that the nose dive the weather has taken is keeping us sober or in the process of.
"Don't forget to keep in touch, sweetheart," chatters Dave. A while ago, they wrote – attempted – down their numbers for me.
"Yeah and don't forget to that you and that nephew have seats pending next time we're in town. Hopefully by then his old man is home and safe," adds Randy.
You always hear through word of mouth or social media how celebs can be assholes or how they get caught up in their world that normal nine-to-fivers are nothing to them. What they've done, these two athletes, is enough to leave me astonished and rather ashamed for believing all celebs are the same. I mean, nobody would go out of the way to drop their number, seats for their next show, and a grandiose tip for a girl who could very well be their next hookup, "You guys really didn't have to…"
"It's in ink for us to do shit like this, honey," deadpans Dave and for a moment, a slow one, I let it sink, "Just kidding!"
Headlights blare and a cab swooshes to a stop. The giddiness resides leaving behind a residual feeling of melancholy. Time for departure, time for forgetting and being forgotten because that's how it works out when you aren't a big baller, when you're just normal. The man known to the wrestling universe as "The Animal" steps forth and embraces me. His buddy, on the other hand, pulls me into a bear hug, "I thought you'd be heavier. I mean, with an ass like yours…" I gasp as he rumbles with laughter and sets me down, "Don't let this be the last time I hear from you," he says wagging a finger, "You're special."
"Really now?"
The guy nods his head as if it were a fact, "That or it's cus I've yet to conquer you," he blurts out with laughter, escaping my swat if only by a second.
With the two wrestlers now safely tucked away in the cab, I shut their door and bid a couple of words to save for the trip, "Take care, guys. Don't fuck with rats, visit free clinics if ya' do, keep a steady supply of condoms, and keep me in mind," I smile and tap the window so the driver will pull away, "Godspeed."
Life's funny sometimes. Hours ago, I was in a mix between being ecstatic and weary about being their charge for the night. Now? What happened throughout the night? Life's funny sometimes. Life's good.
ΔΔΔΔ
Backtracking, maybe I should've made sure to keep the entrance door open. What kind of business would leave their doors open and unguarded? Not this one. So I'm stuck either knocking on the door until somebody opens up which could be until my body is frozen or using the backstage side-door located in the alley. I'm so, very fucked either way.
What the hell, I need to get home and most importantly, I need this money! Alley it is!
Cautiously, I inch into the musky, ensconced alley. Surprise, surprise! I hear voices. Screw Chicago and it's horror movie alleys and hell, screw it's weather and eternal darkness! Whatever, I'll just sneak through undetected. You have heels, genius. If I can hear their distinct clacking, these voice's ears can pick them up too! Walk, walk, walk faster! Officially freaking out; I don't like this feeling of being a cornered mouse. Shit goes down whenever a woman is in that position – I should know. Watch the ice! Shit.
"Ayo, I think we've got us some company!" slurs a voice, a man's voice
Rule number fucking one: never fucking wear heels in shitty weather. Rule number two: if anything and you need to run, take them the hell off! Learning experience from me, I've just toppled over on my ass.
"Aye, lassy, need some help," chuckles another drunken buffoon.
Get up! I pick myself up, keeping a sharp eye on these men. If two overgrown, hulks of men weren't bad enough, it's a wolf pack of four. Cheap booze permeates the air. It's strong enough to kill a kidney.
"Why don't we, uh, help ya'?" pipes another.
Putting on a brave face, I manage to squeak, "I'm fine. Let me through," of course, with those leers…
One bellows with laughter, "Aw, girly, why you shaky? We just wanna help you," his tone condescending. I can make them out as familiar. They could be those guys from earlier, the ones Wes mean mugged, "Be gentlemens and help you…maybe have fun as well."
Is it possible for people to smell fear? The pack steps forward and I step back, "Stop. I'm warning you."
"What? We just wanna make sure a sexy little thing like you isn't damaged," croons one of these guys. He's even bold enough to try and reach out. I slap his hand away, "Look here, fellas, we got a feisty one!" he slaps me, hard, "I'm not found of those," he reaches for my hair and I let out a yelp, "I like them submissive," his foul smelling breath fumigating the air I breathe.
Ragdoll, the way this beast shoves me to the ground. My thigh is scathed but I manage to crab crawl a few inches. Panic courses through me like a type of drug. Off my feet, I'm rendered helpless. If I turn my back, I'll be an easier target. I mean, I already am. The way these bottom feeders crowd around me, it reminds me of how he hounded me before pouncing.
"Hel-" I'm cut off by a Timberland boot to the ribs. Though I wince, I can see the way their beady little eyes dilate with pleasure.
Snap a finger and one of them, they're faceless to me now, pounces on me like a wild bobcat. I shriek and hold my ground best I can. Grubby, filthy fingers struggle to free more skin, straddled legs struggle to keep my bustling body down, and wolves silently look on.
"Get…off!" I yell at the top of my lungs before they deflate. I receive a slap but I don't quit struggling. It's in human nature to struggle. Adrenaline is at an all time high and I take one last stride and punch this motherfucker where I can – his face. Not a wussy punch either, Daddy didn't raise a poor bitch.
"Bitch!" he hollers, clutching his eye.
Pushing him off, I roll onto my feet. How? Adrenaline, baby. Fight or flight. I throw chuck my shoes and sprint as fast as God will permit. Heavy footsteps follow me and so help me…!