Trigger Warning for the end of the chapter - It earns the M rating here.
Strangely, it was Randy who broke first. He watched Joe tear himself apart inside and out: gym routines that should have hurt him, schedules that should have exhausted him, and worst of all, that fiancee. She stayed out late, kept him up late, drained him emotionally, financially, and physically. Worse still, Randy couldn't get Joe to say anything about it. Not what caused it, not what might make it stop, not a word. He had tried talking in the gym, he tried getting him fairly drunk, he even tried getting him extremely drunk. That attempt had come the closest; he had managed to translate slurred speech into something about wishing he picked a movie and wanting cold hands.
Then, there was Meg. Meg, who never smoked, rarely drank, didn't sneak around with her phone, was now coming apart at the seams. Edging toward too-thin even on the best of days, Randy could now count Meg's ribs through her shirt if she leaned over far enough. She looked miserable, exhausted, and completely lost in her own skin. Randy preferred to be oblivious to most backstage dramatics, but something was festering here that was rotting the cores of two people he cared about. He knew he couldn't get more out of Joe, but Meg looked like she could explode at any moment, and permanently at that. He was going at her after their next show, and he planned on coming away with answers.
"Okay, sister. Time to 'fess up."
Meg jumped about a foot in the air when Randy's giant hand landed on her shoulder, and he winced when he felt how angular she had become. 'Jesus, maybe we should do this over a burger and fries.'
"Time to...what the fuck are you talking about?" Meg was beyond confused.
"Something's up with you. Put the cigarettes and the booze away for the night. Actually, bring the booze. It might help. You're coming up to my room, we're ordering something to eat, and I'm going to break your phone if I have to. You're going to tell me what's going on."
"No. I have shit to do tonight and I don't have time for-"
Shrugging, Randy picked her up and dumped her over his left shoulder. "Easy or hard, Meg, your choice. Where's your bag?" The entire world rolled under her, and some sort of high-pitched vowel sound welled up in her throat. Scared, Randy flipped her back to her feet and held her upright. "What? What just happened?" Meg's eyes were wide but she didn't say anything, waiting for her vision to return from sparkling purple to full-color, knowing her blood pressure had dropped precipitously. Once the world stopped swirling, she groped for her phone.
"Okay. Okay, fine. You win. Just don't do that shit again. Let me text Dave and tell him where I'm going."
"How about you don't do that shit again?" Randy shook his head. "Between you and Joe, man. You two scare me." Meg just shook her head.
The drive to the hotel was, as Randy expected, silent. Meg stared blankly out the passenger window, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, while Randy surreptitiously glanced at her. 'Whatever it is, it's both of them, and it started after I cut Joe. So, that night. Something happened that night.'
Meg was on auto-pilot as she followed Randy up to his suite. She sat on the end of his bed and stared blankly ahead as he walked his suitcase to the closet, made a few brief phone calls, and then crouched in front of her.
"Hey. You in there?" He poked her in the knees. 'You could cut glass on those. I'm gonna stop calling her Meg and start calling her Skeletor.'
"No. Not anymore."
"Meg...you gotta let it go. Or tell me what happened. As much shit as we give each other, you know I love you like a sister. You're killing yourself." 'Half the truth, Orton. You lie to yourself, just like she does.'
"I have let it go." Frustrated, Meg moved to stand, but Randy blocked her rise from the edge of the bed.
'Okay. There's a crack. An 'it' happened. Now for what and when.' "Well...it hasn't let you go. Meg, none of this shit you're doing is you. You aren't a smoker, you drink but not like that, you never sneak around with your phone – fuck, you never even really used your phone unless you were throwing it at Dave or some shit. What happened?"
"Nothing. And before you ask, nobody. And never. I don't have any answers for you."
"Oh come on, Meg!" Randy roared and vaulted up from his crouch, looming over her. Meg's eyes were empty. He expected her to blink, flinch, stand up and shove him, anything to indicate she was still in there somewhere. She didn't move, just continued staring through him.
"How hard are you going to hit me, Randy? Enough so I forget what happened? Or so I can leave? Please? I won't move. I won't even say you did it. I promise." 'Look what those words mean, Meg. Look what they can do.'
"Jesus...Meg...I'm sorry. Here...c'mere." Randy leaned down to wrap his arms around her. 'Whatever happened, I'm going to fucking kill whoever did this to her. She's gone. She's completely gone.'
Meg reached up instinctively to touch his arms, and Randy startled. "Jesus, Meg, what else is wrong with you? You're always cold, but your hands are fucking free...zing..." His mind flew back to those slurred, drunken words Joe managed to let slip. Randy braced for an argument, grasped her wrists, tilted Meg away from him and asked the question he hoped would open the floodgates.
"Who picked the movie that night, Meg? You or Joe?" He had all the time in the world to wait for her look of pure hatred to pass and her voice to take over.
Joe would be having his own argument that night. He felt as though he was racing towards a cliff, not knowing if anything would pull him back or if he even cared.
Rather than risk being seen at the hotel bar, he ordered a bottle of bourbon from room service. 'Something caramel, because...her.' Up came a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle whatever-or-another, expensive, and Joe stopped caring after the second drink. The ugly argument with his fiance had also contributed to his call to room service; he told her to go out and stay out, and while Joe didn't want to acknowledge what that meant, he was glad to finally have some quiet in the room. The second drink turned into several, which turned into not being able to understand how much was or wasn't left in the bottle, and he knew he had to stop. Staggering to the bed, Joe threw his clothing on the floor – he would have taken his skin off if he could – the room was unbearably heavy. He prayed for sleep, which came slowly, and dragged a dream along with it.
"Come here, Joe. You need this." He could hear Meg, but not see her.
"Come where? Where are you?" He spun, but every direction afforded him facefulls of flying rose petals and snow. The ground was so thick with the mixture he could barely walk.
"Joe...I promised I would take care of you." He felt two cold hands slide over his shoulders; Meg came into soft focus in front of him seconds later. "If you want me to leave, I can go. You told me everything is fine." He could see everything and nothing at once – Meg's body was a series of blurred, hazy lines. This place didn't make sense; fragments came together out of memory. He felt her fingers trace circles through his hair, draw lines across his cheekbones, every touch searingly, impossibly cold.
"Don't go, Meg. I don't want you to go." Catching her hands in his, Joe pulled her fingertips to his lips, briefly nipping them before asking, "Do you remember this? I remember you tasted like roses." As if reading his mind, Meg's hands slipped around the back of his neck as Joe leaned down into a kiss every bit as delicate, though no less hesitant, as their first.
Meg allowed him a moment of tentative exploration before she pulled Joe firmly down against her lips, smiling against him as he responded with a possessive growl. Her tongue felt like velvet against his, and she tasted like roses, exactly as he remembered. "And you taste like caramel, Joe," Meg giggled as she broke away, "How did that happen?" He couldn't help his smile, and let the slightest of moans slip as she traced an ice chip down his throat. "Joe, when did any of this happen? Tell me you want me to take care of you." He wanted to see her, to remember every outline, but his mind wouldn't yield any specific image.
He tilted her chin up so her eyes met his. "Only you." He couldn't remember ever wanting anything more. One hand firmly around the back of her neck, the other rubbing small, tender circles into her lower back, her skin so cold it almost burned, Joe began kissing and nipping his way across her collarbones, up her neckline, back to her lips, feeling her press against him – gently at first, and then feeling her press turn into a pull as she guided his head and hands across her. "If I need this, Meg, what do you need?" She smiled again, pushing him back into the rose-snow, falling with him.
"Just you." His hands teased up her stomach, threatening her breasts, but she caught them and pressed them lower. "All of you."
It was the only invitation he needed. If this was their only time, strange as it was, then he was going to claim it. His turn to push her backwards; he was on top of her in their perfumed snow in seconds, desperate for more. One hand brushed her hair from her face, the other slid down her side, across her thighs, fingers teasing, and then - "I'm not all ice, Joe." - in her, in her, their legs tangling, a surreal, searing heat rising in him as he felt her start to arch her back and then push away, kissing him, gently, deeply, reassuring. "Together. Not just me, us." One last smile, and somehow she moved and he was in her, not teasing or touching but buried, instantly complete, though he thought he might break apart. Meg's hands tangled gently in his hair, urging him to set a rhythm. Joe brought her with him, slowly at first, then faster, hearing every whisper for more.
Joe, naked, sweating, moving tangled through the hotel bedsheet, never heard his fiancee come back to their room from the hotel bar. Seeing him ready, presumably for her, she slithered to the bed, placed a hand tightly around the base of his throat, and was on top of him in seconds, riding him, not having the slightest idea that he was lost in a dream rather than in her. Had she known the shift he'd take in his mind, she might never have gotten into bed with him.
In the snow and petals, Joe suddenly had a hand around Meg's throat, squeezing, not able to stop himself, abandoning the rhythm they had set and driving violently into her while she clawed at his arm, wild-eyed, confused, afraid, begging him no, stop.
Instead, his fiancee redoubled her efforts at getting a reaction: pulling Joe's hair, biting his shoulder, trying to wake him and force him to look at her. Angry when he didn't come out of his bourbon-fueled stupor fast enough, she pulled back and slapped him as hard as she could manage, fed by her own attempts at problem-solving via alcohol.
Joe found his other hand forcing Meg's head back by her hair, hard, Meg flailing at him, trying to pry him from her throat while her neck craned backwards, a series of dry, gasping sounds suddenly all that was left in her. Joe, slamming into her, could she she was terrified and trying to get away from him. The pain was written in the contortions of her body until, miraculously, he let go of her, just long enough to watch his arm pull back, high, too far above his head, and slam downward, a sickening sound between a slap and a punch, and Meg stilled underneath him. He still couldn't stop, next leaning down, dragging his teeth to the slope where her neck became shoulder, tearing off her necklace, ready to bite down, and having no idea why.
Then he was awake, terrified, nauseated, pushing his fiancee back off of him and onto the bed, both their eyes wide. His fiancee had managed to claw the sheet away from him and cover herself.
"What the fuck? The fuck, Joe? It's me! You finish what you started and-"
Joe was still entirely too drunk for what he was feeling, for what he hadn't felt at all, and then was screaming at her to get out of the room, get rid of the ring, get out of the house, just get away from him, take whatever she wanted, it was all done, they were over, he was done. The door slammed again, there was quiet, then there was nothing.