Star Gazers

A/N: Okay, so this is another short story that I've been toying with for awhile. The title comes from Green Day's Are We the Waiting - my favorite song of the moment. It's only going to be about three chapters long, I think, but it's what I like to call "mellow fluff." There's nothing super-dramatic - just some realistic conversation, kinda like "Puppy Love." That's another one of my short stories. And if you haven't checked it out? Why the hell not? Anyway - let me know what you think. I don't own any of these guys, and you should know that by now. Enjoy!

Randy Orton watched as Dave Batista stood before the mirror in the hotel room the old friends were sharing. "Dude, come on. We're gonna be late." Everyone accused him of being the pretty boy in the group, the one who couldn't go five minutes without looking in a mirror. Well, Randy knew himself pretty well. And he had also known a lot of women, and not even they spent as much time examining themselves in the mirror as Dave did.

With a grunt, and a glance over his enormous shoulder, Dave sat his comb on the counter top and shrugged. "I'm comin'," he insisted.

With another roll of his eyes, the younger of the two men shoved his wallet into his back pocket and walked toward the door of the room. "Man, we're not even goin' anywhere," Randy pointed out, tossing another look over his shoulder.

Dave was now watching his reflection in the surface of a glass vase on the entry table. It wasn't that he considered himself vain. On the contrary, he was the last to talk about himself. But he couldn't deny that he was pretty, and sometimes he just liked to see the face that was driving women all over the world crazy.

Even if they weren't doin' anything more than sitting on the roof with the old gang, talkin' about what was up in their lives now. "I'm sure Hunter will bring you a nice, shiney beer bottle to stare into half the night," he teased as they stepped into the hallway.

"There you are," Shelton Benjamin's voice filled the tiny hall as Randy and Dave exited their room. Offering a hand to each of his old, OVW friends, the RAW superstar greeted them and looked at his watch.

"Sorry, man," Randy apologized quickly. "The diva here had to make sure his make up wasn't smeared."

Back in the day in Louisville, when the three men and their friend John Cena had all shared a tiny two bedroom apartment, they had started the tradition of meeting after shows to unwind with conversations on the roof. The apartment gave way to hotels, when all four made it to the big stage, but the routine was always the same: meet up, go to the roof, drink, laugh or vent, and then stumble to bed way later than they knew they should. Now, however, the core four had been separated, via Raw and Smackdown, and could only get together when the brands merged for supershows or PPV's.

As Dave and Shelton talked about the evening's agenda, Randy let his eyes drift to the end of the hall. She was beautiful, leaning against the wall in her jeans and her sweater, laughing at something Hunter was telling her. There was something about Trish Stratus that turned Randy's head around. Something that other women just didn't possess - the "it" factor that couldn't be described in words, but wouldn't be ignored.

Fortunately, before anyone noticed him staring, the elevator doors dinged and John Cena stepped off, a huge smile on his full lips. "Let's get this party started," he announced, wrapping his arms around Trish. "You made it."

Randy watched as a twinge of guilt he couldn't explain crept into his gut. He and Trish were close enough to friends, at least cordial acquaintances. He had no reason to believe that he stood a chance with someone as together, and all-around cool as her. But he didn't know when, or very much like that, his friend had gotten so close to her - close enough to throw her beautiful body over his shoulder and carry her toward the roof.

When all was said and done, and they were situated carefully atop their hotel in downtown Los Angeles, eight tired faces stared at one another blankly. Triple H supplied the beer, and Batista passed around a box of Cuban cigars, while they shot meaningless shit about the show that had just wrapped.

Laying flat on the concrete roof, Randy looked at the sky and listened as those around him talked. On television, he was a cocky bastard who always had something to say about himself. In real life, he was perfectly content to sit back and let the others entertain him. He was the baby of the group, and sometimes he felt like their experiences, professionally and personally, were far more interesting than his own.

Trish watched quietly from her place on the fringe of the group. She was the Women's Champion, and in the ring, she was the center of all things "diva." But in real life, behind the black curtain, she always felt like an outsider. While the other girls were dating, or dancing, or doing whatever it was that normal women did, she was locked away in her hotel room, studying game tape and practicing new moves - most of which never saw the light of day. And as she watched the Women's Division slowly diminish, fading in favor of half-naked women with no ring skills, she felt even more alone.

She wasn't naïve. She knew why Hunter asked her to hang with him and his friends, even if she wanted to believe that it was due to her amazing mind and incredible athletic talent. The truth was, she was hotter than most of the women who came and went. And she didn't blush every time the boys tried to talk to her. So she earned her seat inside their little "club" and didn't try to pretend like it bothered her to be the only female on a roof top of libidinous men, who's conversation had quickly turned from business to, um, pleasure.

"Hey, Randall," Jericho called from his place across the roof. Lifting his head off the pavement, Randy opened one eye to look at the veteran, while stamping his finished cigar against the concrete beneath him. "How many girls did you get with when we were in London last time?"

Trish saw, in the faint glow of the street lights, a tiny blush creep into the Legend Killer's cheeks. How many times had she watched him back stage, seeing that little blush that defied everything he tried to portray in the ring? It wasn't blatant, and she doubted most would even notice it. But he wasn't the cocky son of bitch he wanted them to think he was. And she liked that.

"Um. . ." Closing his eyes, Randy tried to remember the last time he was in London. Part of him wanted to exaggerate, just to impress his friends. But having Trish a few feet away, sitting comfortably against the ledge of the rooftop, watching for his answer, made him want to tone the answer down a bit. "I think it was two," he lied.

"BULL SHIT," John shouted, the alcohol getting to him quicker than the others. "That is fuckin' bull shit," he added, slightly quieter when Shelton rolled his eyes and put a finger to his lips. "You were with at least three, man," he smiled.

Hoping to avoid confirming or denying that accusation, Randy hoisted himself into a seated position and pointed toward Christian. "What about you, man? I saw you at that strip club in Amsterdam."

Christian nodded proudly and held up four fingers. "But I didn't fuck 'em all, man." Receiving a high-five from Dave, he looked back around the circle and raised an eyebrow. "I only got to two of 'em - the others? I just watched."

There were hoots and catcalls, and Randy wished for a split second that his friends weren't so immature. There was a woman in their presence, after all. But instead of saying anything, and looking like a total goof, he just took another beer bottle and offered one to her.

Smiling, Trish accepted the bottle and thanked him quietly. There weren't many men who could impress her on appearance alone. But his blue eyes, his full lips, and his broad shoulders were nothing short of breath-taking. She remembered the first time she had laid eyes on the kid from St. Louis. And she remembered thinking a thousand dirty thought that she would never admit to, at least out loud.

"Okay, I got one," Shelton chimed in once they had finished congratulating Christian. "Most uncomfortable place you've ever fucked a girl?"

Six men looked at each other with twinkling eyes. "Up the ---" they started, and then stopped, cracking up at their own lame joke. Trish just watched, and waited for the answers. Truth be told, it was junior high conversation at best. But it was better than the nail polish and fashion conversation she would be having with the other girls, if she weren't here with the boys.

John held up a hand and then cleared his throat. "Alright, I'll go. I once fucked a chick in the front seat of a VW bug," he admitted. "It was goin' pretty well, too," he launched into his story, looking at each one of them to make sure they were enthralled in the tale he was weaving. "I was layin' across the seats and she was on top. But then she leaned back and accidentally sat on the gear shift," he laughed at the memory.

Hunter laughed, spitting a dribble of his beer. "She fucked you and the gear shift?" He had done some pretty kinky shit, but that was something straight out of the "internet porn" category.

Even Trish had to laugh at the thought, but John shook his head vehemently. "No, dude. She fuckin' screamed and jumped up, hit her head on the roof, and got all pissed. She was just like "take me home now, John," and she wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night." He sighed and dropped his head in resignation. "Add to that, the fact that my left leg had been jammed in between the seat and the door, and I got this horrible cramp that lasted for, like, three days."

Chris and Christian looked at each other knowingly and Chris nodded. Sipping from his beer, he leaned back and rested his weight on one arm. "About three years ago, we were doin' a show in Canada," he started, shooting a look at Trish when she giggled. "What?"

She had heard the story a million times, but only shook her head and mimicked zipping her lips. "Nothing. Go on."

With a simple roll of his eyes, he continued. "Anyway, so I met this chick backstage, and she was smokin' hot, right? Little blonde with the sweetest, perkiest tits you ever saw. So anyway, she invites me to this cabin she had in the woods - this place her parents owned, but never went to anymore. And we're outside of Toronto in January, so you can guess how nice the weather was.

"So it's colder than shit, and we drive up to this cabin. It's really secluded and everything, and she's all lookin' at me with these totally innocent eyes all night. So we had a couple drinks and then we went outside to sit on this bitchin' back porch and watch the stars," he closed his eyes, as if playing the movie over on the screen of his mind.

Shelton tried to conceal a snicker, but ended up nearly choking on his drink. In a high-pitched tone of mocking, he said, "Oh, Chris, that's so romantic."

Picking up a nearby rock, Chris chucked it at the young man and rolled his eyes. "So she's in my lap, right? And I'm, like, suckin' on her neck and shit, and she just starts grinding against me. So I'm totally sprung, and I'm just like "I gotta get off soon," only I forgot it was only, like, twenty below zero out there.

"So she turns around, unzips my pants and goes down there to suck me off, right? Only once I'm all wet, and the air hits me, I'm like, frozen solid." Six men groaned and carefully covered themselves. "Seriously - I thought it would never thaw. I drove home that night thinkin' about how I was going to explain hypothermia of the penis to the doctor."

Trish watched with a knowing smile as all of the guys groaned and grew quiet, thinking about the discomfort Jericho had just described. It never ceased to amaze her, the way they seemed to get off on talking about each other's sexual pain. Woman never did that - at least in her experience. She had never told anyone the stories about her most painful situations, and she wouldn't. Not if she could help it. That was just weird.

The low rumble of Dave's baritone broke the night sky. "Mine was on a plane. In the bathroom," he admitted.

Christian shook his head. "Bull shit."

Randy nodded along with his friend. He remembered the flight well. And he remembered thinking that he understood the concept of the "bull in the China shop" after sitting just outside the bathroom while the 6'5" 300 pounder fucked some chick inside the tiny restroom.

"Seriously," he smiled casually. "It wasn't easy, but we both got off, so," he shrugged and left the sentence incomplete.

Normally, she sat back and rolled her eyes as they regaled each other with their outrageous stories. But knowing the size of normal airplane bathrooms, and trying to imagine a guy like Batista having enough room to lower his pants, let alone get another person inside and move, at all, had her baffled.

"How?" she asked incredulously, noting that every set of eyes turned to her in that instant. Blushing, she looked toward Dave and shook her head. "I mean, you're so fuckin' big."

Shelton raised his hand and smirked at her. "Me next," he pleaded. "Say that to me next."

Seven drunk men cracked up laughing at his sophomoric joke, but Trish just rolled her eyes and looked back to Dave. "I'm serious. I mean, there is no fuckin' way you got Angie inside an airline bathroom and still had enough room to get her off." She had met his wife on several occasions. She was small, but not that small.

With a slight blush, Dave shook his head. "It wasn't Angie," he corrected, daring her with his expression to ask him who he had been with. "And I just got her up on the sink, put my foot on the side of the toilet, and kinda wiggled in there," he laughed at the complete ridiculousness of what he had just described.

She wanted to ask who, but before she got the chance, John blurted out, "I told you Christy was small enough to fuck just about anywhere, didn't I, Randall?"

Randy shrugged and laid on his back once again. Once again, his thoughts wondered to what Trish must be thinking of them. Here they were, drunk and talkin' about orgies and uncomfortable sexual predicaments, not to mention casually discussing these women, even though they all knew that Chris, Dave, Hunter, and Christian all had wives waiting for them at home. She had to think they were completely debauched.

But, if he was honest, he had to admit that they were. Living the full life of a WWE superstar made it hard not to be. Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll were the theme of life on the road, and none of these men were willing to sit back and watch it pass by. Least of all, Randy Orton, though he wasn't about to bust out any true confessions with Trish sitting six feet away.

"What about you, Hunter? You gotta have somethin' in your arsenal?" Christian finally asked the man who had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the night.

His eyes darted across the roof top to the young woman who was watching him intently. There were stories he could tell, and he would tell, if she hadn't been there. The kinkiest, hottest, most exciting sex he'd ever had was with Trish, but rehashing that now seemed wrong. Instead, he shrugged and finished his third cigar. "I fucked Steph on Vince's desk once."

It was lame, and everyone knew it. But Orton was the only one who laughed. "Sorry," he muttered when his former mentor shot him an angry look. "Dude, it's just kinda obvious that's not the worst you've ever done," he pointed out.

Her heart broke for him just a little bit as Trish watched Hunter try to think of something that would impress his friends without embarrassing her. But she didn't have anything to be embarrassed about. They had been together for awhile, long before he had married Stephanie, and it was over now. They had done all the things that boyfriends and girlfriends do, and then they had stopped.

"Tell 'em about the time in New York - when we went to that concert," she suggested.

A broad smile stretched over his lips as he launched into the story about the infamous CBGB's incident. "So, the band was pretty lame, but the alcohol was good. And she was really feelin' it," he chuckled to himself. "Practically dragged me to the bathroom, which was maybe the most fuckin' disgusting place I've ever been in my life."

"Worse than that brothel in Belguim?" Christian asked, but shut up when the older man shot him a warning glare.

"Anyway," Hunter cleared his throat and looked at the men around him. "There was this dude on the floor, like layin' in his own vomit. And she just pushes me into the stall, slams me into the wall, and drops to her knees."

Trish remembered the night, and the subsequent morning after, all-to-well. Without much permission from her brain, her mouth took over the story. "You kept tellin' me we were gonna get a disease," she laughed. "So we moved it to a janitor's closet, which was ten times smaller, and he kept hittin' his head on this shelf full of floor cleaner."

Randy wasn't really listening as she finished the story about sucking Hunter off in a grungy closet. He didn't want her to be one of the guys. He didn't want to believe that the little Trish he had concocted in his mind had the ability to be anything more than sweet and innocent. Sure, he knew she had dated Hunter - The Game told everybody. But he didn't want to think about them having sex - especially drunk in a punk club closet.

"Alright," Chris was the first to stand and check his watch. "I hate to bail on y'all, but I have a little lady to call and check in with." Though they teased him about being whipped, the other three married men followed quickly.

When Shelton helped a more-than-slightly-drunk John to his feet, the WWE Champion turned to Trish and extended his hand. "Can I walk you back to your room?"

She laughed, but Shelton just shot her an apologetic look and put an arm around his friend's shoulder. "How 'bout you just worry about walkin' you back to your room, okay?"

When he heard the door slam behind the last of his friends, Randy risked a look over at Trish. "We should probably head in soon, too," he muttered

Nodding, she scooted over next to him and layed back against the concrete. "Maybe we could just stay here for awhile?" She wasn't sure what kind of power the young Legend Killer possessed - what would make her want to lay with him under the stars when she knew she needed sleep. But something about his silence drew her in, and she wanted to make him talk. She suddenly felt the need to know everything about Randy Orton, all of the things nobody else knew.

With a bright smile, Randy nodded and turned his gaze back to the stars. They could twinkle and shine all they wanted, but they would never be as bright, or as beautiful, as the woman laying beside him at that moment.