A/N: One of the first wrestling stories I posted on this site (actually, it was more like the third, but who's counting anymore) was called Scar Tissue. I never intended to write a sequel, and to be quite honest, I had nearly forgotten the story. But, as you probably know if you've read any of my shit, my muses don't really give a fuck what I have planned. Last night, I was listening to Ashley Parker Angel's album, Soundtrack to Your Life, and I just kept coming back to the Randy and Trish I had created in Scar Tissue.
As always, your reviews are encouraged and much appreciated. Enjoy!
Scar Tissue 2: Irreversible Damage
"Here comes another sunrise, like a broken promise in the skies. It's about to be a different day, but you keep on living that same old lie."
Casual sex: A game devised by a man who wants pussy without commitment, played on a woman who wants affection at any cost.
A woman who grew up believing that life really was a fairy tale with a happily ever after. One who spent her days looking out the window, waiting with wild anticipation for Prince Charming to ride in on his white horse and save her from whatever it was she thought she needed to be saved from. A woman who truly believed that the Prince who entered the tower wanted everything that she wanted. And a woman scorned by the heartache and embarrassment of that same Prince taking her in his arms, only to dump her out the window into the muddy moat below.
Damn, I'm bitter tonight. Fuck. I blame Orton - mostly because I always blame Orton. I should have known better than to ever think this could be a real relationship. Not that it would matter if it was. Not with Orton being fucking Orton, which by definition means he's physically incapable of keeping his dick inside his pants.
I actually thought that we might grow into something other than fuck buddies. Not that I had any reason to believe that our little "situation" would evolve, I guess. But there was that day, at the gym, when we actually connected. Not just at the "boy and girl" parts. We had an emotional connection. And that's when all the shit got fucked up. What the fuck was I thinking was going to happen?
He's not the kind of guy who's ever going to settle down. Even when he's fifty, he'll be a bachelor. And when the fuck did I start thinking I wanted him to settle down anyway? Wasn't the point of this little arrangement to get me over Carter and into a world where emotions don't have any say over action? Jesus Christ, I blame Orton for this. I'm so going to kick his ass when he gets in.
With a firm dot of the final "i," Trish dropped her journal into the carry-on bag beside her bed and settled in between the cold, uncaring sheets of the bed she would call hers for the night.
They had an open relationship, if it could be called a relationship at all. Randy still insisted, after seven months, that he didn't do girlfriends. Trish was still adamant that she didn't want, or need, a boyfriend. But they always seemed to find their way back into each other's arms.
It wasn't ideal. But Trish had convinced herself that if she didn't have expectations, she couldn't be disappointed. After all, she'd had ideal with Carter Schaefer, her long-time boyfriend, and it hadn't ended so well. In reality, Randy was the closest thing to perfect for her, offering her no promises of anything other than great sex.
It had seemed fool-proof, their little faux-relationship. Until her emotions got involved. She could fuck Orton six ways to Sunday, but in the morning, when she rolled over and saw him sleeping peacefully with his arms around her, the tingle she felt wasn't where it was supposed to be. It was in her heart.
She was doing the one thing she had always advised every new girl in the locker room never to do. She was falling for Randy Orton.
"This is so fucked up."
Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Randy focused on tying his shoe as he let out a slight chuckle. "What? Now you have a conscience?"
Mickie James stretched in the bed of her hotel room and stared at the ceiling. She knew it was wrong, for both of them, and she had done it anyway. She had heard all of the voices of all the girls who had warned her. "Randy's goal is to fuck every diva that passes through those doors before he retires. " And she had ignored them all.
Blinking, she felt him stand from the bed. "What are you gonna do when you can't lie anymore?" she said, turning her head to look up at him as he fed his belt through the buckle.
Randy rolled his eyes and grabbed his tee shirt from the chair near the door. "There's something you should know, Sweetheart," he smiled, pulling the shirt over his head. "I don't stick around to chat with the bitches I fuck, okay?" He winked and strapped his watch to his wrist. "Nothing personal."
Struggling to sit, Mickie kept the sheet wrapped tightly around her torso as she pushed her dishevelled hair from her face. "She loves you," she told him. When he finally stopped moving and looked at her, she smiled. "You know that, don't you?"
"What? I'm supposed to take advice from you now?" he said, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. "Might be easier if that rock your boyfriend gave you hadn't scratched my face when I was eating you," he nodded toward the engagement ring on her finger. "Mickie, don't preach at me, okay, Sweetheart? I don't lie to Trish. She knows what I'm all about."
"Maybe I'm not talking about Trish right now," Mickie shot back, tilting her head slightly to consider him.
Pulling his baseball hat low over his eyes, Randy blew her a kiss and shrugged his shoulders. "Thanks for the ride, Kiddo. It was fun."
Shaking his head as he shut the door behind him, Randy pulled a key from his pocket. Heading toward Trish's room, he sniffed his tee shirt to make sure Mickie's smell wasn't too evident. Trish may have known what he was off doing, but he didn't need to literally rub her nose in the fact.
He opened the door to find her sleeping in the center of the bed. He had worked his ass off to get her, and he still wasn't satisfied. It wasn't enough just to make her come when they had sex. It wasn't enough just to make her smile when they talked. It wasn't enough just to get her hotel key and share a bed with her at night.
Even the women he had managed to coerce into bed "against their better judgement" would admit one thing about Randy Orton - he was honest, to a fault. He might be a manipulative bastard, but he was honest about it. With everyone. Almost.
Mickie had been right about one thing. And as he climbed into bed and felt her cuddle against his chest, he finally admitted he that he was, at least in part, lying to himself. Every immunity that he had built to protect himself, to maintain a strict emotional disconnection from anyone who could potentially hurt him, was being infected by Trish.
So what if it's a lie, Randy thought as he ran a hand down Trish's smooth back and settled his cheek against her soft, blonde locks. It's not like it's a bad lie if it keeps me from breaking her heart. Or, more importantly, if it keeps her from breaking mine.