Sunsets and Car Crashes
He was a wreck.
A complete and utter wreck.
He leaned against the wall, standing right beside the arena's main entrance. The show had just ended as he smoked his last stick of pot, inhaling its sweet scent and allowing its power to captivate the worst of him. His blue eyes were slightly glazed, spacing out into the middle of the night. Dressed in just a pair of Lee denims, a white Calvin Klein shirt and a suede black Emporio Armani jacket over, he flicked his latest addiction to the nearest trash can before slowly ambling towards his silver Maserati Spyder.
He didn't realize five minutes earlier that a black Mercedes Compressor parked just two slots away from his car. Fumbling for his keys inside the right pocket of his jacket and unlocking his million-dollar worth vehicle, he heard the Compressor's door click open and close.
"You know, you're going to get yourself into more trouble if you continue to keep on doing that."
That voice. He knew that voice. In fact, he could tell that sweet airy voice anytime, anywhere.
He turned around and matched the voice with its owner. Eyebrows crunched in a curious expression, "What are you doing here?" he asked.
Donned in a dark simple pair of DKNY skinny jeans, a white tunic tank top from Deva, and a couple of cute brown doll shoes by Jimmy Choo, she merely replied, "I was in town."
The smug but handsome superstar cocked an eyebrow. "And why are you here?" he drawled as usual. "Don't you have to be somewhere else?" he pointed out. "Like some glamorous Hollywood event," he exaggerated his voice a little, "doing some important interview with David Letterman or getting followed by paparazzi photographers or something?"
The pretty former diva sighed. "Why are you doing this?"
"I'm just simply asking why you're here. Not that I care or anything. I never really cared anyway. Especially after you left the company, I never cared about you."
The blonde winced a little. "I actually just wanted to see how you were doing. Doesn't mean I left the company, I'm not well-informed on what's going on around anymore. I heard about your suspension last October and how you had to attend some sort of anger management therapy to recuperate. Randy, why do you think Jeff Hardy got fired a few years back in the first place? It was because he did the exact same things you're doing now."
"Why do you think Jeff took drugs and acted the way he did?!" the striking Randy Orton bellowed. "We had the exact same reason! The only difference is he fell for Trish while I had to fall for you! Trish was the reason he turned to drugs in the first place! And now that she's completely out of the business just like you, I'm surprised he's not that down-in-the-dump as I expect him to."
"The difference, Randy," Stacy Keibler sternly replied, "is that Jeff will always be more mature than you will ever be."
"Oh don't give me that shit, Stace. That is the last thing I need right now."
Stacy furrowed her eyebrows in a worried expression. "Randy, this isn't you. I could take the pranks you used to pull on all those divas; and how you'd fool around with John all the time. That was the real Randy Orton. He was hilarious and always made everyone laugh. Maybe sometimes, he was a little too cocky. But I loved him anyway. What happened to him? Why is he suddenly doing drugs and needing anger management?"
"You want to know something, Stacy?" Randy sneered a little.
"This is me. Me without you."
And with that, he entered his vehicle, slammed the door shut and drove away into the night.