Randy Orton is a hardcore party-boy, who spends every night at a bar, chatting up both girls, and tossing back drinks. Jeff Hardy is a troubled enigma, hopelessly addicted to drugs, busy selling his body for the money to support his habit. When the two meet, how will things change, for the both of them?

Notes; In my world, no one works for the WWE. And I know Jeff's really older than Randy, but in my story, Jeff's 17 and Randy's 26.

"Ladies! Please, there's enough of me to go around." Randy Orton exclaimed, taking a swig of his beer. He slipped his arm around a lanky brunette, smirking at her devilishly. He wound his arm up around the blond, laughing at his wingman, John Cena, as he shook his head, taking his own sip of his beer.

The club was packed, a quaint club in downtown Brooklyn, New York, called Viper. Women danced in glass boxes, the bartender poured drinks with fancy hand movements, and there wasn't enough room left on the dancefloor to even breathe as the music thumped loudly, almost making the building vibrate. Randy stood up.

"Alright ladies, it's time for me to go, I have the graveyard." He kissed the brunette, then the blond. He worked as a cop, usually on the graveyard shift, 11 to 9. They both pouted as he grabbed his uniform shirt, sliding it on over his wifebeater, pulling his badge, which was tied around his neck, under the shirt. He left the club, dressed in his usual casual-cop garb, just jeans and the standard blue shirt. He liked to not stand out as easy. He walked out into the streets, watching the busy people walking past him, talking on phones, listening to iPods.

Standing at 6'4", with a chiseled body, Randy knew he stood out, and he knew he was good-looking… almost too good-looking. He continued to casually stroll down the street, hands in his pockets, handcuffs tucked in his pocket, radio in his back pocket, much resembling a cell-phone. It was just another day at the office for him.

Jeff Hardy got out of the car, head spinning from the high dose he shot up in the back of it after he serviced the client. The client was a middle-aged man, slightly balding, wearing a wedding ring, but he didn't care, as long as he had enough money for his next fix. He slightly stumbled on the curb, wearing ripped jeans and a mesh shirt, his hair a mixture of blond, purple, blue and green. He sat against the wall and put his head in his hands, looking up as he felt a presence above him.

"Long night?" The tall man asked him, peering down at him with blue eyes.

"What's it to ya?" He slurred, moving his gaze back down.

"What do you charge?" The man asked. Jeff looked up antsily.

"20 for a handjob… 30 for a blowjob, 35 if you wanna pull my hair… 50 to fuck me, 100 and I'll stay the night… without a condom is an extra 20." He lifted his green eyes to look up at the man.

"How much for all that, plus I get to handcuff you?" Jeff perked his eyebrows.

"I'll discount you and say 10." Jeff did the math in his head, but could barely even think with how high he was. "We'll say 200." The man smiled down at him and offered him a hand. He took it and was pulled up, something cold snapping around his wrist. He flinched.

"Name's Randy Orton, Los Angeles police department, you have the right to—"

"I know my rights." Jeff sighed, turning around and facing the wall as Randy cuffed his other wrist, checking up and down his pockets, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a hankerchief, unraveling it to reveal a syringe.

"What's this for?" He asked.

"My medicine." Jeff said, tears making his emerald eyes glitter.

"What are the tears for?" Randy asked, setting the syringe down on the ground.

"I don't wanna go back to jail." Jeff's chin quivered. Randy stared up at the young man, his foot tapping nervously as he noticed the fear in the boy's eyes.

"You know what you're doing is dangerous?" Randy asked. Jeff nodded. "Especially even giving the OPTION, of unprotected sex… what's your name?" He questioned.

"Jeffrey Nero." The boy whispered. Randy fought with himself. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the key to the cuffs.

"Alright, listen to me." He said, uncuffing him, grabbing him and spinning him around. "I won't take you in… this time… just, do me a favor and…" He let out a hissing noise, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, opening it and taking out the small, foil, square package. "Make whoever's lucky enough to have you tonight, wear this." Jeff trembled, taking it from the man's large hand.

"I will, s-sir." He stuttered. Randy smiled.

"Have a nice night, kiddo." He said, turning and walking away.