Disclaimer: I don't own the WWE.
A/N: Yes, I started another new story. I know I'm an asshole. But I kind of got this idea when I was watching Sonny. Pitched it to Robin. She thought it was a good idea, so here we are.
Chapter 1: Call Me
He felt like he'd been searching for her forever. He couldn't see her in his head, per se. But he knew when he found her, if he ever found her, it would hit him like a ton of bricks.
Jeff Hardy had the inspiration. He had the materials. But he needed the model. The urge he had to paint this picture that had come to him in that stage of sleep where you're still half awake and can hear what's going on around you, but can't really comprehend it was barely allowing him to properly function.
It was going to be his ultimate artistic endeavor. It would he his version of Venus, surrounded by and entwined with everything surreal and natural. He could see the woman, but at the same time, he couldn't. He knew what she needed to be, but finding the muse was proving t be a difficult task, especially for a man who traveled as often as he did.
Standing in the lobby of his hotel, waiting in line to check in for the night, Jeff surveyed the area, looking from woman to woman. But none fit correctly. A busty redhead lacked natural innocence. A brown-eyed girl with raven locks was too dark. A gorgeous Hispanic with a scowl looked too tense. A leggy Jamaican was too falsely cheerful.
To they untrained eye, they were all beautiful enough, but none were right for this particular piece in Jeff's artistic eyes. She had to have the right combination of innocence and seduction; curiosity and experience; confidence and caution. The problem was Jeff could go on. He was beginning to think no one could possibly exist that possessed that many qualities in just one look, though he'd hardly seen every woman in the world.
"Hello sir. Checking in?" Another one; a pretty brunette with a bright smile, reminding him a little of his girlfriend back home. But of course, she wasn't what he was looking for.
"Um, yeah. Jeff Hardy. I'm with the WWE." It was already so late. This had been his first opportunity to check into the hotel today, having gotten right off the plane and straight to the arena for the Smackdown taping. His schedule was a grueling one, and as much as he loved wrestling, he was more than happy he'd be getting some vacation time in a few weeks time, covering it with a faux injury at the hands of his brother.
"Of course. I'll just need to see some identification." Putting his bag on the floor, the Cameron native dug his wallet from his pocket, eager just to get up to his room and take a hot shower, then pass out. He handed his North Carolina license to the woman, who surveyed the piece of plastic before handing it back. "Floor four, room four twenty-six. Here's your key."
Jeff nodded politely to the hotel worker before heading straight to the elevators, ready to try and get a good night's sleep. That was a difficult task with this seemingly impossible project constantly plaguing his mind though.
He'd kept his green eyes open, looking for the right woman for the job. He'd browsed art models, professional models, actresses, singers, just regular women even. He'd turned to his friends and his lovely female co-workers. Even Beth couldn't fulfill this fantasy for him, which he was sure had bothered her when he broke the news that she didn't have enough edge to her innocent look.
Finally up in his bedroom for the night, Jeff dropped his bag on the floor, walking over to the bed with intentions of sifting through the room service menu to send up some food while he was showering. Taking a seat on the bed, he could see out the window of his room, the view overlooking the lit up Vegas strip.
He spent a few extra minutes staring, watching lights flash and planes fly by before looking to the menu he'd snatched off the small, round table in the corner. Opening the slim book, a colored piece of paper fell into his lap, the brightness of the pink and purple immediately intriguing him as bright colors often did.
Picking it up he read the front of the hand-sized card, eyebrows raising as he realized it was for call girls. He snorted, reading the cursive pink letters aloud. "Want Candy to lick your lollipop?" Jeff's green eyes rolled. "How original." Turning the piece of cardboard over, he felt a jolt of realization strike his body as his eyes focused on the picture before him.
There she was, Candy, in all her glory, stomach down with her breasts hidden between her arms, one hand femininely curved so it rested on her shoulder, the other up near her eye, fingers spread so you could easily see the orb which couldn't really be labeled one color since Jeff could pick out flecks of blue, green, and hazel. Her body was shaped to most men's appeal, her skin tanned lightly and her long blonde hair draping over her shoulders and down her back, though the position didn't show much else apart from the curve of her hip on the right and her long legs, which were crossed at the ankles and kicked up flirtatiously.
And it was all there in her expression. Absolutely everything he had been looking for.
Quickly flipping the card over again, Jeff saw the phone number to contact, for the escort services and rushed over to the phone, quickly dialing and waiting as it began to ring, eyes scanning the card, uninterested in the variety of women bragged about in the further advertising and delighted when he saw that the women for hire were available to travel.
"Speak your mind." A deep, Cajun accent flowed over the phone line and Jeff pictured the owner, a large, intimidating, dark-skinned man draped in some sort of animal print with an expensive gold chain around his neck and diamonds in his ears; maybe some gold plating covering his teeth. "Ya there?"
Jeff cleared his throat, feeling momentarily stupid. He was kind of hesitant, thinking this was wrong in some way. But it's not as if he was hiring this woman for sex. There was no real crime going on. "The blonde in your ad. Says her name's Candy." Jeff had no idea how situations like this worked. What did he say? How was... procedure, so to speak?
The man on the other line chuckled lowly, and Jeff heard him audibly take a drag form a cigarette... or a joint. Who really knows? "Ooh Candy. Sweet as 'her name boy, lemme tell ya." Innuendo was thick in the statement.
"That's not what I wan'er for," Jeff quickly defended. "I'm doin' a painting. I need her to come ta North Carolina."
Again, the presumed pimp laughed. "Whateva you wanna call it boss. Sure, sure, I get it. Candy ain't one ov our travellin' girls; strictly Vegas. She's too good 'round here ta be MIA. Gotta few otha blondes though."
The wrestler couldn't believe his ears; of all the shitty luck in the world. He'd fight for it though, that was for sure. "It hasta be her!" Jeff was surprised at how urgent and demanding his voice sounded as he spoke into the receiver, his eyes never leaving the call sheet. "I'll pay whatever ya want."
"Listen' boy, I ain't toyin' withya. You wanna fly my best girl outta Vegas 'cross the country, 'ts gonna be big bucks. And I ain't takin' no checks." Relief rushed over his body. He was going to get what he wanted, what he needed. This woman couldn't be more perfect if she'd specifically been created to mold herself onto his canvas.
"I can pay it. Whatever it is, I can pay."