A/N: Whoever sent me that last review (sorry not going back to check your name) clearly doesn't watch WWE programming.

I was still in my Lita-esque Edge shirt that was tied and cut up as Punk draped his arm around me.


Adam was somewhere in the arena. I couldn't see him laying on the floor outside the ring, nor did I see him being accompanied to the back by referees or EMTs.

"You hurt Jeffy!" I heard a random teenage girl scream from the crowd. I looked over at her and she was shaking her fist at me. Typical Hardy mark. She looked as if she ate a few too many McDonald's happy meals and hadn't seen a shower in a few months or years. Throw in the cut up Hardy shirt that she probably assumed was cute...

I feel bad for Jeff. He's a great guy, but he has the worst fans in the world. Even Cena's kindergarten brigade is better than that.

"Get your arm off of me," I whispered to Punk while trying to keep a smile on my face and look pretty for the cameras and the PPV buyers.

"No way, Cinds. You're mine now," he snarled, with a grin that rivaled the Joker's. His arm then moved from my shoulder's to my waist, pulling me as close as physically possible. "Now all I have to do is get you out of that top..."

Oh hell no.

When we finally got to the back, I wormed my way out of his grasp. I had half a mind to slap that stupid grin off of his stupid face.

"You want to get me out of what?" I growled, my eyes reducing to slits. I felt as if my face was on fire. Yes, I knew I had a reputation, but the truth is that I only did stuff like that with guys I liked.

"Whoa, settle down there, skippy. I mean I need to get you into a certified CM Punk shirt and out of that Edge junk. Now let's see...I don't have much of a selection, and you don't look good in much," he rambled, stroking his measly beard in mock concentration.

"You are a jackass," I mumbled. I knew he heard me, but did I care? No, not really.

"What? Am I supposed to bow down to you because you're a WWE Diva? Yeah, Maria tried playing that same card with me and I kicked her scrawny ass to the curb. I don't care what you look like because they stuck me with you. And trust me, doll, you don't look like much."

I rolled my eyes at his comments. I knew damn well that Maria was the one that broke up with him.

"Besides, you little Cindy Margolis wannabe, I bet I could look in the crowd and find a Cena fan hotter than you," he added.

I smiled. "And then you would be convicted of pedophilia."

I don't like this shirt. I don't understand this shirt. This CM Punk ribcage shirt looks like a shirt I could just walk into a mall and get from Hot Topic.

Way to be original.

I sat out in the hallway with Natalya as I laid the shirt on my lap.

"I hate him."

"Eh, he has some redeeming qualities," Natalya said.

I looked at her in confusion. "Like?"

"Well, he doesn't drink or smoke cigarette with the guys. At least he has a smaller chance of smelling for reasons other than sweat."

I giggled. "Nats, you're strange."

"You're calling me strange? Have you seen my boyfriend's hair?"

We laughed and made small talk about how ridiculous boys are. Neither of us noticed the wrestling boot clad footsteps approaching us.

"Why aren't you dressed yet?"

I looked up to see the straight edge devil himself, Cock Mongrel Punk.

"I am dressed," I stated. And I was. I was wearing black pleather pants, silver stilettos, and a sparkly halter top.

"No, you're not. You know we're opening the show, right? I have to tell the crowd how pathetic their drug loving hero is. Put on a shirt and some pants and let's do the damn thing. I don't have time for your primping, either. Just tie your rats nest of hair up in a ponytail or something and put some damn lipstick on. You look completely orange. You need more color."

"I wasn't aware you were a fashion expert, Punk."

"I'm not. I just know what looks good and what doesn't. Get to stepping before I step on you, kay?"

The jackass turned on his heel and walked the other way.

I heard Natalya sigh next to me. "I feel sorry for you. Honestly sorry."