Chapter 2

My hands were clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel of the cream-colored Lincoln Continental by the time we reached the road that led to the main gate of the ranch. I never minded driving at all, and the traffic had been light. The trouble was the man sitting behind me. Flair found it too far below him to drive most of the time, but that didn't stop him from finding fault with everything I did and giving suggestions where ever he found them. Slow down, speed up, quit hitting bumps, take a different road-- I had heard every conceivable order and a few that were just too far beyond the realm of possibility to be considered.

I pulled up to the guardhouse at the gate, my head aching. Rolling down the window to speak to the guard, I murmured just loud enough to be heard. "Ric Flair and Randy Orton. We're scheduled to spend the weekend."

The guard stepped back inside to consult his list and then nodded through the window, keying the gate open. The tall ornate metal gates swung inward and I let out a soft sigh of relief. For some reason the ranch and its security measures always made me so much more nervous than the Cypress Club itself. There was always the fear of what would happen if Flair's name was accidentally left off the admission list or if for some reason something went wrong. It was more of a concern because Flair would react badly than for any real fear of danger. The most that would happen would be a wasted trip, but Flair demanding entrance wouldn't be pretty nor would even one of his fits get an exception made.

I drove along the fine crushed white gravel drive through the manicured grounds toward the main house, the fresh air flowing through the car and dispelling the artificial chill of the air conditioning. The late morning sun sparkled brightly off the lake and turned the whole view into something out of a storybook. Perfect setting, perfect grounds, perfect facilities... it looked like something off the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, but I knew that behind its pretty genteel country appearance, it was the same as the main club. It was Cypress after all, just another location and setting.

I parked and jumped out at once to hold my master's door open for him and then got our bags fro the trunk. As a servant slipped in the car to take it away, we made our way into the manor house. Flair continued on into the salon as I asked which rooms we would be staying in and carried the bags up to settle in and unpack.

I lugged the bags up the stairs and to the rooms, recognizing the dark blues and golds in an unmistakable masculine decor from a previous visit to the ranch. As quickly as possible, I deposited the bags on the bed and removed the items from them that needed hanging and placed them in the closet. Once everything was stowed away, I took a moment to catch my breath, stretching to try and ease the stiffness in my back.

Passing the window on the way back to the door, I paused to pull back the heavy drapes to gaze out at the view spreading out in front of me. The panoramic view of the lake and the bright sails of the boats were lost on me as I remembered the first time I had ever been to the ranch. The first time I had ever seen these rooms. The view had been different then. The sky dark and cloudy, lake gray, and trees a riot of autumn colors with gold and crimson leaves scattered on the grass like so many discarded bits that had outlived their use. Memories flowed over me, unstoppable in their crystal clarity.

(memory)
Flair trembled with rage as he stared down at me. "You will never... and I mean never touch me again, you filthy piece of trash."

I knelt on the floor in front of the man that was now my master, the tang of blood in my mouth from Flair's vicious backhand. My eyes slid past the naked form of my master to the bed behind him, gaze settling on the naked girl with one arm handcuffed to the heavy iron frame. Her face was a mess of smeared makeup over darkening bruises. I closed my eyes to block out the sight, repulsed not only by the way that Flair had abused her, beating and screaming at her as he had used her over and over again, but also by the fact that she seemed totally beyond caring. The tears, the whimpers she had made had been reactions to the physical pain only. There had been no outrage or sense of being used. She was beyond fear and outrage; I saw only numb acceptance in her.

It had been beyond my comprehension that anyone could take that sort of abuse. It had snapped something inside me, made me act without thinking when she had screamed, Flair cruelly digging his fingers into her breast, twisting until she'd writhed with pain. I'd grabbed my master's arm and jerked him away from her without thinking. The only thing in mind had been to make the screaming, the senseless pain that Flair obviously took his pleasure in, stop.

"You have a problem with fucking women, Randy? Is that what's wrong with you? Am I saddled with a fucking fag on top of a miserable excuse for a fighter?"

I'd flinched, more from the second insult than the first, though both of the insults rang true.

"You're hurting her. She hasn't done anything to you," I replied softly, eyes jerking up to meet my master's, anger strengthening my voice. "She doesn't deserve this."

Flair snarled and kicked, savagely burying his foot in my gut. "She's a WOMAN. That's enough. It's all they're fucking good for."

Breathless from the blow, I curled on my side, arms wrapped protectively around my body, and trembled with anger. I wanted to rise to my feet and attack the man facing me. I was taller by a few inches, and while our weights had probably been similar, mine had been ripped muscles which were far stronger than my master's more dissipated frame. Yet, despite that height and strength advantage, I could not strike the man that owned me.

Owned me. When my old master had lost the bet that I would beat any man chosen by Flair in a no holds barred fight, everything had changed in an instant. I'd went from cosseted, cherished pet to the nothing I was now. Now I was an object of scorn and hate instead of love and indulgence, and it was what I deserved, I reminded myself. I had failed the faith put in me.

"Fuck her, Randy."

The order caught me by surprise. "W-what?"

Flair sneered and gestured to the bed. "Show me that at least you're good for something. Get up there and stick your dick in her." He grabbed me by the hair and wrenched me to my feet, shoving me down on the bed.

The girl whimpered in pain as I fell on her, my face pressed against the lividly marked skin of her breasts. I scrambled to push myself up off her.

"I... Master, I don't think I..."

Flair stripped off my track pants and t-shirt, making quick work of rending them from my body. He sneered in disgust at my lack of arousal. "God's nightshirt..." He made a gesture to the girl. "Suck him off... get him hard. I swear to god, I'll make a man of him yet."

I suffered her mouth on me, lips and tongue coaxing me to semi-erection despite my disgust at the situation, my pity for the poor girl and the lascivious leer aimed at us by my master. Her lips, tongue and the muscles of her throat worked my organ as if her life depended on it, and with his next breath, Flair confirmed that very fact.

"Now fuck her, so help me god, or I'll kill her."

She lay back on the bed again, wrist bent at an awkward angle from the restraint, dark scrapes and drying blood ringing the flesh under the steel. She watched me with dull empty eyes and arched her hips at me in what was meant to be a provocative invitation. All it served to do was fill me with revulsion as I crawled over her to do my best to fulfill my master's command.

I pressed my rapidly shrinking erection against her core, the slickness of her own juices and Flair's seed from the previous times he had taken her feeling like acid against my skin. I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, pumping my hips against her, attempting to penetrate her, and knowing with every moment that I wouldn't be able to complete the task. I bowed my head, a strangled sound muffled behind my lips.

After what seemed like an eternity of wasted effort, Flair snarled and knocked me away from her with a cruel blow to the side of my head. "Worse than useless... how fucking fitting..." My master straddled the girl's body and wrapped talon-like hands around her throat, squeezing until her eyes began to bulge, her face darkening as she wheezed for breath. She scrabbled at his arms with her free hand, her body jerking against his as her last deep-rooted sense of self-preservation kicked in.

I watched her from where I lay sprawled on my side, head swimming from the blow, a sense of surreal descending over me. From my vantage point, her struggling looked like the frantic fighting of a bird caught in a cat's jaws as he toyed with it before eating it. Then, with a last twitch, her arm fell limply, fingers brushing against my arm. Something in that touch told me that she was dead. Not just passed out, but dead. For the first time in my life, death had touched me.

Flair sneered at me, his hands still clenched tightly around her throat. "You just had your last chance at a fuck for a long damn time, boy. I'll see you dead too before I catch you sneaking around looking for a poke."

Turning away from the window, I shook myself out of the disturbing memory, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to rid myself a chill that didn't exist. I tried to squelch the memory, push it out of my mind like so many other haunting, humiliating memories of the things Flair had done to me. They couldn't be changed or forgotten; the most I could do was attempt not to dwell on them.

That in mind, I set out to find my master and see what was required of me now. Flair was in one of the lounges talking to a large, powerfully built man that looked vaguely familiar to me.

"There you are, Randy. About fucking time. I was just telling Dave that you were probably off sulking somewhere."

Dave. The name jogged my memory. Dave Batista. He was one of the men that made up the elite tier of fighters in the toughman competitions. I watched him with a veiled gaze. He was huge, barely taller than myself, but heavily muscled, and much more imposing for the confidence and power that he exuded. The weight of the other man's dark brown eyes made me feel like taking a step back, lowering myself further as if just casting my gaze downward wasn't good enough..

"Can you believe that Arn didn't show up, Randy?"

I jerked my eyes away from Batista guiltily. Could I believe it? Yes, I could.

Batista saved me from answering and said, "I'm sure something came up, Ric. Besides, I already told you that I'm up to a round of golf, so it's not a total waste." His lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "And after all, you were my sponsor, how can I not repay you with at least a few rounds of golf from time to time?"

Flair grinned brilliantly, his disgust with Arn fading at once. He slapped the other man on the shoulder with a resounding thump. "Damn right! I saw the way you ripped through them boys in the pits and said to myself ‘Now there's some Cypress material!' You've proved it to me over and over." He turned to glare at me without skipping a beat. "Well don't just stand there catching flies, Randy. Get your ass out there and get our clubs and put them in a goddamned cart."

I murmured an apology as I hurried to do as bid, shoulders slumping as I heard Flair's next words.

I swear to you, Dave... he sulks like a dog that ain't been kicked often enough. One of these days I'll beat the sulk out of him if it kills him."

Slipping out a side door, I crossed the expanse of lawn between the main building and the smaller shed that housed the golf carts and stored the equipment. I selected a cart from the few parked and went to retrieve Flair's clubs from where they had already been stored. As I hooked the strap of the bag over my shoulder, I braced myself and straightened my knees, trying to lift as much of the weight as I could with my legs to spare my abused back. Even so, the motion nearly wrenched a groan from my throat as the bruised and battered muscles of my back screamed in pain. Taking a deep breath and pushing the discomfort aside as much as I could, I lugged the bag out to the cart and lifted it onto the back, securing it, and then returning to the building again to retrieve Batista's. As I was returning with the heavier bag, Flair and Batista were making their way toward me.

"So I'm telling you, Kowalski ripped his ear clean off his head. Blood was going everywhere." Flair gestured broadly, complete with spurting motions as he strode across the gravel path, robe flapping equally dramatically around him in the slight breeze.

Batista chuckled darkly as he slipped into the passenger seat of the cart, glancing at his companion over the dark lenses of his sunglasses. "What did he do with the ear?"

"Knowing the Killer? He probably ate it or wore it on a string around his neck." Flair dropped into the seat behind the wheel of the cart and leaned on the horn impatiently. "Randy! Get your ass in gear. What the hell is taking so long?"

I hurried to secure the bag on the cart, wedging myself between the bags to fit on the small jump seat in the back. As soon as my feet left the ground, Flair revved the engine and took off with a sudden lurch. I clenched my hands on the edge of the seat as fresh waves of pain shot through me, and I endured the ride in stoic silence, feeling every jolt and swerve of Flair's erratic driving.

Relief of one sort came when the cart stopped, both Batista and Flair getting out of the cart and walking toward the tee, still immersed in their conversation. I wedged my way out from between the bags, eyeing them before slinging the straps for both over my shoulders, following behind them dutifully to perform my caddying tasks.

"And then... wouldn't you know that that lousy son of a bitch accused me of cheating... Me... Ric goddamned Flair of cheating." Even practicing his swing and preparing the shot, Flair never paused in his story. "So I told that bastard that unless he could prove it, I would rip his liver out and serve it up to him for dinner with onions...."

Batista's gaze wandered from Flair around the course, flickering over me slowly as he drawled, "So did you?"

I felt the scrutiny of his gaze like an uncomfortable weight as I picked at the cover on the head of a driver in the golf bag, my attention focusing anywhere but on the men in front of me. The heat and exertion of carrying the bags was making me miserable. Batista's gaze, like the stinging trickle of perspiration between my shoulder blades, was one of many things I wished that I could escape.

Flair swung, slicing badly as the ball arced over the fairway to land in the rough. "Fuck no... the bastard was right and I was cheating like a motherfucker at the time. The whole thing was rigged. I had two commissioners in my pocket."

Batista laughed, setting his ball on the tee removed from the pocket of his polo shirt. He pulled on his glove as he squinted at the distant green, lining up his shot smoothly. His body was in textbook alignment, his follow through a perfect arc. My eyes tracked the ball through the air, then down, watching it land on the nearer edge of the green with a graceful bounce.

A compliment was nearly on my lips before I swallowed it. Seeing a shot like that, I had nearly forgotten where I was. It had been a long time since I had seen anyone play a sport seriously, consideration given to form and doing it well, not since long ago when I spent more time at country clubs where sport was the main purpose, instead of depravity.

"Well fuck me!" Flair grumbled and dropped his club as he stalked back to the cart.

"You've been practicin', haven't you, Dave? I don't remember you being this fucking good."

I hesitated before bending for the club, a hand resting on my ribs, dreading the stretch to pick it up. Before I could get further than that, Batista bent and picked the club up, extending it to me with a curious glance. "You okay, Randy?"

"Fine," I murmured, taking the club from his grasp, avoiding any brush of contact between our fingers.

Again, I could feel the weight of his eyes on me as I put the club back in the bag, preparing to drag them both back to the cart only to do the same thing over and over until the course had been ran. I gazed at Batista in quiet confusion when he took his own bag back to the cart, leaving me only with Flair's. As I drew closer, I heard the reason.

"Ric... Randy's looking a little peaked. You want to send him back to rest? I can get our clubs from here."

Flair turned to shoot me a dark glance. "You fucking complaining again?"

"No Master," I replied softly, replacing the bag and settling back into my seat, eyes firmly cast on the ground to keep from glancing at Batista. The fact that I had never complained about anything went unspoken.

Flair smirked, elbowing me in the back sharply. "Good, I can't stand fucking whiners."

I fought to breathe through the pain, to keep from showing any of the agony running through me. Again, I saw Batista watching Flair and me both, eyes unreadable behind the lenses of his glasses.

Hole after hole of the game went by, the same pattern over and over, my attention staying focused on one little task at a time, always selecting the correct club and placing it in my master's waiting hand, lugging the bag back and forth. Only Flair's bag. Batista declared on the second hole that he didn't trust me to carry his clubs, a glance cast at me that looked nearly apologetic. I was almost grateful for the gesture, even if my master threatened to beat me with his three iron if I damaged Batista's clubs.

"I'm okay, Ric." Batista chuckled dryly. "I'm a big boy and can get my own clubs... since I don't have a charming little pet of my own to do it for me."

"Useful as fucking hell," Flair agreed, flopping back into the seat of the cart. "Even if they are all spoiled little fucks. I swear I have to kick the shit out of him to get anything done right."

Batista arched a brow in silent doubt of the statement as we continued.

The next hole, a difficult par three with a dogleg to the right, bordering on the woods, gave my master more trouble than it usually did. In the middle of the story about fiery scaffold match from breakfast, he hit the ball directly down a slope into the woods.

"Fuck... Randy, what motherfucking club did you give me?"

"It must have been the wrong one, Master. I'm so sorr..." I was cut off as he swung his club at me, the blow narrowly missing my head and striking my shoulder instead.

"Well give me the fucking right one so I can go find that ball and get it the hell out of there."

Shoulder smarting from the blow, I exchanged the clubs, watching as Flair stalked off in the direction of the woods to finish the shot. Suddenly, I became aware of Batista standing at my side, his eyes focusing on Flair's retreating form as well.

His voice was soft and deep as he spoke. "What happened to you, Randy?"

For a moment, I was confused. What happened to me? I looked up at him in puzzlement.

He touched my back lightly, and even the light touch aggravated my wounds.

"I..." It wasn't very often that anyone said anything directly to me other than insults, orders and questions designed to trip me up with the answers. "I was whipped."

Batista stared down at me for a long moment, the silence stretching out as I stood stock still, acutely aware of the hand on my back. "Okay then... what really happened to you?"

That time, I immediately knew his meaning. I just didn't know how to answer. I didn't know if I could answer even to myself.

He frowned, taking his glasses off and hooking them in the neck of his shirt, his concerned gaze visible at last. "I remember you. Remember your fights. You were fucking good. You had a hell of a lot of promise. Where have you been? You're...." His eyes traveled up and down the length of my frame and I knew the rest.

"In the worst shape of my life," I finished. "I know. F.... My master doesn't think that I have what it takes to bother with. He's wrong, but my training..." The ease with which those words all tumbled out of me shocked me into silence for a moment. Regrouping, I answered tensely, eyes jerking back to Flair beating through a bush with his club still looking for his ball. "I have too many responsibilities now to worry about that. I wasn't good enough anyway."

Batista snorted. "Too busy being that old man's whipping boy? God, Randy..."

I stepped away from his touch and glared up at him for a moment. "Don't." My eyes fell away from his almost at once. It was still painful to defend Flair, but it was what I should do, a duty. "He treats me well enough. It's not like he... he doesn't do men really."

One of his dark brows crept up again, a thoughtful smirk on his lips. "Hm. I wouldn't think you'd complain about that at least."

I wrapped my arms around my waist and moved further away from him. There were a lot of things I could say about that, but none of them was spoken. My excuse for not answering being that I didn't have to. It hadn't been a question.

Batista stepped around me to move back to the cart, pausing in front of me to look down at his hand, smears of blood on his fingertips. "Your back's bleeding," he stated, no hint of emotion in his voice. He rubbed his fingertips together, examining the crimson stains, and then raised his gaze to mine and licked the blood from his fingers with a slow stroke of his tongue.

I watched the gesture with a mixture of fascinated horror and a twinge of a feeling I refused to name. Batista chuckled, breaking the gaze at last to continue to the cart. He stretched back in the seat, one foot still resting on the ground. I dragged my eyes away from him and busied myself with straightening Flair's already neat clubs, my fingers shaking. It was from hunger, I told myself, or from the pain, or any of a hundred other things. It had nothing to do with Batista still watching me.

Flair returned at last, face red and his hair rumpled. "Fuck this... I'm sick of this game and I need a drink. What say we forget all about it?"

Batista smiled and sat up straighter, drawing his leg in the cart. "Yeah... I think I'm done here for the day."

The return trip to the manor house was quiet except for more of Flair's rambles. My silence wasn't unusual, but Batista's was noticeable. Even Flair caught onto it after a while.

"Cat got your tongue, Dave? So tell me, you got anything big lined up soon? Gonna give someone hell in a fight?"

"Not really." Batista shrugged.

"Well why the fuck not? I know you aren't yellow. Rip someone the fuck apart!"

The bigger man answered with a soft chuckle. "I'm just waiting for the right opponent to come along. I don't have anything to prove."

Flair gave a derisive snort as he parked the cart back under the awning. "Nothing to prove! That doesn't mean you stop showing the motherfuckers that you are the best. You never let up on them. Tear someone's arm off and beat them to death with it! That's what the crowd likes. Slaughter!"

Batista stretched lazily as he stood, slapping Flair on the shoulder. "Find me a match sometime, Ric. You make it and I'll fight it." His eyes passed over me again. "But for now, I think I'm going to go grab a beer with the Bashams, maybe play some pool. See you later, Ric."

My master turned in the seat to watch the other man's retreating figure, his eyes sharp as they followed him. "Hell of a fine damn fighter... decent golf player... but one hell of a lazy fucker." Flair's gaze fell on me. "What the fuck are you just sitting there for? Let's get in out of this heat. It's hotter than a whore's cunt on a Saturday night out here."
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After returning inside, Flair stumbled on Arn as he was arriving, alternately berating the other man and talking him into catching an early dinner and an evening of cards. A growled order from my master to get out of his sight left me on my own. One last parting order and he disappeared with the other man. "Stay the fuck out of trouble and leave everyone alone. No going begging for a fuck, you little faggot."

The first part was exactly what I planned. The second was the furthest from my mind as I returned to the suite. I cleaned myself up, spreading a light coat of ointment on my back using the same contortion act from the shower. I remained shirtless as I ordered myself dinner. The time alone was a salve to my mind as well as body. The silence except for the hushed whir of the air circulating in the room was a welcome calm after the usual storm of Flair's presence.

I sat on the floor, tray balanced in my lap. Table manners forgotten, I savored every bite of the baked chicken with fire roasted vegetables and wild rice when it arrived. Even the simple glass of ice water that came with it seemed sweet and full of flavor. After I wolfed down everything on the plate, licking my fingers to clean every trace of flavor from them.

Full at last, tray returned to cart for the servants to take away, I roamed the suite, looking for something to occupy myself with, something to distract myself from the memories that continued to haunt me here. After finding not so much as a magazine, I pulled on a clean shirt. I felt ready to venture out to find something to do, anything that would keep my mind occupied and out of the trouble that my master had warned against.

I found my way to the library at last, the only room I had discovered in my search that was deserted. Afternoon sunlight streamed in the windows, slanting across heavy, ornate rugs, the leather bound books lining the walls giving off the indescribable sense of peace, knowledge. I wandered along the shelves, reading titles all picked out in gold leaf, wondering how many of them had actually been read or whether they were only for show.

As I looked at them, I wondered if they were all blank, substance-less as so many other things in the Cypress Club. I pulled one out, the author's name sounding familiar from a long ago college course. One Hundred Years of Solitude. The idea was appealing. I opened it and fanned through the pages to find that it was a real book after all. I carried it to a couch facing away from the door and curled up at one end, the book resting on my knee as I began reading and lost myself in the words. I let them carry me away in the images and stories they told. As fanciful and improbably as the story was, I drank it in, hungry for the escape it offered.

Unaware of the passing time other than the angle of light creeping across the floor, I read on until the door behind me opened. For a moment, the loud unrestrained laughter of a deep feminine voice broke the silence before the door closed again. Someone looking for a different room, I thought as I turned the page, and then jumped as a hand with long crimson nails dragged along my shoulder.

"Well, what have I found here?"

My eyes jerked up to the owner of both the hand and the deep smoky voice. Long dark hair lit with unnatural red highlights tumbled around her leather clad shoulders in casual disarray. Dark eyes lit with amusement and something predatory sized me up as I took in her appearance as well. She was dressed head to foot in leather, tall leopard skin boots reaching her knees, her already tall frame pushed higher by their heels.

It took me a moment to find my voice. "If... if you need the room, I can just take my book and go..."

She cut me off with a finger pressed against my lips as she crawled onto the couch beside me, a wicked smile on her crimson lips. "You look like just the pretty little plaything I was looking for. Would you like to play..." She arched a brow as she waited for me to fill in my name.

"R-randy," I answered. "I can't. I really should be going now..."

She pressed harder against my lips with the tip of her finger, the nail digging into my upper lip. "Shhh... No reason for you to. Let Vicky play with you for a while, hmmm?"

I shook my head slightly, not saying another word, my eyes darting from hers around the room.

With another laugh, she crooned softly, "Oh, no one's going to save you for the moment, baby doll, and I think later might be too late." Her finger trailed down my chin and throat to rest on my collar. "Or maybe whoever this belongs to is looking for you already?"

"Maybe," I muttered, a heavy swallow making the band around my throat feel tighter for a moment. "Look, just please leave me alone. I don't want any trouble.

The door behind me opened again as the woman slid into my lap, thighs hugging mine tightly.

"Vicky... are you in here? Damn it, quit this hiding shit."

She sat up straight, glaring at whoever was in the doorway behind me, pinning my shoulders back against the couch with both hands, nails digging into my flesh. "G'way... I'm having fun right now."

"So who the fuck have you got cornered now? Not that little pain freak again, is it? Danny told you to leave him alone."

Her features formed into a perfect pout. "No, I said I'd leave him alone for now. I'm just playing with Randy here."

"What the fuck ever... Just try not to kill anyone that's going to get us into any shit with anyone, 'Kay?"

A dangerous smirk crossed her lips, the expression sending a cool trickle of fear down my spine.

"Victoria..." The warning in the man's voice was clear.

Again she pouted, looking down at me, her expression one of angelic tenderness as she combed her fingers through my hair, nails scraping over my scalp. "Okay, Doug, I'll take really good care of this one. No more broken toys."

The dreamy, wistful tone of her voice set my teeth on edge. Why, I wondered to myself. Why was I trapped in a world of crazy people? Everyone that touched me seemed to be teetering on the edge of madness or already well over the edge.

The door closed again, leaving me alone with Victoria. She smiled and pressed a light kiss to my forehead, the heavy, oily feel of her lipstick imprinted on my skin. "You heard Dougie... I have to be very careful with you." She shook her head, voice taking on a sing-song quality. "No hurting pretty little Randy."

I swallowed hard, placing my hands against her stomach, pushing against the firm muscles I felt beneath the leather. "Look, I don't want to play. I can't. My master wouldn't like it. So just... Find someone else to play with."

She growled softly, cupping my jaw, fingers tightening on my flesh and jerking my head up. "We're going to play Mother May I and Mother didn't say you may say no." The door behind us opened again and she looked up cursing. "What?"

A tall muscular man with blonde buzz-cut hair rounded the couch and grabbed Victoria around the waist, hauling her off of me. "Leave him the hell alone, Vicky. Do you know who he belongs to?"

She squirmed in his grasp, kicking back at him as his grasp on her tightened. "No... who cares? I told Doug I wouldn't hurt him."

I stood quickly, backing away from the pair, noticing that Batista and another dark-haired man bearing a passing resemblance to the one restraining Victoria just inside the door. Stepping back against the book-lined wall, I tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

"That's Ric Flair's little bitch. You knew damn well who it was. You heard us talking about him."

She went still in his arms, her expression going sulky. "So? It's not like anyone gives a damn about a worthless thing like him, Danny."

Danny snorted as he started lugging her toward the door as she fought him every step of the way. "Christ, you're stupid sometimes, Vicky. Doug, get the fucking door, will you? Let's get her back to the room and try to talk some sense into her.

The other man, obviously the Doug from moments before, held the door open and muttered a quick apology to Batista. "Sorry about this, man, but you know how she gets sometimes... fucking crazier than a loon, but Danny won't give up."

Batista nodded, nudging Doug's shoulder. "Yeah... I know... see you guys in the morning maybe."

As the trio left, I pushed away from the bookcase, still unsure exactly what all that had been about.

My confusion was obviously apparent as Batista answered the questions racing through my mind.

"Doug and Danny Basham. Their... friend Victoria. She's not exactly stable as you saw. They'll make sure she doesn't bother you again." He crossed the room and rubbed his thumb over my forehead, a smear of her crimson lipstick on the pad, wiped carelessly on his jeans.

Eyes averted and downcast, I muttered a quick thank you.

"What are you doing here by yourself? I thought Flair kept you on a shorter leash than this."

I gestured to the forgotten book resting face down on the couch. "I was just reading. I should have taken the book back to our rooms but I just thought..." I wasn't up to telling him that the rooms here held too many memories for me; that I wanted to just get away from everything that tied me to Flair if only for a few hours. Instead, I pulled out the facts, my voice slipping into a respectful monotone. "My master is playing cards with Arn. I would be too much of a distraction so he told me to go and stay out of trouble."

Batista hesitated and then picked up the book and read the spine. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Pretty weighty stuff for just casual reading." The lilt in his voice turned the statement into several questions.

I took the book from his hands, closing it and moving to put it back on the shelf where I had taken it from, as if by replacing it I could rid myself of the questions. "It was a random choice. The title seemed like it would be soothing."

"Randy."

I stood still, facing the shelves, my head bowed. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, and I steeled myself against flinching away from the casual touch. He could touch me if he wanted. It was his right to touch me if he wanted. I didn't have the right to say no, did I? Not even if in the back of my mind, I knew that my master wouldn't like it. I knew that I should tell him that and go to the suite. I should get away from him before I got myself into trouble with Flair.

"How... can you live like this? Doesn't it... doesn't it bother you? That you are just... everyone's meat."

Everyone's meat. That was a very good description of what I was. "I..." To answer his question truthfully would be too painful. All the hurt and anger and self loathing that I had inside would come spilling out. I closed my eyes, fighting the sudden burn behind my lids. "This is what I am."

"But you're not happy."

A bitter laugh worked its way out of my throat. I couldn't have stopped it if I tried, so instead I just choked on it. A painful laugh. That was something that just shouldn't happen. Wasn't laughter supposed to feel good? Wasn't it supposed to be a happy sound?

"No. I'm not."

"Then..." He trailed off with a resigned sigh. "I don't understand."

I didn't know how to make him understand either. Was there a way to make someone understand something so far from their experience?

One shoulder hitched in a shrug, I brushed past him as I replied, "You don't have to."

He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving. "Don't. Explain it to me then. I'll try to understand it if you just talk to me."

My lips were stiff as I answered, the words clipped with urgency, with the need to get away from him, from the questions that he wanted answers to. They were the very ones that I tried never to think of myself.

"I have to go. My master needs me. I should be where I belong."

"You don't belong there."

"I belong to Ric Flair. That is where I belong." The anger in my tone as I spoke surprised even me. The truth rang in them and I knew with a surety that it was fact. I'd been there. The bet had been explicitly clear: my ownership if I failed. Hadn't I seen my master turn away when the fight was over? I'd been lying on the unforgiving concrete, battered, bloody, beaten. The heart had gone out of me in that moment when he had turned away, my leash held in anticipation of the moment it would once more be snapped on my collar falling from his hand, laying forgotten as he had forgotten me.

He'd left me to Flair. His last words, hollow and flat, telling me to be as good for Flair as I had always been to him.

I pulled away from Batista, leaving him in the library staring after me as I stumbled through room after room as I looked for my master, ignoring the people around me. I found him playing cards in a game room and sank down beside him, sitting on the floor to his left side, closer than I normally would. For the moment, I needed to be in the place that was mine. It was familiar, comforting in its own way. It was a place I didn't have to think, to be anything other than what I was. No one would question it. No one would try to take it away from me. I knew what was expected of me and I knew what to expect in return. No thought was needed.

Flair finished the hand of cards without any acknowledgment of me. Then, as the next hand was being dealt, he turned to spare me a glance. "You just couldn't stay away could you, you sorry little piece of shit? Love my company that damn much, don't you?"

No. I couldn't stay away. But it wasn't the company that I needed. Just the place to call my own, however hated it might be. "Of course, Master."

Read Chapter Three of You Belong To Me by Wecanluvagain