The Guardian

Stevie Richards was a familiar site at the door of the APA; he needed protection from everything and everyone, it seemed. Bradshaw rubbed his hands together eagerly, a smirk crossing his face; Stevie's face was equable to dollar signs in his mind.

"Come in," He called, propping his feet up on the table before him.
"Hi guys," Stevie smiled, filling the door frame of the APA offices with his ineffably perky self.
"Hi, Stevie," Farooq and Bradshaw chorused, in tones that were almost, but not quite, mocking. Bradshaw held out his open palm for Stevie's money, and was gratified by the heavy slap of green hitting it.
Grinning, Bradshaw counted the money; "A hundred thou?!" He exclaimed, his eyes bugging out.
"Shit Kid! Who'd ya piss off this time?" Farooq exclaimed.
"It's Show again, isn't it?" Bradshaw asked. Memories flooded through him of the last time they had done guard duty for The Superstar, and the broken wrist he'd received from it. There didn't seem to be a person left in the locker room who didn't have a bone to pick with the affable-but-irritating gentlemen.
"Ummm..." Stevie flushed, looking from Farooq to Bradshaw and back again. "Farooq, could I have some time alone with Justin?"
"Justin?!" Farooq blurted out, "Dude, you're asking for it, calling him by his first name."
"Aren't we running low on beer, RON?" Bradshaw asked, deliberately pouring his half-full bottle of St. Paulie's on the floor.
"Uh..." Farooq watched the stream of beer trickle down, saturating the carpet beneath them, "Yeah. I think I'd better go on another run." He retreated out a nearby door, wondering what the hell had gotten into his partner.
Bradshaw looked up at Stevie, smiling politely, "You wanted to speak to me alone, now's your chance."
"Uh," He squeaked, mopping his forehead with the back of his left hand, "Oh dear, Oh my..."
"Spit it out, kid," Bradshaw encouraged, "I won't hurt ya none..." He cracked his knuckles, "I hope."
"Umm...I was wondering..." Stevie bit his lip, shut his eyes, and thrust a handful of flowers underneath Justin's nose, "Please accept these blossoms as an offer of intention."
"Intention?!" Bradshaw stared at the fragile blossoms, their fragrance invading his senses.
"Oh hell...will you go out with me?!"
Bradshaw's eyes remained focused on Stevie's fist and those riotous blossoms, yanked from a nearby flowerbox.
Stevie braced for the inevitable blow.
But none came.
"How did you find out?" Bradshaw asked, and he sounded worried.
Stevie's eyes opened, nakedly astonished.
"Out?"
"That I'm gay," Bradshaw asked.
"I guessed." Stevie admitted. "I'm...very lonely...and I can't really tell when people are attracted to me, and people I've propositioned always turn me down, so I don't date much. That's why I paid you to..."
"That's what this is for?" Bradshaw asked, glancing briefly at the money in his fist.
"Yeah...Even if you weren't gay, I thought maybe you would take the money and stick around with me..." Stevie trailed off as his money was pressed back into the palm of his hand.
"Keep it, kid."
Stevie sucked in a deep breath. Rejected again, he stood up straight, "Well, thanks for giving me my money back..."
"I didn't mean that," Bradshaw smirked, "I'll date you for free."
"Really?!" Stevie's eyes went wide, and he leapt into the air. "I'll meet you at my hotel at six!" He cried, and was almost literally walking on air as he left the room.

Bradshaw sighed as he watched Stevie walk away. This had many interesting possibilities.

Farooq returned then, his arms weighed down by a case of Michelobe. He struggled with the heavy load, And Bradshaw was totally oblivious to his struggle. Irritated, Farooq dropped the beer to the floor with a crash, then snarled at Bradshaw.
"What the hell are you staring at?!"
Bradshaw smirked to himself, "The rest of my Friday night." He said, and tilted his beer back.

A few hours later, a humming Stevie Richards emerged from his hotel room shower. His heart was filled with glee, remembering Bradshaw's agreement. All of his fears had evaporated, though niggling worries of doubt traveled in eddies up and down his tensed frame; he tried to ignore them as he sat to dry his hair. Halfway through, his cell phone began to ring.
With his free hand he picked up the phone, trying to muffle the loud "burrr"-ing of the hair dryer against the back of his neck.
"Hello...Oh, hi Lisa...what?!...Can't you find someone else to...but Lisa, I have a....Can't you..." He sighed heavily into the phone, "OK...The lobby...four...sure. No, It's OK...I'm sure...OK, Bye." He hung up the phone, and pouted to himself.
"Shit," He muttered, "What am I going to do now?"

***
Bradshaw arrived in the lobby of the Holiday Inn at a few minutes after six. He felt a bit skittish by this point; sudden sobriety and nervousness twisting his stomach disquietingly. He checked himself quickly in the mirror. Bradshaw was pleased with himself; he'd dressed up just a bit, bumming a WWF company sweatshirt off of the costume clerk (rummaging through one's suitcase at the end of a three-week tour wasn't a pleasant sight, and his hotel's laundry room had been shut down due to problems with pressurization). He tried a smile; it looked wrong; with a frown, he adjusted his lips until they looked natural. Not wanting to look conspicuous among the hundreds of marks that had filled the lobby, he had come incognito. This didn't work, and he was mobbed for autographs. Bradshaw asked a few questions flung in his general direction, tried to look cool and kick-ass. Relief and intrigue swept him when the elevator doors drew open and Stevie stepped out into the maddening crowd.

He was beautiful; dressed up in a green, butterscotch, and black-plaid shirt, a thin silver chain around his neck barely visible; his hair, thick and wavy, fallen in reddish-brown curls, fell loose about his shoulders, his forelocks tied back and combed straight. Bradshaw tried not to notice the way his skin-tight jeans accentuated every movement he made as he subtly parted the crowd.

Bradshaw was duly impressed. Stevie seemed far more mature at that very moment than he had that afternoon. Maybe it was the lighting, the clothing.

Maybe it was the toddler perched in his arms, chewing a candy bar and playing with the ends of his hair in an absorbed fashion.

Squinting in prevalent confusion, Bradshaw disengaged himself from a group of fans who had been pestering him with requests to join them in a beer bong and followed Stevie, who gestured that they go to the set of glass doors that separated the lobby from the parking lot.

"Hi," Stevie blurted out, after a moment of silence, reservation filling his voice
"Hi." Bradshaw responded, just as reserved.
The little girl had no sense of reservation, turning and offering her little sticky hand to Bradshaw, "Lucy." She said simply.
He smiled at the little girl, shaking her tiny hand in his huge palm, "Lucy?" He asked Stevie, "Just who is Lucy?"

"Exactly who she says she is," Stevie smile became chagrined, "Lucy, my year-old niece. And, as of this moment, our companion tonight."


Go On