Denied.

“Hey, baby! Bet you’d be smilin’ more if I was between your legs!”

Fuckin’ prick. A scowl of frustration twisted Eliza Dresden’s lips as she waited at a red light. Between the ache radiating from where a hunk of her neck used to be from the tension in her frame and the feeling of something reaching, grasping for conscious thought that it wasn’t allowed to have–she turned her focus to the thrum of the motorcycle’s engine between her legs.The movement of the inner workings of that motor, chasing every belt and piston in the hopes of occupying her mind until the green brought her back to one of the closest things to peace that was left in her life. In truth, though, even careening down the road as fast as she could wasn’t enough anymore.

It was never enough.

“You can sit on my face, baby! Ride my nose like that crotch rocket!”

For a time, she thought it was. The wind roaring by, the twisted snippets of other sounds that she caught when she didn’t bother with a helmet… the token memory that didn’t have a sharp edge on it yet intermingled with the near-perfect balance of sensory overload and sharp focus. It lifted her up, carried her away the way that so many other things used to be able to. Freedom was everywhere back then, it seemed–

“Aww, c’mon gorgeous! Lemme show you a good time!”

Blue eyes refused to acknowledge whoever was cat-calling her, the urge to twist the throttle to drown him out tamped down in favor of stubbornly keeping her train of thought on track for once. She was on the verge of something important–namely, that wherever there was a spike of adrenaline, there was relief. Now that she’d built up one Hell of a tolerance, though… what the fuck was she supposed to do?

“Don’t ignore me, you fucking slut!”

A large, calloused hand entered her field of vision and something within that darkness she was trying to ignore snapped, the frustration that had been the undercurrent of her entire career in HOW roaring to the surface. From Elijah’s repeated attempts to keep her out of the ring because he thought he knew better, to Jace Parker Davidson’s repeated disrespect because she refused to be the stereotype he wanted her to be… to Cancer Jiles deciding that, in all his nonexistent wisdom, that she didn’t deserve to have her place in the Seven Deadly Sins match at Rumble at the Rock. Who this stranger was didn’t matter. He was just another entitled prick that thought she was his to do with as he wished. 

Just another man, trying to take yet something else from her.

Both hands seizing his wrist, Eli yanked as hard as she could, the sound of a body colliding none-too-gently with the door of their vehicle underscoring a fresh wave of abuse from the son of a bitch that thought that he was obligated to her attention and interest. Another yank and she turned her head, smashing her forehead into the bridge of his nose again and again, and then one more time for good measure before the cacophony of impatient drivers leaning on their horns triggered a change from fight… to flight.

Wrenching hard on the throttle, her motorcycle damn near scooted out from under her, the blond barely managing to hold on as she sped away from the scene of–was it a crime? Her mind skipped like a stone across the surface of a pond, bits and pieces making their way through. A particularly steep curve, a near-collision with the back of some eco-jerk’s Prius that wouldn’t go above the speed limit–the itchy feeling of blood and tears from the wind ravaging her eyes drying on her cheeks. It wasn’t until darkness fell that she properly returned to herself.

Staring into the mirror of a gas station mirror as she washed that mess of bodily fluids off her face, Eli wondered just what the fuck she had done.

——————————————————————

So what was takin’ me out of Rumble at the Rock supposed to accomplish, again? Because from here, it looks like it didn’t have a Goddamn point.

I know you didn’t do it to give Bobbi Carey yet another talkin’ point on her Make Me A Martyr 2021 Tour, though I’m sure she’s thankful for it. Havin’ someone else’s plight to appropriate probably turned her pussy into a geyser. Wonder if I could convince her to let me drown your dumb ass in it if I said it’d be for the sisterhood or whatever? Naaaah, cuz then I’d have to get close to it and then it’d suck me in like some kinda demented black hole. Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather not have to go to the CDC for however many years of treatment it’d take to get cleared to be around other people again.

…wonder how much she’s gotta pay for HAZMAT-grade panties to keep from becomin’ Patient Zero of a whole new kind of pandemic.

But that aside–Cancer, sweetie, babydoll, darlin’. Mister Prime Example of You’d Be So Pretty If You Kept Your Mouth Shut. Maybe you oughta’ look into modelin’ once you’re in the unemployment line.

I mean, since we both know that’s where you’re headed after I kick your sorry ass at Refueled. 

Now know the dumb blond gimmick’s more your thing, but the writing on the wall’s pretty obvious here, isn’t it? Neither one of us are in the good graces of management, so this is our last chance to prove that we’re worth enough of a damn to keep around. I’m not gonna deny that I don’t deserve a spot on the shitlist here–after I put ol’ Deepthroat Davidson in his place, I went on a losin’ streak. I got thrown around like a rag doll, turned into a literal snack by that Hannibal Lecter wannabe, and lost my ass off.

My head wasn’t in it, and that’s all on me. No point in denyin’ the truth when it’s starin’ everyone in the face.

But then you decided to stick your ego where it didn’t belong in an attempt to make yourself relevant again at my expense. You probably thought it wasn’t a big deal–that I’d wash out afterward, leavin’ you without any consequences to face. It’s how things go in HOW sometimes for assholes like you, right? You pick out someone you think is weak enough to go on the shelf indefinitely so that you get that momentary bump of attention without havin’ to worry about karma comin’ along to scramble what’s left in that egg you call a head. You’ve been on the shitlist a lot more than I have, after all, and for a lot longer to boot. Your entire ass is hangin’ out over that line at this point… but that’s beside the point.

Surprise, shawty–you were wrong about me washin’ out.

I know I’m the smallest person on the roster by a lot and all, but it’s not like I didn’t survive everything JPD threw at me to the point that he needed a handful of my tights to keep me down for the three count or kicked the absolute dog shit out of a twenty-plus year veteran of the business in Mitch Quinlan–or, shit, how about out-Erising ol’ Xander Azula? Ring any bells there, sport? I’ve long since proven that I can take a surprisingly large amount of punishment on any given show day and, more importantly, I’ve made it more than a little clear that I’m not here for easy. I’m here to get my ass kicked until I’m good enough to be the one doin’ the kickin’ more often than not.

I’m here to make it to the top of the Goddamn mountain, and no–no, I’m not afraid of how many times I’m gonna have to slam into Mike Best or Conor Fuse or whoever else could be the World Champion by the time I get there.

Persistence makes perfect, motherfucker.

But you’re not very good at seein’ the obvious are you?

Or at strategic planning, or at… well, damn near anything anymore.

Takin’ shit that you’re too fuckin’ weak to carry once you’ve got it is the only thing you’ve got goin’ for you, as a matter of fact.

Don’t believe me? Think about it, sweetie. You couldn’t shoulder the weight of bein’ the LSD Champion, so you lost it the first second that you could–and then when you got your greasy little hands on the World Title? You dropped that just as quick, too, only managin’ a singular title defense because Sutler did the work for you. The funniest part about this whole pattern of yours, though, is that as it wore on, it got worse. Shit, you didn’t even get your hands on the HOTV Title after takin’ my place because the opportunity itself was too much for you to carry. For all that you shat all over me for not fitting your idea of sellin’ the whole bein’ Lust thing, what did you do with it?

Oh, right–fuck and all because you weren’t capable of livin’ up to it for more than five seconds.

I could’ve lived with it if you’d done somethin’ with it, y’know. A little golf clap, maybe a cheeky little ‘Good job, Sport’ before I GDI-ed your head into the canvas a couple times. But since you wasted that opportunity the same way you’ve wasted all the others, an opportunity that I would’ve at least made more than a piss-poor token effort to seize?

Now I’m your problem.

Y’see, I’m pretty sure it’s obvious but since it’s… well, you, I’ll put it as simply as I can. I’m not just here for what I mentioned earlier. I’m here in the pursuit of the only freedom I can find these days. Sex doesn’t do it for me anymore. Goin’ a hundred miles an hour down the highway on my motorcycle doesn’t do it for me anymore. No, my only catharsis–my only release–exists in those three magic seconds that happens when I pin my opponent to the mat for the win.

And if I can’t get mine?

Then there’s no fucking way that anyone else will get theirs.