Kendell Smith: “What do you mean broke?”

Logan Taylor: “I mean broke, smashed, penniless, belly up, up shit creek without a pad…”

Kendell Smith: “Ok stop! Stop! I get it.”

With a loud groan she placed her head in her hands, rubbing her temples and trying to concentrate on her breathing so she wouldn’t completely freak out. This could be fixed, she knew it could but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Logan Taylor: “With Ramone gone the chunk of change he pulled in is gone too. Nobody could have seen that coming.”

Kendell Smith: “We could have had we’d paid attention to the fucking figures. I just can’t believe this, we’re pulling in bigger crowds than ever, there’s a market for merchandise and we still have no money?”

Logan sighed and took the seat beside her. If she were honest with herself she’d admit that she did see it coming. Regardless of their small successes they had a larger roster to pay now and even if they worked for free the rent on the Bolton Arena week in week out was more than either of them had anticipated. She knew what she could do, she could use the money her father left her to fund the place, to make it great, make it huge but her pride wouldn’t let her. She had left New York with nothing but her dignity and she wasn’t willing to sell it that easily.

Logan Taylor: “You know there’s always the money your old man…”

Kendell Smith: “No. Don’t even bother saying it. It’s a last resort.”

Logan Taylor: “Well I got news for ya darlin’, there are no other bloody resorts. We need money and we need it yesterday.”

Kendell Smith: “What about sponsorships? Surely we can get a few sponsorships.”

Logan Taylor: “We’re open since July and our shows aren’t even on the box. Nobody in their right mind is going to sponsor us and even if we could get together some sponsors it still wouldn’t be near enough.” 

She took a deep breath and pointed to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table beside Logan motioning for him to hand it to her. He cocked his eyebrow and looked at here.

Kendell Smith: “I think something like this calls for a drink don’t you?”

He didn’t argue just shrugged and picked up the bottle taking a sip of it him self before passing it on to Kendell and slipping his hand on to her leg hoping she wouldn’t notice. She took the bottle and slapped his hand away before bringing it to her lips and taking a large mouthful. She had no idea what they could do next to pull them out of their rut. She was lost for ideas it seemed like they had exhausted all possible answers. She put the bottle on the floor in front of her and leaned forward letting out a frustrated groan and holding her head in her hands once again.

Logan Taylor: “There is one other thing...”

She looked up from her hands at him. The look of doubt on his face took the glimmer of hope out of her dark eyes. She was praying that he would have the answer to their problems because she sure as hell didn’t but by the look on his face even he thought they where fucked.

Logan Taylor: “We could sell a percentage.”

Kendell Smith: “A percentage of the company?”

Logan Taylor: “Yea like sell a share of the company to somebody with too much money. You know one of those fat cat types that will throw money at us regardless of how successful we are. Like Roman Abramovich with Chelsea.”

Kendell Smith: “No.”

The idea of selling a part of something they built from nothing was something she couldn’t even fathom.

Logan Taylor: “Don’t just bloody turn it down. At least think about it. We don’t have many options here Kend, you’re not willing to dip into your own funds and I really don’t think I’d make enough money selling my arse in Hampstead Heath. We have fuck all money.”

Kendell Smith: “But sell some of the business…”

Logan Taylor: “I know but think of it this way we sell forty percent of the place and we still have sixty between the two of us and we also have a shit load of cash to pay bills with. It’s not the ideal situation but right now we don’t have much of a choice darlin’.”

He was right, they didn’t. It was really only this or run the place into the ground and as much as she really wanted to continue on the way they where she knew it would only be a matter of time before they’d be out on their asses with a lot of angry unpaid wrestlers.

Kendell Smith: “How do we even go about selling some of our company?”

Logan Taylor: “Sweetheart you leave that to yours truly. I know somebody who knows somebody whose brother deals with things like this. Stop worrying your pretty little head about all of this. Things are going to start getting better down here. Soon we’ll be rolling in doe and have more chinchilla coats than you can shake a spoon of caviar at!”

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She traced her finger across the old stainless steel picture frame and let out a long sigh, leaning back in her chair. Over seven years now, it was hard to believe it had been so long. The years had passed her by in a haze something she regretted deeply but felt paralysed to change. It had never gotten any better. She remembered at the time people saying the pain would fade that eventually things got better. She still wondered how long eventually would be.

She closed her eyes, still holding the frame in her hands. Moving to England had been a hard choice but one she felt she had to make to break away from the life she had built for herself and then destroyed back home in New York. Back there people knew who she was, people remembered what she had done, who her family were and what she had slowly become. Here she could start again. She promised she wouldn’t make the same mistakes she had made in the past, now was a time for change. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself but the bag in the pocket of her denim jeans was proof to the contrary.

She stood up from her chair, placing the picture face down on the table beside her and making her way to the small refrigerator on the other side of her hotel room. The sickly yellow glow from the refrigerator enveloped her like a weak aura as she opened the door. The hum of its small engine was the only noise that broke the dead silence.

Jack Daniels, ally of the broken. She placed the bottle on the counter top beside a small glass tumbler and took her seat in front of it. It was amazing how after years of abuse the warm sensation of it hitting the back of her throat and making its way slowly into her system no longer made her flinch. She welcomed the first drop. She could even decipher sweetness below what used to be an overwhelming bitter taste of whiskey.

It had been ten months since she slipped out of the limelight. She had grown tired of her personal business being discussed on Internet forums throughout the World. The glory hadn’t been worth the sacrifice of her privacy. Rumours of her failed pregnancy and her failed relationships sparked interest amongst the fans. She blamed herself. Mixing business with pleasure started off as a novelty she hadn’t expected it to go spinning out of control like it did. People liked to read about whom she was screwing backstage, Icon, Khristian Call. The names brought a bitter smirk to her face as she knocked back another drink and refilled her glass.

Stupid enough to fall pregnant for one, stupid enough to believe the other wasn’t like every other man.

Tut, tut, should have known better.

She sniggered and dipped her hand into the pocket of her tight denim jeans. There wasn’t much of it left, she had yet to find herself a reliable source this far from home and thought asking the locals ‘where can you score some decent coke?’ probably wouldn’t go down too well. She held the bag up at eye level, flicking it with her index finger.

Don’t do it.

But she knew she would. There was nothing that could convince her otherwise. After the last couple of days she had had with work she deserved to indulge. Listening to Logan talk about fixing all their money woes hadn’t exactly been convincing. She looked over at the picture frame, which sat face down on the table.

That feeling again. Guilt.

She shook her head and without any more hesitation emptied the contents of the bag out on the counter in front of her. She kept her eyes on the little hill of white powder while she brought the glass to her red lips again.

She grew up thinking she was grouped with the sadists of the World. She was the one in control, the one who inflicted the pain and walked off with a smile on her face. Truth was as the years had gone on she had embraced the lifestyle of a masochist without realising, deriving pleasure from pain inflicted on her by none other than herself. She grew tired of being in control, losing that control and trying to regain it. It had become too much effort.

With the side of her ATM card she began to cut the white hill into small thick lines. Razor blades and mirrors were for the movies. She leaned forward with the ten-pound note she had rolled between her fingers, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply through her nose. She blinked for a second, sniffing hard so that the white powder hit the back of her throat and made its way into her system. She picked up the glass of whiskey again and downed it in hopes of washing away the taste.

She missed the old days, the days where everything seemed so easy and being in control seemed to come so naturally. She longed for the days before she got pregnant, before she met Danny and Khristian and before September 11^th. Life without consequence had been so simple. The money, the men, the control, it had been the lifestyle people only watched on television. Unfortunately when the television was turned off the reality became apparent.

She got up from her chair and made her way across the room to the old Wurlitzer jukebox. It was her pride and joy, purchased with the first substantial pay cheque she had ever earned and the only thing she had brought with her from New York. Shipping it around had been a bitch and the receptionist in the hotel hadn’t cared much for it or the two men it took to get it into the elevator. Kendell, on the other hand, loved it.

She ran her long nails over the ivory buttons, keying in a random number in hopes of being pleasantly surprised by the song and as ‘I’m gonna crawl’ by Led Zeppelin started she knew she had made a good choice. She glided across the floor in her bare feet, her eyes closed and her arms out at her sides.

If I dream too much at night, somebody please bring me down.

She pulled the elastic from her hair, allowing it to fall in dark waves past her shoulders as she spun around the hotel room slowly. For a few minutes she forgot why she had begun drinking in the first place and instead she just enjoyed the moment for what it was, pointless and simple.

He was tall, dark and handsome, she was eighteen and head over heels in love.  The only time she had ever been in love, or so she tried to convince herself. She would have given up everything she owned for him. With him her material possessions no longer seemed to matter. He made her the person she wanted to be. It never mattered that he could offer her nothing, she had found everything she needed the first time she had met him.

Flying back to New York for the anniversary had been as hard this time around as it was every other year in fact it seemed to get harder as the years went on. The crowd that gathered at ground zero seemed to get smaller as time went on. She wasn’t sure if this perception was her imagination or not but it had seemed so many people had moved on from their grief where as she still lingered within it. She had stood gripping the photograph of him silently amidst the chorus of sobbing around her. She had no right to cry, no right to feel sorry for her self and although her heart broke when she heard his name she stood in silence, it was all she deserved.

The sound of Robert Plant’s voice skipping brought her back to reality as she stood bare foot in the middle of the hotel room looking over her shoulder at the jukebox. She sighed, resenting it for breaking her moment’s tranquillity before making her way over to it and hitting it with a clenched fist.

It washed over her in a moment and with it she knew she had to get out of the hotel room. It had begun to feel like her personal cage. She moved to the bedroom, throwing open her wardrobe and pulling out the nearest thing to her, tossing it onto the bed while she slipped out of her denim jeans and t-shirt quickly. It didn’t take her long to slip into the little red dress she had accidentally chosen and hide cocaine eyes behind mountains of mascara.

Her red painted lips and red satin dress were such contrasts to the waves of black hair that fell past her shoulders and the ivory skin it surrounded. A picture of beauty if it weren’t for her haunted eyes and the ink, which stained her skin with stories of pain, love and death. They were like medals or war wounds she wore with pride. They helped tell the stories her eyes kept hidden.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the door, unsure of where she was going but knowing she couldn’t stay here or she would lose her mind. She thought living out of a hotel room would keep her saner than living in her locker room at the Bolton Arena. Too many people knew they could find her there. Memories of her recent encounter with Khristian entered her mind for a moment. She wouldn’t let herself think about it or go over in her head what she should of said or how she should have approached the whole situation. It was done now, the worst of it was behind her or so she hoped. She had enough on her plate at the moment with her gradually failing business.

She had been walking for some time now without realisation. The bottle of whiskey she had brought along for company had kept her warm despite her choice of apparel. She glanced across the street at a Victorian clock, which sat in the arch of an old building informing her that it was close to midnight and not a very sociable hour for a young lady.

It didn’t take long until she stumbled across a late nightclub. The music of The Coasters beckoned her towards it. She walked up to the doorman, dropping the bottle of whiskey in the trashcan beside him and smiling as she walked straight past him and into the small club. His eyes followed her as she walked through the doors and disappeared through the wooden beads that hung from the doorframe. The club was quaint and dotted randomly with a dispersed crowd sitting over their drinks. She stood out like a sore thumb. Still she didn’t mind, ignoring her surroundings and making her way to the bar. She leaned over the bar, lifting her leg slightly giving her leverage to get the bar mans attention; it didn’t take long before she was leaning against the bar with a rather large glass of whiskey on ice.

She found the light jazzy music somewhat soothing. It helped stop the sound of her thoughts. She glanced around the bar at the many bodies scattered at numerous tables unaware of the man making his way across the bar towards her. She was in no mood for company, just the company of Mr. Daniels an old friend.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She looked up momentarily. The man’s thick New York accent caught her off guard. The novelty of hearing a New York accent in the middle of Manchester quickly wore thin.

Kendell Smith: “No.”

“Ah American, I should have guessed.”

She continued to ignore him, instead opting to stare ahead into nothingness.

“I’m guessing New York like myself since you’re so stand offish.”

Kendell Smith: “Good guess.”

“Don’t fancy any company then?”

She glanced up at the tall man again. He was wearing an expensive suit; she wasn’t sure exactly which designer but she new good suits. Her father had only ever worn the best and it had given her an eye in distinguishing between the cheap and the designer. He was tall, older than her by a few years she guessed and probably married. She glanced quickly at his left hand to confirm.

“Divorced.”

He laughed and she had to admit she was impressed by how perceptive he was. Either that or the excessive amount of alcohol she had consumed had her less subtle than she realised.

Kendell Smith: “Jack Daniels on ice.”

He smiled and turned to the bar, holding his hand up to get the bar mans attention while she continued to finish her drink and stare ahead. She was already regretting excepting the drink. She was in no mood for company. He was handsome, the person she used to be would have taken advantage of that, would have taken advantage of his obvious wealth which he had no problem flaunting. She guessed deep down she was trying to convince herself things hadn’t changed.

“So what has you in England?”

He passed her the glass and took a sip from his own. Without looking in his direction she lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip waiting momentarily before answering his question.

Kendell Smith: “Business.”

“Same as myself. Just flew in today needed to get out of the hotel for a while and see the sites.”

She turned to look at him now as he stood looking at her and smiling.

Kendell Smith: “Do you usually frequent places like this in hopes of picking up women?”

“Actually no I don’t. I needed a drink, the hotel bar was dull so I thought I’d check out the city nightlife and I mean who wouldn’t be attracted to a bar that plays music by The Coasters.”

Without realising it she smiled slightly. It had been what had attracted her to the bar and as much as she hated to admit it she was somewhat enjoying the company or at least enjoying the attention.

“So is there a name to go with that pretty face?”

Kendell Smith: “Maria, my names Maria.”

Technically she wasn’t lying, it was her middle name she thought giving a perfect stranger her real name or at least her persona would be a bad idea. She leaned back on the bar, lifting her leg and placing her foot against the side of the bar causing the hem of her skirt to rise slightly. She noticed as his eyes scanned over her body from the tips of her toes back up to her eyes, which still lay fixated ahead of her.

“Well Maria my names James, it’s nice to meet a woman who can drink straight whiskey without tearing up.”

Kendell Smith: “It’s nice to meet a man who sees that as a good thing.”

“I like women with a little edge.”

Kendell Smith: “Well then you’ve hit the jackpot.”

He laughed again, moving a little closer. This time she didn’t move away or stare him down when he gently brushed against her bare skin. She began to forget just how inebriated she was and Lord knew she made bad decisions when she was full of alcohol never mind what she had been putting up her nose.

“You’re starting to look bored. You want to get out of here?”

She assumed what the question implied. No man asked a woman he’d just met to leave a place with him unless he had an ulterior motive. He couldn’t possible be enjoying her company, she had spent most of the last thirty minutes staring dead ahead. Even so she took his hand when he offered to it and although she didn’t return his smile she followed him across the club and towards the door.

“There’s a bar at the hotel I’m staying in that’s a little warmer and friendlier where we can get a dr…”

He ran his hands from the small of her back to the nape of her neck letting his fingers get tangled in the mess of raven hair that feel around her soft skin. She let out a slight gasp before gently biting his lip. It had been a long time since she had felt such want from a man and although he wasn’t a man she knew or the man she wanted, it felt good to be wanted.

He placed his hands on her face gently, continuing to kiss her deeply and turning her around so that her back was now against the wall. He placed his hand on her hip running it down her bare leg to her knee as she lifted it to the side of him allowing her skirt to ride up.

Her mind was running a million miles a minute but the whiskey wouldn’t let her make sense of it all instead convincing her that living in the moment was the right thing to do. After all it had been so long since she had spent the night with anyone but Jack Daniels. She felt alive, she felt in control.

She ran her tongue along the length of his neck while he undid the pants of his expensive designer suit. He was stronger than she had anticipated, lifting her up with ease so that her legs where around his waist. It didn’t take long before he was inside of her and it was too late for regrets. She moaned, her black painted nails gripping onto his hair as he kissed her throat.

Money problems, work, old love, new love, for a few minutes none of it mattered. She was living in the here and now and the problems that haunted her where just a distant memory. She closed her eyes, a loud moan escaping her parted red lips.

When the euphoria had faded the reality of neon lights and an alleyway came flooding back all too soon. She fixed the end of her dress and brushed herself off. He offered her a smile but she wasn’t interested, it was over now and time to go back to the hotel room, her prison. As he zipped up she began walking away up the alleyway, slipping a cigarette from her purse and placing it between her teeth while she looked for the lighter.

“Wait… you’re going? If you give me your number we can go out for a drink next time I’m in town or the next time you’re back in New York.”

She turned to look at him, lighting the cigarette between her lips and taking a drag before speaking.

Kendell Smith: “Sorry, you’re not my type.”