Stripped (WWE Fanfiction) (Bullet Club / The Shield ) (AU) (BWWM) AEW

Chapter 2

The sound of heavy clunks from chunky heels plodded across the grease-slicked linoleum. Lola's cream-colored pumps expertly navigated the grease slicks that greeted her at the entrance of her studio apartment. Her pink, glossed lips formed a slight scowl as she was reminded of her feeble attempt at frying chicken three nights prior.

Lola liked to think she was not sentimental. But after walking out of her shift at The Shield on Saturday night, she felt the urge to go home. Home, to Lola, was not the dusty, unkempt, outdated studio she took an uber to from work. Home, the one she longed for that night, was Charlotte, North Carolina. Home was the symphony of humming fans blowing a slightly uncomfortable breeze through the humid Summer air. Her mind lingered on the deep honey of her mother's voice humming in her pristine, but humble, beige kitchen. The unmistakable crackle of chicken in a heavy skillet pan joined in to the vivid memory, only to be upstaged by the mouth-watering smell of her mother's fried delicacy. Lola practically felt her legs swinging back and forth at the small wooden table, her seven-year-old lips puckering and smacking in anticipation of the heavenly crispy chicken skin.

Surrounded by her vivid memory of a simpler time, Lola found herself wanting to recreate the scene in her own studio in Los Angeles. After milling aimlessly around a late-night supermarket, she collected the ingredients she thought would recreate her memory. But upon arrival to her home, she was faced with one embarrassing, crippling fact: she didn't know the first thing about frying chicken. Lola knew nothing about cooking. In fact, her seafoam-green stove had been so rarely used that it was the only thing in her studio that was relatively clean. She often used the stovetop as an extra space to place her wig-adorned Styrofoam mannequin heads.

It didn't take long for Lola to become frustrated with her attempts at making her mother's chicken. And only after unsuccessfully binding the flour to the chicken did she find that one burner was defunct on the stove. When she lifted her mother's heavy cast iron skillet, glops of oil splattered across the linoleum below. And with a quick smacking of her teeth, she turned on her heel and resolved to have sleep for dinner. She dropped melodramatically on the unmade futon only a few steps away from her tiny kitchen space, ending the night in a disgraceful defeat.

Lola shook her head and stepped over the oil slick before tossing her duffel bag in a corner near her futon. She didn't know what possessed her to try frying chicken three nights ago. The only thing she knew was that there was a nagging sense of uncertainty that followed her from Roman's office to her home. Maybe the food was a distraction.

It clearly didn't work.

Things were still raw with Roman, and Lola was reminded of that uncomfortable friction every time she had to step into that club. Her recent search for a new job did keep her mind off of the relationship for a while, but the nagging uncertainty came back again. And it stayed for the last three days.

Lola swiped her laptop off the small, haphazard kitchen table that hid in the corner of the equally haphazard studio. A tinny clattering echoed through the small apartment as a number of empty lipstick tubes fell from the overflowing table. She ignored the added mess to her floor and situated herself on her futon, ready to continue her job hunt. Her screen illuminated brightly, revealing a browser riddled with tabs, all a variation of each other; Catwalk Model Escort Agency, Diamond Dollies Escort Service, Platinum Diamond Escorts, the tabs went on and on.

The sound of furiously aggressive typing would only be interrupted by the light staccato of tapping on her mousepad. Lola sat in the dimly-lit room, hunched over her laptop with the bright harsh light of the screen illuminating her tired face. This was a routine for Lola, applying for every agency she could find with a promising starting rate. Her eyes became glazed as she typed out her bra size for the umpteenth time. Her eyelids became heavy as her manicured nails slowly relaxed across the black keys of her laptop. The pattering of rain outside her window began to lull her to sleep.