Thread: Authority (KellyKitty)

Jericho waited. He waited at first, of course, because no matter how willing someone was to do as you told them, there was a matter of physics. As in, it took a degree of time. So he thought nothing of it, going back to watching Smackdown on the television set, observing the roster in action and the general going-ons of the show. He sat back against the couch for awhile like that, occasionally drinking from the bottle, grabbing a new one when the first was emptied, easily shifting between paying attention to the screen and snickering, recalling the events of what had just happened. What could he have done different? What could he do once she returned? All alone with his thoughts, the blonde lounged in silence, simply thinking. And waiting. And waiting. And... waiting. After awhile he began to wonder, began to doubt. After a little while more his temper got the better of him. Mickie would have, should have been back awhile ago. McCool wasn't a hard woman to find. Did she even bother apologizing? Or did Miss James simply blow off his 'offer' altogether? Ticked off, Jericho thought to take a shower himself. Something cold, something to get his head straight. He got as far as ripping off his tie and throwing it against an oak locker, these far nicer than what the rest of the chump got to use, he got as far as pulling his jacket off, pulling his shirt off, as far as discarding the clothes all about his dressing room as he stormed back and forth. Jericho got as far as turning the water on and walking out of the bathroom before he turned right back around a moment later and turned it off... No. He was too pissed off for even a cold shower. Did that fat, dumb brunette really think she'd get away with dissing him like this? Like hell. Like goddamn hell she would. The suit was constricting. Annoying. Classy, but he had enough of that on his own. Instead Jericho changed back into the street clothes he'd come in that day, a simple white t-shirt with an eagle on the front and faded light jeans. Dashing fingers through his hair, he grabbed his belt and set out about the backstage area of the arena. Have you seen Mickie? Where is she? You don't know? Then get out of my way! Jerky this and retard that, he berated cast and crew alike. He even ran into Layla who, after a brief inquiry, shrugged her shoulders and said that the porker was acting weird but finally acknowledged she wasn't in the same category, even apologizing to her and the champion. This told him something at least. Turning, leaving her as he left everyone else he'd asked, Jericho continued on the war path until one of the workers fessed up that he'd seen Mickie wiping away tears as she slipped into one of the locker rooms twenty-some-odd minutes ago. At twenty-one minutes the door to that very locker room opened. It was done angrily, but as Jericho stepped inside he stopped midstep - looking around, it was empty. Before he turned to head out though he heard something. Someone. Sounded like it came from the bathroom. Narrowing his eyes, the epitome of arrogance quietly closed the door, even quietly locked it. He took a few steps over to a chair to set his gold and leather belt out across the seat. A moment later the bathroom door slammed open in a quick, sudden swing. Eyes alight with fury, a muscled arm reached out for the head of long, wet mousy-brown strands from behind her and to a side. Grabbing hold, Jericho wasted no time in gritting his teeth, in grunting, in jerking her head out through that bathroom door, releasing his grip, sending her staggering forward sloppily.