Please don’t forget that this never ever ever happened—this is merely a pleasantly odd export of my tiny little mind. Thanks! ;)

 

What You’re Doing.

 

Paul sat awake on the edge of his bed. Birdy had gone off to her own room, to “put on her face and get into something a bit more comfortable.” Put on her face? She was already wearing her own face and half of someone else’s, if her makeup was any judge. And Paul couldn’t quite see how she could be very uncomfortable in attire she’d only been somewhat wearing anyway. Any more comfortable, thought Paul, and she might be arrested. But if these little rituals were what made the girl happy…

Paul sighed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. This could take a while.

 

*             *             *

 

John was thinking. Normally—in fact, he would say, an overwhelming majority of the time—the girls he met over the course of the tour would gladly pawn their own families just to touch the sheets he slept in. So he was always glad to—he smirked wryly at the thought—give a little something back to his fans. As long as the wife didn’t find out, it was fine. In fact, upon reflection, it was almost depressingly straightforward.

And then there was Gwendy. She didn’t scream. She didn’t jump up and down. She definitely had not been sent into transports of ecstasy at the sight of him. There were significant and steady increases, however, in the numbers of haughty glances and icy remarks. Beneath that ice, John reasoned, there must be an awful lot of fire. This bird Gwendy, thought he, this bird Gwendy is one tough nut to crack. 

He liked that.

The disquieting thought occurred to him that perhaps the girl had her eyes on one of the other guys. It would make sense, given the evidence. In fact, when they were all cleaning up where that cart overturned, it had almost looked for a moment as though she carried a torch for—

A knock at the door, and John nearly set a new record for the sitting high jump.

“Mister Lennon?”

It was the guy at the desk, what’s-his-name—Miller. Yeah, Miller. Gwendy’s father. “Yeah?”

“I saw your light was still on.”

“Ye-es.”

With a rattling of skeleton key in lock, a round, balding head appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed with suspicion and darting furtively, like cockroaches, across the bedroom. “You do know there’s a city curfew ordinance?”

 “I do now.” John had been through this routine before. It’d have been funny if it hadn’t happened to him so often. “You learn something new every day, being a teen idol.”

“So, there isn’t anybody in here who shouldn’t be, is there?”

“You mean besides me? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nobody here but me and my shadow. My chastity belt’s all locked up for the night and my keepers have me on the choke chain.”

“Um.” His visual search having come up empty-handed, he sounded almost disheartened. He’d hoped John would act a bit guiltier. A Beatle caught with a girl in his room would’ve amassed him untold amounts of free publicity. Just so long as it wasn’t one of his daughters. If he caught one of his girls with one of those loose-minded, immoral European types, the Fab Four would have to learn to work as a trio.

But tonight it was, apparently, not to be. “O…kay…then. Good night, Mister Lennon.”

“G’night. Don’t take any wooden nickels,” chirped John as Mr. Miller’s footsteps grew fainter in his ear.

He’d had nosy motel-keepers do this to him before. The secret was to sound disconcertingly confident. Then they’d feel just a little too stupid about it to check later. And, considering his plans for later, that was perfectly all right with him.

 

*             *             *

 

On the floor above, Ringo had his famous nose proverbially buried in some improving literature. Well—perhaps “improving” was stretching it a bit. He suspected most scholarly types would exclude Mad magazine comic anthologies from the sphere of uplifting and instructive prose. But you had to admit, it was funny. Moreover, it wasn’t often he got the chance to read anything at all; being a Beatle was an all-day job. Anyway, his book was very engrossing; so he hardly noticed at all when he finally fell asleep.

 

*             *             *

 

George fell back, fully clothed, onto his bed and was snoring with phlegm and gusto almost immediately. He was awfully tired.

 

 

 

***Authoress’s note: If you’d like to use this story for anything or take it someplace, please ask me first. It’s just one little email, not too much trouble, and the odds are in your favor for a yes if you ask me nicely. I just want people to recognize the story as mine, okay? ;-)