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

 

Theres a Place

 

“Paul?” Birdy rapped lightly on the door with the knuckles of a frigid hand. “Helloo?” She’d decided this time round to pare her look down to the essentials in both cosmetics and clothing. The makeup hadn’t been much of a loss, but wearing a sleeveless top and miniskirt outdoors, at this time of year, now occurred to her to have been a trifle foolish. If Paul didn’t let her in to thaw right now, he’d be wooing a bird-sicle.

This time at least, Birdy noted with a twinge of satisfaction, Paul gave her ensemble an approving smile, despite the unattractive shade of blue she imagined she’d been turning while outdoors. But did he absolutely have to check to see if anyone was coming towards the room? It let so much cold air in. She supposed he must’ve encountered her father on one of his morals patrols. His frequent nighttime prowls made liaisons like this difficult even for her, she reflected as she sat on the bed, warming herself with another drink.

 

*             *             *

 

Ringo wasn’t altogether sure how he’d done it, but he’d definitely done it. He’d managed to get himself lost at a cheap roadside motel. Showed him, he supposed, for trying to follow the younger Vernon Miller’s directions. But then, the place was subtly mazelike, almost reminiscent of M.C. Escher after a spicy meal and far too much of whatever it was M.C. Escher would have far too much of before drawing up a plan for someplace like this. Even so, it was still a bit shy-making to think he’d been bested by the floor plan of a motel. And he hadn’t even found the ice for Vern Junior’s—

Hang on. Wasn’t that Paul peeking furtively out his door not thirty feet in front of him?

Ringo quickened his pace and managed to stick a foot in the door before it closed on his nose. He hadn’t figured Paul would be in much of a state to receive visitors by this late at night. In that case, he figured, he’d better state his business with Paul before Paul got back to his business.

 

*             *             *

 

“What do you mean, Ringo’s not in his room?” Althea’s voice had taken on that slightly hysterical undertone again. George wondered if maybe a few minutes for Althea to sit down and take a deep breath or two wouldn’t do him a world of good, particularly if he could sneak back to his room for a kip. He was beginning to think of bed in much the same way a starving man in the desert thinks of a buffet table. So he let John try to patiently explain things to her while he idly toyed about with the idea of writing that song about taxes she’d suggested. Seemed a silly idea, thought he, but he’d heard sillier ideas turn into great songs; moreover, the idea really struck a chord with him with regard to one or two bones of contention his newfound wealth had presented him. It was definitely a contender—but he’d think about it later. John and Althea were beginning to raise their voices at each other.

“Well, Paul ain’t gonna think of it that way, innhe? The way he was all over that girl Birdy, now ain’t the time—”

“Let’s try Paul’s room.” George rubbed the sleep from his eyes for the umpteen thousand and fourth time that might.

John gaped at him. “Et tu, Harri? Gangin’ up on me like this? Lack of sleep’s made you soft in the head, son.”

George made a point of ignoring that last comment as he strode to Paul’s door. “He’s not busy,” he declared after a moment’s judicious eavesdropping. “He’s talkin’ to Ritch, is all.” He motioned for the others to follow him as he advanced through the door himself, without knocking. If he’d knocked, Paul would probably have taken him for the motel owner, prowling about in search of immorality.

The thought of Vern Senior still skulking about the premises made George pause in midstride over the threshold. He had an uneasy slightly sick-making feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of the old barnacle, not by a long shot.

 

*             *             *

 

Gwendy squinted and frowned in the extremely poor light available to her in her hiding place under the stairs beside Paul’s room. So that was where George was going.

She clutched her notebook of poetry closer to her chest. Well, she could wait for him. If her love wouldn’t come to her, then she would go to her love. Simple as that.

 

*             *             *

 

Vernon Miller Sr. hummed softly to himself as he strode along the first-floor walkway. He should have been done checking around by now, but the arrival of the Beatles had encouraged him to new heights in vigilance. The Harrison kid had been no trouble at all—snoring like a sawpit the last he’d seen (or heard, from well outside the door). Same with Mr. Starr’s room, tho’ he’d been silent enough—quieter sleeper than his bandmate next door, at any rate. Lennon—well, Lennon had just been infuriating. Too chipper for his own good, he thought. But he hadn’t noticed anything out of place there, either. Kid must have just been trying to get on his nerves or something. Kids these days didn’t have an ounce of respect for their elders.

               The elder Miller decided to go back to look in on that McCartney kid. He had been alone the last time he’d seen him, but he looked suspicious anyway.

 

 

***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? ;-)