My Love, My Drug, My Release

Chapter 3: Four Chords

It's been so long since I've worked on this one, but I truly do love this story, so I'm publishing the third chapter. I recently got out of the hospital (everything is copacetic) and have a lot more time on my hands so all my stories will get some TLC, enjoy!

When I got home, Paul was in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, sitting on the couch, sipping a glass of whiskey. I wanted to rip it out of his hands; he was going to drink himself to death.

Normally I would just run up to my room and read or something, but I paused in the entryway to the lounge because I noticed one of his acoustic guitars was lying on the sofa beside him. I hadn't seen him touch an instrument since the Beatles split. All he ever did was drink, smoke, and eat and occasionally play with Mary or kiss Linda.

I hovered long enough for him to notice me. His eyes met mine, and I couldn't decipher if he remembered falling asleep in my bed. Surely he had to have realized that's what happened when he woke up in there, but maybe the booze had erased that already. He was gone by the time I woke up, but to be fair I'd slept until almost two That was three days ago now. I was living in his home and I hadn't looked him in the eye in three days.

"How was school?" he asked.

"Good." I leaned against the doorway. His facial hair had grown out and he'd gained weight, but he was still attractive, and as close to sober as I'd seen him in a while.

"You need something?" he asked.

I nodded my head towards the six-string. "You playing?"

He looked over at the instrument like it was a dirty animal he was being forced to sit beside. He set his glass down on the corner table without a coaster. It was already covered with rings anyway, I guess. "Not a chance."

"So I guess you haven't written anything then."

He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, sweat patches under his arms. "I think I might be done with music, love."

Paul was the kind of person who called every female he encountered "love," so I didn't let it affect me, I merely scoffed and turned to go upstairs.

"What was that for?" he demanded, halting me in my tracks.

I walked back to the entryway and gave him a pointed look. "You, Paul McCartney, done with music? That's about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

When he didn't respond, I dropped my school rucksack on the floor and approached the couch. I couldn't help but notice that, for a moment, he thought I was going to him, and his chest expanded with an inhale, knees going a touch farther away from each other. But I wasn't going to him; I was going to the guitar.

"Jack taught me a few chords," I said.

He tensed up, the way he always did when I mentioned my brother, but I ignored him and checked to make sure it was in tune. It was, which meant he'd tuned it, which meant he'd at least thought about playing. I set my fingers, looking at them a couple of times and making sure to press down hard, and then strummed a gentle E. I played just E for a little, and I could feel Paul's eyes on my hands. I eventually switched to B, then C#, then A.

"Those are the only chords I know," I admitted. "Jack always joked they were the only ones you need to know to play half the stuff on the radio."

"You're not bad," Paul said, not begrudgingly, almost admiringly.

"I wish I were as good as you," I said before I could stop myself.

"There's no reason you can't be." He inched himself closer, running his fingers over mine. "You're left-handed, just like me."

I stopped playing, and his hand fell away. I set the guitar back on the couch and stood up, smoothing down my hair, which had gotten a little frizzy from the afternoon drizzle. "It's too late. I'm almost fifteen already."

"John was older than your when he learned."

"Come off it," I said, crossing my arms, internally surprised he'd brought up the former band member he'd feuded with most.

"When I met him, he only knew banjo chords, on my life!"

I shrugged indifferently. I never really cared all that much about learning to play music. I liked to listen to it, liked to dance to it, but playing it was never a priority. "I haven't got any talent, besides."

"No, you've got loads." He stood up and moved like he was going to approach me, but then decided against it and just stood awkwardly. "I could teach you if you'd like."

That gave me pause. What kind of idiot would turn down guitar lessons from Paul bloody McCartney?

I glanced around, paranoid for a moment. "Is Linda here?" I asked.

He shook his head vigorously. "She took Mary to the doctor; she was coughing last night." He came closer to me and bent down just a touch (I was only an inch or two shorter than him after all) and whispered in my ear, "Between you and me, she's getting some things for your birthday, but she didn't want you to know."

The mention of my birthday was enough to distract me, even from Paul's warm, liquor-scented breath against my cheek. My birthday was three and a half weeks before my brother's. Then he would be eighteen; no longer a runaway child, just an adult probably living on the street somewhere.

"Do you want to practice now?" Paul asked, reaching for the six-string. "While Linda's away."

The last part made me look at him warily before I shook my head and went to pick up my bag. "I've got assignments to do Paul, maybe some other time."

I ran upstairs and flopped on my bed. The homework could wait; first I had to cry.

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