Blackbird, Fly (A Paul McCartney Story)

Chapter Three

Luckily, I was told that I didn't have to work on the floor the Beatles were staying on, so I could avoid seeing Paul after the incident the day before.  

However, during my lunch break, someone told me that Mr. McCartney had requested that I be their maid their entire stay.  After that, I lost my appetite.  

I brought new linens, pillows and everything they could possibly need.  The boys ran out of the hotel shampoo almost everyday, so I brought two extra bottles.  

Paul greeted me at the door, asked how my day was and how my evening played out the night before.  I didn't say much with each answer; I just wanted to leave the room as fast as possible.  Very quickly I changed the sheets, vacuumed the floor and swept up the bathroom tile.  When I was bending down to empty the garbage bins, I could tell he was staring at my backside.  If he were someone from my neighborhood, I would tell him to get lost.  I was almost tempted to, but I wouldn't dare after shouting at him.

He seemed to read my mind once I had finished cleaning.  "I-I don't mean to stare, love.  Has...has anyone ever told you that you are pretty?"

People had.  But no one like him would dare saying something like that.  

"Sir, this is very inappropriate.  Surely you know that."  I prayed that he did know that.  

"I know that.  But, can't I just talk to you?  There aren't any laws against that, are there?" He took a step towards me, but I instantly jumped back.  "Please don't be afraid.  I don't want to hurt you." 

By that time I was back up against the door.  "Your career will be ruined if I'm seen with you.  My aunt's house was set on fire just because she was seen in a wrong part of town.  I've got a family to look after, sir.  I can't risk them being hurt."  Why wouldn't he just leave me alone?  Didn't he know that if my manager walked in, seeing us like this, I could lose my job?  

Suddenly, Paul grabbed my shoulders.  My first instinct was to pull away or hit him, but if I did that it would be the end of me.  

He lightened his touch on me, feeling me tense.  "It's not 'Sir.'"  Then he pressed his lips against mine.  I gasped, and my eyes went wide.  However, his were closed, and the hands that originally rested on my shoulders where holding my face.  

It was so wrong.  I could be killed for that.  My family could be killed for that.  How could I explain this to someone if they found out?  Even if Paul told the truth, the fact that he kissed me, no one would believe him.  They would say that I forced myself on the poor Beatle, who didn't know how filthy I really was.  

But if he really was angry with me, why wasn't he trying ot hurt me?  If he wanted to, he would have already.  After all, he had locked the door, preventing anyone from seeing us.  

One thing that puzzled me most of all were these two questions: Why wasn't he afraid to touch me?  

And why did I enjoy his touch?

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When he pulled away, I sighed, my eyes still closed and relaxed.  "Paul, that was..."

He smiled, and went into to kiss me again.  But I stopped him.  "Wrong.  That was wrong."  Oh, God, what have I done!  

But then I remembered what my dad said.  I needed to give him everything he wanted.  But before I could do something else, he said, "I'm sorry, but I really liked that."  Then he pulled something out of his pocket, and reached for me again.  I let him, even though I startled when he tucked something into the breast pocket of dress.  He withdrew his hands quickly, and then put them behind his back, showing me that he didn't want to touch me again.