My Love, My Drug, My Release

Late February, 1969

Now that the leash had been removed, Jack saw no reason to even attempt to behave; as long as it didn't interfere with Paul's relationship with Linda or his recording sessions at Abbey Road, Paul looked the other way. Most nights, Jack didn't come home before three, if at all. One night, he brought Vivienne to his room, and Linda dragged her out by her hair, but, otherwise, our stepmother didn't interfere. 

I stopped going to hear the Beatles play, even though it was my only way out of the house apart from school. I couldn't bear to look at Paul after what he'd done to me, what he continued to do to me, nor Linda for how she condoned it. They weren't even playing much music anymore, too busy fighting. Ritchie pushed for another album, but that seemed less and less likely as the weeks passed with the lads at each other's throats. The only thing I missed about those hours in the studio was John and Yoko, whom I'd grown quite close to.

Even when left alone at St. John's Wood, I didn't leave the house, not even when I knew I had hours before anyone would return. Paul's stupid rule had some invisible, vice-like power over me that I could not shake. How the hell was I going to run away to Bordeaux if I couldn't even walk down the block to get some fresh air?

A sharp rapping on the window nearly gave me a heart attack; I gasp with relief when I saw it was only Brandon. 

I opened the window and he flopped in, jumping to his feet. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

My boyfriend cocked an eyebrow at me, smirking. "That's some pretty foul language for a lady, don't you think?" When I didn't respond, he pulled me in for a hug, kissing the top of my head. "I haven't seen you in ages, Lo, part of me thought you'd died."

"I called you three days ago." My words came out funny from my face being squished against his chest.

"You didn't sound like yourself; for all I knew, I was talking to a very convincing double."

I looked into his eyes and sighed contentedly. While I didn't care for his methods, I couldn't deny that I'd missed him terribly. "I'm fine, I'm just bored as all hell and pissed at Paul."

"Well, you won't have to deal with him for much longer. I've been talking to-"

The doorknob jiggling nearly made me scream, my chest aching from being startled twice in such a short span of time. Thankfully, I'd kept my door locked as a matter of principle for the past few days because Brandon wouldn't have been able to dive into my closet in time to conceal himself from Paul if it hadn't been.

"Lorraine, can I come in?"

"No," I replied sharply.

"Come on, I just want to talk." He knocked twice and wiggled the doorknob some more, but I ignored him. "Linda and I are going out with Clapton, do you want to come."

Eric Clapton, Brandon mouthed in awe.

"No thanks."

"It's not good to stay cooped up in there all day."

"Well, maybe you should un-ground me." After a few seconds of silence, Paul swore loudly, then marched angrily down the stairs, slamming the side door on his way out. "Sorry about him, he's such a jackass. What were you saying?"

The shaggy-haired boy took my hand and unbolted my bedroom door. "As long as we have the house to ourselves, let's get pissed, I know McCartney has some booze around here."

I waited while he poured two glasses of scotch, adding a splash of sink water, tapping my foot impatiently. "What did you want to tell me?" 

He handed me the drink (even though I had no interest in hard liquor with nothing sweet to help it go down), taking a long sip of his before answering. "A friend of mine is going to France at the end of March; he can drive us as far as Paris, and from there we'll take a train to Bordeaux." He looked at me expectantly. "Aren't you excited?"

"Are you?"

"Of course," he said, half-offended, but it was a fair question. He told me this news so matter-of-factly, as though it were who won last night's cricket game. "I'm ready to spend the rest of my life with you, Mrs. Hathaway."

I let him kiss me softly on the lips, but inside, my heart was in my throat, strangling me, because, up until then, I didn't even know Brandon's last name.

He slid his hands up my shirt, utterly oblivious to the existential horror eating away at me. How could I marry a boy when I didn't know anything about him? I opened my mouth to let his tongue slip behind my teeth, but it felt like kissing a stranger. 

"Lorraine?"

That was the final straw. I screamed out loud, collapsing to the ground, tears pricking my eyes, my whole body trembling from shock. 

"John Lennon?!" Of course, the most important thing to Brandon in this moment was the rock star who'd barged in on us, not his terrified girlfriend curled up on the floor.

Thankfully, John was more considerate. "You alright, love?" 

I nodded, letting him haul me to my feet. "Fine, just a bit surprised to see you here."

"Paul said I could pop over if I wanted; he's a bit worried about you getting lonely around here." His eyes darted over to Brandon, who gawked at him like he was Father Christmas. "But I see you already have company."

"Oh, he was just leaving, weren't you darling?"

Brandon gave me a pleading look, and I had to resist the urge to punch him in his perfect face. Instead, I settled for shoving him out the front door, muttering something about calling him tomorrow and not to come by until my punishment ended. We were lucky it was only John who walked in on us and not Paul. I returned to the Jesus-haired Beatle with my head ducked bashfully. "Sorry you had to see that."

"See what? You two snogging?" John snorted. "I've seen worse, and in this house, too!"

"So you won't tell Paul?"

His eyes narrowed, suspiciousness painting his usually playful features. "Why, is there something important you're keeping from him."

How did he do that? How did he see clean through my late-night rendezvous with Brandon to my dirty, little secret? "I- I need to sit down; I feel faint." I settled down into one of the kitchen chairs, palm flat against my chest. I opened my mouth to explain myself, make up an excuse, but, instead, I started blubbering like a baby, flinging my whole upper body onto the table to hide my ugly tears.

"Rainy, why are you crying?" John sat down beside me, rubbing circles onto my back. "Tell me, please."

"I don't want to be here," I moaned.

"Well, you won't be for long; Paul can't exactly keep you locked up forever. And, if he does, I'll get on my white horse and steal you from your tower, m'lady."

I giggled half-heartedly at his attempts to cheer me up, but my insides were hollow icy caves. He didn't understand what I meant when I said I didn't want to be here. I didn't mean this house or London; I wanted to run away, be free, but I didn't want to go to France either; I didn't want to live with Paul or Linda or Brandon of Jackson or anybody. I didn't want to be anywhere; I didn't want to be anyone.

You guys, I'm so majorly excited! When I started writing this story, I had several things in mind that I wanted to happen; it's been a long and winding road ;) but we're so close to seeing the payoff of all those little hints I've planted. Sorry if some of these recent chapters have been a bit rough or just not up to my usual standard, as many of my fellow writers probably know, thinking up plot points is one thing, but writing all the connective tissue is another thing altogether. 

Thank you so much for reading, it would mean the world if you'd vote, leave a comment, and maybe suggest this book to someone who might enjoy it!