Paul Mccartney Imagines

38

The Cavern Club was a frenzy of heat and noise. Bodies moved together in a tangle of limbs, the smell of beer and cigarettes thick in the air. The Beatles had just finished another set, and the crowd was buzzing with leftover energy, laughing and shouting to one another.

You sat at the bar, the edge of your glass slippery with condensation as you turned it over in your hand. Your friends had disappeared into the chaos to chase the boys onstage, leaving you behind to sit in relative quiet. Not that you minded. You liked being here, but the whole scene—the screaming girls, the relentless obsession with the band—wasn't for you.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

"Not a fan of the spotlight, then?"

The voice startled you. You turned to see Paul McCartney leaning against the bar, his jacket slung over one shoulder, tie slightly loosened. His face was flushed from the heat of the stage lights, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "I guess not," you said, your voice clipped.

He smirked, settling onto the stool beside you. "So, what's a girl like you doing here, then? Not exactly the type to scream my name from the front row."

Your lips twitched, but you didn't smile. "I'm here with friends. They're the ones screaming your name, not me."

"Ah," Paul said, nodding as if he understood. "So you're the sensible one in the group."

"Something like that."

He leaned closer, his elbow propped on the bar, and you caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Let me guess. You're one of those people who think we're overhyped, yeah? Just a couple of lads with guitars and too much attention?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Should I lie and say no?"

Paul laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and for a moment, you forgot about the noise of the club around you.

"I like you," he said, his grin softening into something more genuine. "You're honest."

"That's not saying much," you replied, though your voice lacked the edge it had before.

Paul tilted his head, studying you like you were some puzzle. "What's your name?"

You hesitated. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to know what to call the girl who just put me in my place."

You sighed, but you gave him your name anyway. He repeated it softly, like he was trying it on for size, and the sound on his lips made your stomach twist in a way you didn't like.

"I'll remember that," he said, his grin returning.

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your drink. "I'm sure you will."

You tried to avoid him after that, but Paul had a way of showing up when you least expected him. At the Cavern, he'd find you by the bar or in a corner, striking up a conversation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He wasn't pushy, but he was persistent—always throwing out jokes or bits of charm to see if he could make you crack.

And to your frustration, he usually succeeded.

One night, after another set, Paul found you again. It was raining as you stepped outside, pulling your coat tight around you. The streets were slick with water, the dim light from the streetlamps reflecting off the cobblestones.

"You're walking home alone?"

You sighed, not bothering to turn around. "What are you doing out here, Paul?"