Paul McCartney Imagines

63

The club was pulsing, alive in the worst way—thick smoke, stale beer, and the kind of rowdy men who didn't stop to ask twice. But Paul? Paul made it all bearable. You watched him on stage like he was made of light, even in the dim red glow of the Top Ten Club. His eyes would find you between verses, winking as he swayed, hips moving with the beat, every inch of him electric.

You loved him. God, you did. Maybe too much.

It wasn't just the charm or the leather or the way he made a cheap cigarette look like a movie scene. It was the way he softened for you. The way he held your hand under the table. The way he never once pushed, even when the boys teased him about it.

"Still not shagging her, eh, Paulie?"

"Lay off," he'd laugh, but he always changed the subject. Because he knew you were waiting. You told him you wanted it to mean something. That you wanted him to be your first when the moment was right.

He kissed you in the alley that night before his set, hands on your waist, breath sweet with whisky and coke. "Be good while I'm up there, yeah?"

"I'm always good," you teased, and he kissed you again, longer this time.

"Not always," he grinned. "But that's why I like you."

He walked back into the stage lights. You never imagined that would be the last time you felt safe that night.

—

You didn't see him at first. Just felt a presence at your side while you leaned against the bar, your drink already warm in your hand. The man was older, broad, half his shirt untucked. He smiled like he owned you.

"On your own, love?"

You didn't even look up. "No."

He chuckled. "That so? Don't see no fella next to you."

"He's onstage."

"Ohh... the pretty one with the baby face and the leather pants?" He leaned closer. "You could do better."

You turned. "I'm not interested."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

You moved to leave, but his hand grabbed your wrist—hard. Your drink spilled. You looked around, but everyone was drunk, busy, loud. Paul was still singing. You could hear his voice echoing from the main hall.

"Don't touch me," you said.

But he did.

—

The rest blurred. Cold wall. Rough hands. Panic. Guilt. Pain.

You didn't scream. You couldn't. You just kept thinking: Paul. Please. Please come find me.

But he didn't.

Because he didn't know.

⸻

When you returned to the club, Paul was coming offstage, towel slung around his neck, damp hair curling against his forehead. He looked flushed, proud, eyes scanning for you—and when he saw you, he smiled wide.

"There's my girl," he grinned.

You forced a smile. You felt like your skin didn't belong to you anymore. Like you were watching yourself from far away.

"You alright?" he asked, stepping in to kiss your cheek.

You flinched.

Just slightly.

But he noticed.

You gave a tiny, fake laugh. "Sorry. I got cold outside."

He frowned a little, brushed your arm. "You're shaking."