Hamburg

10. The Eye of the Storm

After they finished the show at three in the morning, John- though uncharacteristically- retired to bed right away. It was Paul's turn to sleep next to him but, it seemed to George, that his friends were acting rather unlike themselves. Paul excused himself by claiming that he was filled with too much adrenaline to get any sleep and went out for a drink at another bar. He said this one was too crowded.

"Suit yourself," George said, shrugging.

Paul nodded and turned on heels to walk out, when George grabbed him by the shoulder and said, "Hey, Paul,"

"What?"

"Have you seen Ringo?"

"Rory Storm's drummer?" Paul said. "No I haven't. I thought you were mates with him."

"I know," George shook his head side to side. "Never mind, I'll see to it meself."

"Sorry mate," Paul patted George's back and walked away, into the dark.

George sighed and looked about him. There was too much and nothing to see all at the same time. There were so many people doing so many strange things that he could generally spend hours just looking at but, as he found himself searching for one particular set of blue eyes, he felt a great sense of sadness within him when he failed to find exactly that. George noticed Rory Storm at the corner of the bar. A smaller girl, hardly an adult, with raven black hair and freckles, was kissing his neck with one hand placed upon his flat chest. George felt almost disgusted as he caught himself admiring the collection of beauty spots littered on the smooth skin that the girl was kissing. He needed to approach Rory and ask about Ringo. Then, just as he began to contemplate taking a step forwards, he stopped and wondered if Ringo looked at Rory sometimes, his rockstar-like, spendthrift and lavish lifestyle, and saw him the way George did. He shook his head and pushed through the crowded bodies pushing against each other. A woman was on the stage singing a song about being a Jew. The bartender appeared horrified. George smiled at the singer and would later realise that he had just had a first hand experience of a future Punk.

"Alright mate?" George said, looking shoulder to shoulder, trying to look casual.

"Hullo," Rory slurred, biting his lower lip, which was swollen and slippery. "I see you are becoming good friends with my man Ringo."

"Er," George looked at him, unsure of what he was implying- if anything at all. "Well, we spoke a little yesterday, I suppose."

"I know," Rory said. "He told me. He said that you are very interesting. You're the guitarist from that Silver Beatles band right?"

"And you're Rory Storm from Rory Storm's band," George nodded.

He laughed so hard, the girl went flying into the corner of the bar's shelf, nearly dropping three large bottles. Rory pulled George by his collar and smiled. George stopped breathing. He could smell Rory and it was very strong. The firm grip, though clumsily so, at his collar was strangely enticing to George. Rory smiled lopsidedly and said, "You're still a boy, aren't you."

"Me?" George said. "No, no."

"How old are you, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"I'm-" George trembled under the powerful towering man before him. "I'm not. I'm eighteen. I'm eighteen."

"If that's what you want me to pretend to believe," Rory laughed. "Fine. You're eighteen. And I'm twenty three, okay?"

"Do you know where Ringo is?" George asked finally, feeling like another inch further and he would be able to taste Rory's mouth. Though he halfway didn't mind.

Rory pushed his golden locks over his head and grinned. He moved the hand he had been using to clutch onto George's shirt to the back of George's head, entangling his long fingers through his overgrown brown hair, "Ringo is at the Russ Bistro. You know where it is?"

George gulped and nodded half-absentmindedly.

"Well, he's there. Drinking coffee. Warming himself up." He laughed and winked before he let go off of George and turned his back to him, returning to his misguided groupie. George stood there, staring at the black, wool suit-jacket covered back that contrasted the shock of blonde hair, wondering what had just happened. He then turned around and exited the building, lighting an old cigarette with shaky hands. He wasn't sure what to tell Ringo or even how to look at him. He wanted to melt his mouth into his and wrap him around his shoulders and his waist, hold his head to his neck and dance in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

But he didn't now how to even be in the same room as him.