My Love, My Drug, My Release

Epilogue

He sighed, almost defeated. "I don't know, said that fucking rockstars sent them."

I followed him up the stairs, which we took instead of the elevator for some unknown reason, perhaps so he could expel his nervous energy. When we reached the roof, I was nearly blown over the guardrails and to my death by the strength of the helicopter propellers. Strong hands hauled me forward, my shoulder-skimming hair whipping around my face by the force of the gusts before I was finally shoved inside the chopper.

"Hey, wait a minute, my dad, my brother-"

"Afraid they don't have invites," said the pilot. "Mr. Jagger told me to bring Lorraine Foxwell, that's all."

"Mick sent you? Why?"

"Sorry ma'am, gotta focus on flying this thing. They'll explain everything on the private jet."

Private jet? I peeked out the window, hoping to see Dad or Jack storming out of the stairwell, demanding they release me; this was essentially a kidnapping, just with the Rolling Stones' lead singer's name slapped on it to give the whole scene an aura of legitimacy. But I'd be lying if I said I kicked and screamed the whole way, demanding they release me. Once we were in the air-a pair of ear muffs given to me to protect my eardrums from the roar of the propeller-I sat back and waited for what was coming my way. I loved John and Yoko and the relative simplicity they brought to my life (simple for rockstars, anyway), but the turmoil of Mick and Keith and Anita and even... I didn't dare even think his name, but his face filled my mind. The turmoil all those people wrought upon me, despite all the suffering it caused me, was addictive, pulling me back into their orbit like a magnet.

It's only one night, whatever this is, maybe two tops. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, then go back to being an awkward third wheel with my brother and my ex-secret-girlfriend.

On the private jet, they served me champagne and martinis without asking my age even though I was barely sixteen (although I always looked a touch older and it wasn't like we were legally in any nation whilst in the air, bound by that county's drinking laws). 

"Is this whole thing...just for me?" I asked, leaning back on one of the buttery beige armchairs, ready to take a nap.

A stewardess fixed me with a patronizing stare. "Um, no, Miss Foxwell, we're just picking you up on the way to grab some more...well-known guests of Mick's. A Beatle, I believe."

I sat up straight at that, snapping my seat out of it's reclined position and spilling a drop of champagne on myself, making the stewardess's nose crinkle further before she turned around to handle more important business than some clueless teenager. A Beatle? Which one? Not John; I doubted Mick would care to have him around after he referred to his performance style as "fag dancing" and George had become a pit of a recluse, so whatever party the Rolling Stone was throwing, I didn't see the moody guitarist attending. Could it be Paul? He was pissed as hell about all the time I'd spent with Mick and Keith, the heroin they'd given me, the sex he could always tell we'd had when I returned home drunk or high or both. But it had been months, maybe he'd moved on? Maybe he and Mick were the best of friends again. Maybe I was about to see him in a matter of minutes, watch him board the plane, most likely with Linda in tow, lock eyes with him for the first time since I'd left. I wondered if he still loved me, or if there would be just a whisper of a memory behind his chocolate brown eyes, as there had been with Thelma.

When the jet landed (where, I had no clue) I wanted to run and hide in the bathroom, but I was paralyzed, glued to my admittedly very comfy seat, breaths coming through quick and shallow, my lungs never filling, never giving me the safety of a deep inhale and restful exhale. Unable to flee, I settled for leaning back and closing my eyes, feigning sleep.