Chapter 15: Peter Best, Wo Bist Du?

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 Girls.

I hadn't noticed them before at all. Or rather, I haven't noticed how flirty they were. How could I not expect it? The boys were doing well, judging by Koschmider's gleaming smile each night. And they were fresh from Liverpool, not even German. Fresh and innocent and so, so, available to expose to the swinging nightclubs of Hamburg.

Fresh meat!

The story of George's lost virginity seemed an appropriate indicator of exactly how far some girls were willing to go for the boys. Paul often emerged in the morning with purple marks on his neck, wincing at them a little too much for my taste, giving everyone a devilish grin as he showed them off. Once he caught me with the grin. That was a little uncomfortable for both of us, and he looked away, embarrassed. I had always found it funny that my first impression of Paul was that he was so young, and here he was, having all the sex he could ever want right here in Hamburg. Jim would have a fit if he found out.

I had opened my eyes to the morning after that first performance I gave, and John's, ah, present last night. I was cuddled up next to him, one hand on his bare chest. He looked so peaceful while he slept. I listened to him breathe for a moment before I realized that there was a scurrying noise in the corner.

I sat up, confused. Maybe George was up early to practice, vaseline his hair, and have his daily bowl of cornflakes. Blinking in the darkness, I saw a glimpse of a blonde lean over and hook a bra into place. The action took place in Paul's corner of the room. Her dress went on, and she leaned over to put her shoes on. John gave a sudden snore next to me. I jumped a little, and then closed my eyes again, cuddling into his chest, and pulled the comforter over my head. I should give the girl her privacy.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking it a little. It wasn't John; he wouldn't be so rough with me. I tossed off the blanket and came face to face with the girl.

"Du solltest gehen," she said in a thick German accent. Her hair wasn't blonde after all. It was reddish, the color of rust, the effects of a bad dye job. I stared at her. "Pardon?"

"Englisch," I heard her mutter. And then, "You should go. The boys will not like if you stay."

"That one," I said, slightly annoyed, pointing at the sleeping John, "is my boyfriend. Freund."

"Entschuldigung, sorry, sorry," she said, a blush creeping over her cheeks. "I go." I caught her by the arm. "Hey. Thanks for looking out for me."

She nodded, still looking a little scared, and left the room, her heels making no noise as she quietly exited the room and pulled it shut behind her. I glanced at the wall clock. Six fourteen in the morning. I closed my eyes. I would tell John about it later.

***

"Four," bragged Paul.

"That is nothing to write home about, mate," George said through a mouthful of toast. "Try to beat eight."

"Well, not if that eight was over the span of one week, but if you got four every day—"

I interrupted Paul, rolling my eyes. "Stop bragging about your latest conquests. Maybe they're biting you to shut your irritating voice up."

There was a roar of laughter. I looked across the table to see George give my a smirk from the side of his mouth. John squeezed my shoulder next to me.

"That's proper antwacky, innit?" I exaggerated the Scouse and smiled a little at Paul. He rolled his eyes, but not before I caught a little smirk flash in his look.

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