Celia wasn't sure if she was in the mood to laugh, cry or smash a bottle over someone's head.
James and Diana had done a runner. Penny was nowhere to be seen, and now she'd just missed the bus and had to wait forty-five minutes for the next one. There were no cabbies around, not that Celia had enough cash to get one anyway. God forbid her parents found out that she spent the evening drinking at a pub; she'd be dead before morning. Asking her father to pick her up wasn't even an option.
Celia dragged her Mary-Janes along the pavement, making her way back to The Dukes. The last thing she wanted to do was step inside that pub again, but she wasn't about to sit and freeze her arse off at the bus stop. A cigarette would warm her up, and she desperately craved one. At least if she went back inside she could try and find Penny, she'd surely have a ciggy on her. That's if she hadn't pissed off and done a runner too.
Celia thanked the warmth of James' coat but remembering that he buggered off without her made her want to rip it off, throw it on the ground and decorate it with some nice, dirty footprints. Some bloody friend he was. How could they both leave without her? More to the point, why would they leave without her? No, if she thought about it again, it would only start her off, and she'd only just calmed down. If angry crying while venting to strangers hadn't sobered her up from her tipsy-state than walking to and from the bus stop certainly had. Now, Celia was just cold, miserable, and without a companion.
Outside the pub, a bottle smashed onto the ground which stirred a load of drunken cheers and an eye roll from Celia. She wasn't in the mood for merriment and mirth. For a second Celia considered turning back around, but she caught sight of Eric. He stood talking to John, both their backs facing her. They'd know where Penny is, surely. Celia made her way over to them, and just as she was about to tap Eric's shoulder, she stopped.
"Na, she looks like a dog," Eric said to John, cig hanging out of his mouth.
Celia's stomach flipped. She thought he'd been referring to Penny, but following his gaze, she realised the two boys were eyeing up three women standing on the opposite side of the road. They were busy chatting amongst themselves, unaware of the two teenagers crudely scrutinising them.
"Yeah, well you have a thing for bitches, don't ya, son?" John replied, elbowing Eric. Eric swore at him, and John giggled when Eric nudged him back.
"Eh, what about 'er, then?" John asked, tilting his bottle over at a tall brunette. "Big tits, legs up to 'er armpits."
Eric shrugged. "She's good lookin', but she kinda looks like a man."
"Yeah but the face doesn't matter, lad; not when the rest of her makes up for it. She's got a good handful to grab onto while yer hammer the nail from behind. That's all that matters, in't it?"
"I suppose so."
Celia's skin crawled. How did they have the nerve to talk about women like that? Especially Eric, who was supposed to be loved up with her best friend. The lack of respect was disgusting, and Celia wasn't gonna shy away from letting the pair of them know it, either.
"I can't believe the audacity of you two."
Both boys turned at the same time to find Celia grimacing up at them. Eric's face dropped when he realised Penny's friend had been listening in on their conversation.
"Did yer mother never tell ya it's rude to eavesdrop?" John asked, casually taking a sip of his beer.
"What's rude is the way you talk about girls."
"Oh, here we go."
"No, don't 'here we go' me. It's absolutely revolting!" Celia criticised. "And you," she turned to Eric and sharply pointed her finger at him. "Well, I can't believe you! Imagine if Penny heard you speakin' like that."
Eric dropped his head, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. "Yeah...yeah you're right. Sorry." He glanced up at her from underneath his lashes and shot her a quick apologetic smile. John, on the other hand, was nowhere near remorseful.
"What you doin' apologisin' to her, Griffy? It's none of 'er bleedin' business." John had the cheek to look at Celia with disgust. "She's an interfering cow all out 'ere on her jack-jones. Yeah, that's right," he said, taking a step towards her. "Don't think I ain't seen yer mates scurrying off without ya. Even they can't stand the sight of you." John shoved his cigarette back in his mouth. "Now do one and fuck off, ya moany little prig."
That truly did it. She'd had enough of John and his cruel, sharp tongue. Celia took the half-pint of beer resting on the window ledge and threw it directly at John. He leapt out of the way, but he was too late. Beer soaked his t-shirt and dampened his hair and cigarette. Both boys stood frozen and speechless. John's nostrils were flaring, and his eyes had turned into little balls of fire.
"Prick," Celia spat. She would've been frightened of the look he was giving her if she wasn't so pissed off. She banged the glass back on the ledge, and after giving John one final glare, she spun around and swiftly made her escape.
******
"Fuck...John!"
John tightened his grip on Lizzie's hips, digging his fingernails deeper into her flesh. He let out a guttural groan in the back of his throat and spilled into the rubber. His face fell onto Lizzie's shoulder, and he placed his trembling palm on the mirror behind Lizzie to steady himself.
"That was...bloody incredible," Lizzie panted. She wrapped her fingers around John's head and planted a kiss on his neck.
"Yeh," he mumbled in reply, just like he always did.
"Shit, is that the time?" Lizzie gently pushed John aside and hopped off the counter, her legs quivering a little as they threatened to give out. She steadied herself against John's side before pulling down her dress and smoothing out the creases.
"Christ, I look a right mess!" Lizzie stated, looking at herself in the mirror. She wiped the sweat from underneath her eyes, smudging her mascara in the process. Lizzie swore under her breath and moaned once again at how "despicable" she looked.
It was a routine this. The girl would always complain that she was a mess and start rummaging through her purse for her lipstick, her powder, her hairbrush-whatever other beauty shit she used to fix herself. Sometimes John would watch her while having a ciggy, though most of the time he just pissed off and left her to it.
He wiped his face on the bottom of his damp shirt, and while Lizzie slapped more crap on her face, John turned to the mirror to sort his own appearance out. His quiff hung loose, and without his cherished comb- which he'd foolishly left at home- he did his best to resculpt it with his fingers.
"I've got to go home now, John" Lizzie said, gazing at him through the mirror.
"Yeh? Well safe journey," John said, pulling up his pants.
Lizzie spun around to face him. "It's cold out there now, y'know."
John zipped up his fly and said, "Good job you've got a nice warm coat, eh?" He started searching his coat pockets for his fags.
"It's pitch black out there too, though."
John knew what Lizzie was hinting at. She wanted him to take her on the bus, walk her to her door, kiss her goodnight and then bid her a loving farewell like he was Frank fucking Sinatra. If she thought he'd be doing that, she could think again. John wasn't exactly the chivalrous gentlemen type. Besides, he wasn't ready to leave Dukes yet. It was only gone half seven, and he needed a couple more drinks, and perhaps a couple more girls too.
If Lizzie wants a Sinatra, she can go and find herself one.
"Follow the streetlamps of Liverpool and yer won't have to play blind man's bluff all the way home."
His cigs weren't in the pocket of his jeans either. Where the bloody fuck had he put them?
John caught the disappointment in Lizzie's smile, but he played ignorant to it, just like he'd been doing all evening. He'd been too busy eyeing up a busty redhead who looked a little like a young Rita Hayworth. A much less pretty and less glamorous version of Hayworth that is. Nevertheless, the girl was high up on the list of birds he wouldn't mind having wrapped around his cock.
At first, Lizzie was pissed off and refused to go with John when he came to find her, but he got his way eventually. It didn't take much effort with her. All he had to do was give her those sappy neck kisses that she liked while pressing his bulge against her arse and then was practically pulling him towards the crappers with her silks halfway down her thighs.
"Well, perhaps I can see you tomorrow after school, then?" Lizzie asked. "You could have ya tea at mine or I could come to your-"
"Nah, I'm busy, Liz. Sorry."
Was he fuck. He'd probably come home and illustrate one or two of his poems, have a Bardot wank and then laze about in front of the telly. That's how busy he'd be. In other words, he was busy doing jack all.
It wasn't the first time Lizzie had suggested doing something other than sex. She'd been bringing it up more frequently lately. If it wasn't dinner around his, then it was dinner over at hers, and John always had an excuse lined up. Either that or he'd change the subject until she forgot about it. In truth, John couldn't think of anything worse. He'd rather jump off Hangman's cliff than have dinner with the Vanderports, or any girl and their family for that matter.
He imagined the look on his aunt's face when he brought home some random bird for tea. She wouldn't stand for it, and the questions she'd throw at him would be endless. The thought of it alone was giving him a bloody headache. What was wrong with how things were? The sex was good, so why was Lizzie always trying to push things forward? Girls were never satisfied; they always wanted more, didn't they? More this, more that. Why can't we do this? Why can't we that? John was starting to get pissed off with it all. He would've packed Lizzie in if she wasn't such a good fuck. She was far better than the others, and he always found himself comparing the sex anyway.
"Alright. It's a bit short notice I suppose," Lizzie said, crouching down to pick up her bottle of beer. "Another time soon, then?"
"Shush, I think someone's 'ere," John fibbed. He walked over to the bathroom door and pressed his ear against it. They'd snuck into a buggered toilet, so the chances of someone wanting to use it was unlikely. John couldn't give two shits if someone caught the two of them in there; it was just an excuse for him not to answer Lizzie.
"Nope, all good," John said, pulling open the door. The acrid smell of tobacco greeted his nostrils. God, he was itching for a cigarette.
"Wait, John."
Fuckity fuck. He turned around, a million excuses speeding through his mind.
"Do you wanna finish my beer, then?" Lizzie asked, walking over to John. "I've barely drunk it and I don't need it anymore, seeing as I'm goin' home." Her tone was sad and gentle, and John was the reason for it. She held the bottle out to him.
"Cheers, sweetheart." He leaned forward and pecked Lizzie's cheek. "Sorry again about yer dress, yeah?" He nodded towards the tiny tear on the strap of her dress.
Her little heart-shaped lips tugged up at the side. "That's okay. It was worth it."
John smirked back at her and said, "I'll see ya at lunch tomorrow for the usual, yeh?" He wiggled his brows and gave her arse a quick, playful squeeze. Lizzie hesitated at first, but she soon gave John a small nod and stood on her tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. John leaned against the doorframe and took a sip of Lizzie's beer while watching the girl walk away with a much less confident gait than she had when she first strutted into the pub. He'd been the reason for that too. Why would Lizzie want anything more from a prick like him? He felt like a heartless bastard; nothing tugged inside of him that made him feel an ounce of sorrow or remorse.
Everything would go back to normal tomorrow, though. Lizzie would straddle his lap on the bench while the lads pretended not to drool with envy over the fact that John was the one who had that sexy Vanderport bird.
A couple of minutes later, John walked over to a small round table with two empty pint glasses. The pub was busier now-fewer youngsters. Laughter overpowered the jukebox. John had no clue where any of his mates were. Eric was probably having it off with Penny somewhere. Nigel had gone home, that left Rod and Pete, and god knows where they were. John scanned the room. It was pointless, though- he couldn't see shit without his glasses. His vision was useless without them, but he'd rather walk around half-blind than to wear those things outside the comfort of his own home. He felt like a twat, and he didn't exactly look like Buddy Holly now did he? That lucky bastard could pull them off.
John plonked himself into a chair and felt something against his chest. His cigs. Thank fuck. He pulled the box out of his top pocket to discover that the top corner was scrunched over from where Lizzie had been clutching onto his shirt. He popped the ciggy into his mouth and smiled. He'd never tire of that power he had over birds. It was a remarkable thing, feeling a girl quiver against his body. Hearing Lizzie's nail's scratch over the wood, searching for something to grip onto with her head tilted back against his shoulder as he made her come. Girls became vulnerable in those last few moments. John was the one in control, and he loved it.
John removed the cigarette from between his teeth and smacked his lips together. His mouth tasted like citrusy perfume. He took a swig of his beer to wash away the taste of Lizzie and stood from his seat. He'd get another beer and then have a wander, perhaps find that Rita Hayworth. John swaggered over to the bar, and that's when he heard her before he saw her. Not Hayworth, that prudy bitch, Celia Pooley.
After she threw that drink over him, he stormed after her. In the heat of the moment, John wanted to throttle her, yell at her, throw one back at her, laugh at her--all of the above. She'd fucked him off big time. He couldn't find her, though. She'd managed to run off somewhere; lucky for her. He saw Lizzie over by the jukebox and realised that's what he needed- a quick, tight fuck to calm him down before he did something he'd come to regret.
John took out his frustration out on Lizzie at first. He'd been a little too rough with her, shoving her against the sink and tearing her dress as he yanked the strap down her shoulder. She slid the strap back up her arm, calling John an aggressive bastard, but it wasn't long before the dress was lying on the floor. It was a skill John had mastered, and it worked every time. Look them in the eye, tell them what they want to hear, apologise, and before you know it--dress back off, cock back out and then back to it.
Adjacent to John, Celia was having trouble with two stout blokes who couldn't seem to keep their hands to themselves. They looked to be in their mid-twenties, one nearing bald and the other with the fattest fingers John had ever seen. Celia shifted in her seat and tried to brush them off but fat fingers had his arm slung around her neck with the ugliest grin on his face. Prudy wasn't exactly short on looks-- stuff like this happened all the time with ugly brass-necked blokes like them who thought they could get lucky with pretty, young girls like her. It was obvious the girl was uncomfortable, and John couldn't blame her. They were two grown arse men (not to mention the fact that they were the ugliest fucking fellas in Liverpool). Fat fingers had taken ahold of a chunk of her dress and started to pull it up over her thighs slowly. She slapped his hand away, but he simply laughed and tried again.
John sprung up from his seat.
"For the last time, get your hands away from me and leave me the fuck alone."
"Ah come on, love. Don't be shy, eh? I just want a little stroke, that's all."
"Did yer not hear her the first time? She said fuck off." Their smarmy grins faded when they turned to see a young lad with a beer in his hand and a cig hanging out of his mouth. With his upturned collar and his poor excuse of a quiff, it was easy to read this kid just by looking at him. Cocky. Arrogant. Throws his weight around, thinking he's something worth paying attention to.
"You got a problem with ya hearin'?" John nodded over to the pub doors. "Go on, off ya pop."
Perhaps a bit of trouble with these two scruffs would entertain John for a little while.
"Barry, you hearin' this little scally," Fat fingers laughed, revealing a half-chipped tooth.
Celia glanced over her shoulder and immediately turned back around when she met eyes with John. She rested her hand against her temple with a sigh.
"Wonderful to see you too, Chetch. Wanna introduce me to yer boyfriends?"
"Oh fuck off, John," she mumbled.
"Yeah, you heard the girl, jog on," fat fingers said.
"I asked you to leave too," she spat.
Celia grabbed baldy's arm from around her shoulder and pushed it away from her.
"The man's a half-wit," John stated. "He doesn't understand the word leave."
"I'll give you a half-wit in a minute, son." Fat fingers got up from his stool. "Who do you think yer talkin' to you scruffy little shit?"
"A pair of pervs who enjoy hittin' on fifteen-year-old girls."
Baldy's eyes widened, surveying the teenager sitting beside him. "Yer fifteen?! Christ ya face looks older."
"Yeah, yours too," Celia snarled.
Fat fingers sneered and squeezed Celia's knee. "Don't matter, it'll give her some experience."
"I said piss off!" Celia grit her teeth and fat fingers shrieked as she thumped her empty bottle against his knuckles.
"Ah, ya fuckin' bitch!"
He quickly withdrew his hand and John forcefully kicked his barstool as he reached out to grab Celia in anger. Fat fingers caught his leg on the bottom of the stool and staggered forward. Celia shot up from her seat before he collapsed onto her and he fell against the empty stool, one hand wrapped around it, the other one on the bar top. His friend reached over to help him, but fat fingers gruffly shrugged him off.
"You had one too many, clumsy tits?" John nonchalantly asked with a side-smirk.
Like an angry beast, clumsy tits growled and pushed the stool onto the floor and lunged towards John. John jumped backwards, but the beast managed to grip either side of John's shirt and yanked him closer to him.
All attention around the bar was on them now-- conversations paused, laughter cut short, drinks half-poured. Eager faces awaited the entertainment of a Sunday evening bust-up while Johnny Cash sang away on the jukebox.
Clumsy tits made a corny show of cracking the joints in his fist. He was a few inches smaller than John but with twice the muscles. John didn't care, though; his adrenalin was surging through him, and his fingers curled into a tight fist by his side, ready to knock out that crooked tooth of his. John had only been in schoolboy scraps, but it didn't concern him; he could take on this twenty-something if that's what the fat little prick was after.
"It's not worth it Charlie, he's just a kid," Baldy said, placing his hand on his mate's shoulder, trying to pull him away from John. Fat fingers shrugged him off again, chest heaving. "C' mon man, think of Shirley."
The mention of Shirley, whoever the hell she was (wife, daughter, dog, cat- fuck knows) seemed to do its job because the creases in fat fingers forehead disappeared and his face softened ever so slightly. He snarled and pulled John closer towards him and said, "I could call the bobbies on you, ya know? Tell them about your underage drinking, how'd ya like that?"
"Yeah?" John lowered his head towards the little man's face. "Well, when they arrive I'll tell 'em about that little ornament your mate's just nicked."
Two can play that fucking game. John went around nicking stuff all the time, the only thing is, he wasn't stupid enough to get himself caught. Baldy couldn't look more guilty if he tried--he'd turned a shade whiter and his mouth was opening and closing like a fish on dry land.
"She saw it too, didn't ya, Pooley?"
Celia looked dazed at first, but she caught on. "Yeah, yeah I did. He slipped it right into his pocket." She stood next to John with her arms folded, eyebrows raised at the two fools.
"Ah, for fucksake," fat fingers mumbled under his breath. He turned to his mate and through gritted teeth, he said, "You that incapable of doing everythin', Barry?"
Barry dropped his head like a kid. Chubby Charlie turned back to John and let go of his shirt. He shoved him backwards and for a second, John thought it was his cue to lunge towards him, but fat fingers turned around. His friend let out a small sigh of relief, just as the onlookers let out a sigh of disappointment. John would've happily given them a show, but Charlie here had his dear old Shirley to think about.
He turned back around and pointed a stubby finger at John. "You better watch yourself, lad. If I see you again, you'll be in for it."
John smirked. "And you'll be out of it by the time we're finished with each other."
"I wouldn't be so sure, ya fucking shit."He spat by John's feet.
"Come 'ead," he said, gesturing for his mate to follow him.
John's hand curled into a fist once more, ready to walk over and knock him one for daring to spit at him like that but somehow, Celia sensed what he was about to do. She took hold of John's forearm and pulled him backwards.
The man turned around and pointed his finger once more, but this time it was directed at Celia. "And someone should tell her this is a pub, not a fucking garden party."
"And it ain't a zoo either," John shouted as the two men bowled towards the exit. "Fuckin' twats." He muttered the last part and swiftly turned to Celia. "And you, why the fuck did yer yank my arm for?"
"I was saving your back," she said, offended. "I knew you were gonna go for him after he spat at you."
"Yeah, too right, I was. That nonce was askin' for it."
"Did you not see those massive rings on his fingers? He could've had your teeth."
"If he was gonna do it, he would've done it the minute he stood up. He's all mouth and no trousers."
John walked over to the barstool, gulping his beer. He should've used the opportunity to smash it over that prick's head.
"Hey, so it's alright for you to take the piss out of my dress, but not him?"
She took a seat next to John.
"Yeah but I know you, so it's alright."
"Oh, so that's how it works then is it?"
"Yeh, it is," John answered. "Why'd ya come out wearin' that circus tent for anyway."
"Because I went-...It's none of your business, actually. And, I'm sixteen, by the way."
"Congratulations," John replied flatly, tilting his bottle at Celia.
Celia tutted. "You told those divs I was fifteen; I'm not. I turned sixteen in September."
"Oh, well sorry I interrupted ya then. I didn't know you'd given 'em the consent now that you're a big girl."
"No, I didn't mean it like that." She sat up straight, getting all defensive. "I just meant that-"
John smiled. "I'm teasin' ya, Chetch."
"Stop calling me that."
"I can call you what I want, prissy pants. I just rescued ya from sex predators with frankfurters for fingers."
"I didn't need your help," she huffed. "I could've got rid of them without you."
"Great fucking job you were doing, eh?"
"Oh, well, my hero," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How will I ever repay you?"
John thought of the many ways he'd like Little Miss Prim to pay him back but saving the dirty comments to himself he said, "If I look anything like them in me twenties yer have to shoot me down dead."
"I can do it now if you like? Save you the pain of finding out."
John popped another ciggy in his mouth. He couldn't even remember what he did with his last one. "That's very considerate of you, Chechelia, but I'd quite like to get some more knob action before you stick a gun to me temple."
"Well then shouldn't you be off swallowing tongues or something?"
A smirk hovered over John's lips, and he sat up and stretched his arms above his head. "I'm on a quick break, love. Unless you're offering?" His smirk turned into a devilish grin.
She stared back at him with utter disgust. The girl looked horrified at the mere possibility of John's saliva merging with her own.
"As if I ever would. Wipe that stupid grin off your face before I throw another drink at you."
"Oh yeh, cheers for that, by the way." He took hold of the top his shirt and bent his head to take a quick sniff. He reeked strongly of malty ale. His shirt had dried, but in return, it had left a stiff patch, and his chest was sticky. It was stupid of him to not to rub a little water on himself while in the loo with Lizzie, though concern for his sticky chest had been the last thing on his mind.
"I smell like a flippin' brewery," John stated.
"Well good job we're in a pub then."
John inhaled his cigarette and slowly blew the smoke into Celia's face. Instead of reacting to it, like John expected her to, her brown eyes fixated on the fag between his fingers. Amused, he moved it further away from him, and her eyes followed like a dog intently eyeing a stick or a ball.
"D'yer like playin' fetch, Pooley?"
Celia's eyes quickly darted to John, awoken from the hypnotic spell of the Woodbine.
"What?"
John shook his head, smiling. He stuck his fag in his mouth he pulled out his crumpled box. He flipped it open with his thumb and tilted it towards Celia.
"I don't want anything from you."
"You're throbbing for a cig, go on." He moved the box towards her and after a few seconds dithering she reached out to take one, but John quickly snapped the box closed. Celia frowned at him with a deep crease in her brow, and John laughed maliciously.
"Why would you do that?"
John smiled, tucking the box back into his pocket. "You have to earn it."
"Earn it?" she scoffed. "I'm not playing your stupid game; you owe me one."
"I don't owe anyone anything, love."
"Yes, yes, you do." The girl tapped her finger on the bartop. "You called me a few horrid names earlier, the least you could do is give me a cigarette."
Annoyed, John pulled his ciggy out of his mouth and turned to her. "Yeah and what of it? You threw yer drink at me face so now we're even."
She stared at him in disbelief, and she shook her head. "Your mind has a funny way of working, John Lennon. You can shove your cigarette up your arse. I'll go and get one myself."
Scowling at John, she stood up from her seat, her long blonde ponytail whipping through the air as she turned around and stormed away.
She returned to John five minutes later.
"Fine!" She slammed her hand down on the bartop and heaved out a sigh of defeat. John sat laughing at her. "I'll do whatever stupid thing it is you want me to do, but I swear to god, Lennon, if you so much as ask me to-"
"Down this." John pushed his beer towards her.
"It's...it's beer."
"My, my! Terrific observation, Sherlock!" he joked. "What's your point?"
"I don't like it," Celia muttered.
Isn't beer supposed to be her favourite drink or something?
"But you said beer-"
"Well, I lied, alright!" She threw her hands in the air. " I hate it. How can you drink that stuff? It's pissy and yeasty, and I'm not drinking it. End of." Like a sulking kid, she furrowed her brows, pouted her lips and crossed her arms against her chest.
"Alright, no ciggy then."
"You're out of order."
"Christ girl, I'm not asking you to suck me off, it's just a fuckin' beer!"
He had every right to be aggravated. John was being reasonable. He could've taken advantage of her and asked for a sexual favour, but he thought he'd go easy on her. If it were any other bird, he wouldn't even have hesitated to ask them for a shag or a quickie under the table, and they probably would've done it too. Why? Because they were loose broads who went around asking for it, and he was only too happy to oblige. What foolish lad his age wouldn't? But her, that prissy whinger over there, wasn't the type of girl he'd usually interact with. Make fun of with his mates, sure, but he wasn't the kind to feel fury watching two blokes harass her at a bar. He wasn't the kind to get in a fight to save her from their wandering hands. So why had he? How did he benefit from all that? It's not as if he wanted a friendship out of it. She pissed him off ninety per cent of the time. In fact, why was he still sitting here now with her? He scraped back his stool and stood up. He ignored Celia's bewildered stare and went to pick up his beer, but she got a hold of it first.
"Give it back. I'm leavin'."
"No." She held it to her chest. "I'll do it, alright? Like you said there are worse things you could've asked and I really bloody want a cig."
She mumbled something under her breath and immediately drank from the bottle in big gulping swallows. She started to bang her fist on the bartop, beer dribbling down her chin as she struggled to keep it in her mouth.
"Eh, don't stop!" John laughed. "Keep at it."
Celia's eyes widened in panic as John started to count down from five while smacking his hand on the bartop. Beer began to drip onto her lap, but she kept going much to John's amusement. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head backwards, downing the last of it. Victorious, she slammed the bottle down on the counter and let out a huge breath.
"You're gonna have to wear a bib next time, mate" he laughed.
Celia glared at John and wiped her chin with the back of her hand.
"There won't be a next time; I'm never touching that stuff again. Now give me a damn cigarette." She held out her hand, motioning for John to hand one over.
To John, there was something arousing about the way she had shoved the neck of the bottle in her mouth, and the way her lips curved around the rim. He wanted to feel those plump lips wrapped around his length, but he wasn't exactly gonna get that after one beer, now was he?
"You're not done yet," he smirked.
"John! I did what you asked. That's hardly fair."
"Yeah, well life ain't fair. Ever tried scotch?"
"No."
John pushed a full glass of scotch into her vision. If it all went to plan, the more bevvies she had, the drunker she'd become and then she'd be on her knees in front of him soon enough.
"That's not yours." Her eyes flickered from the tumbler to John.
"Yes, it is," he lied. "I bought it earlier while you were off beggin' for drinks."
What she doesn't know can't hurt her. It belonged to fat fingers which he'd obviously forgotten about amid his raging temper. John had planned to neck it himself before this little challenge started, but he wanted to see how far she'd go; see what she was capable of.
"Go on. It's dead nice. You might like it; it's whiskey."
"I highly doubt that."
Celia rolled her eyes, and in return, John raised his brows at her and said, "how'd you know if you've never tried it?"
Hesitant, she picked up the scotch and sniffed it. She scrunched up her face and held it away from her.
"I hope it tastes better than it smells."
Without another word, she closed her eyes and quickly brought the glass to her lips. John watched the liquor disappear in a flash--two big gulps, and it was gone.
"Steady on, ya pisspot!"
With her eyes still squeezed shut, she wiped her mouth and smiled proudly at her second victory. John stuck his ciggie between his teeth to applaud her. He was astounded at how she'd managed to down a full glass of scotch without so much as a breath or a flinch.
"That was...disgusting."
"Liar," John grinned. "You loved it."
She'd probably be drunk in ten minutes, give or take a few. She was already clutching the edge of the bar to steady herself. John reached into his pocket and pulled out his ciggies. He placed it on the bartop and lay his lighter next to it. She looked at him, and he gave her the go-ahead with a nod towards the box. She looked at him weird then, head tilted to one side as if she were a caveman presented with strange tools.
Why is she acting thick? Staring back at her, he picked up the box and did that thing he tended to do when people acted stupidly dense- he stuck his tongue in his cheek and started to slur his speech out of the side of his mouth. "Do you want a cig or not?" He waved the box in front of her while murmuring as if he were a simpleton.
"Oh!" John caught the slight blush on her round cheeks, and she quickly reached out and took one. "Er thanks, sorry I didn't realise."
She lit the cigarette, and her cheeks hollowed as she took her first deep drag. Her eyes closed, her shoulders sunk, and a small smile crept onto her lips. John knew that feeling all too well. There was nothing quite like smoking your first fag after you've been so long without one. Inhaling it was pure bliss. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana.
"So, does mummy and daddy dearest know you nick their ciggies, then?" John asked, stubbing his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray beside him.
Celia shook her head. "My mum doesn't smoke. Well, not anymore; she gave up a year before my little brother was born. And my dad only smokes cigars, thinks he's Winston Churchill."
"Oh, he's one of those is he?"
"What, fat, bald and very headstrong? Yes, I suppose so."
No, John meant a sanctimonious bastard, but it was probably best to keep that to himself.
"They don't know that I smoke though," she continued. "I make sure to do it when they're not around; they'd hate it otherwise."
"Well ain't you a divine little saint." John studied her for a second, running his fingertips around the wet rim of the tumbler. "Didn't think you'd be the type to smoke."
She tutted. "Why because I wear big pink dresses and walk around Quarry Bank clutching my school books?" She rolled her eyes and tapped the ash off her cigarette.
"Something like that, yeh."
"Yeah well, I'm full of surprises."
Celia pursed her lips and John watched as she blew out rapid little bursts of smoke. The hazy o-rings floated upward, distorted and twisting along their wayward path. John craned his neck to watch the smoke rhythmically dissipate, one perfect ring after another which settled to form a layer of dancing fog near the ceiling.
"Close your mouth, or you'll catch flies."
John brought his attention back to Celia to find her staring at him with a faint upward curve of her lip.
"How'd you learn how to do that?"
"Practice," she said with a shrug. "I used to watch my sister, Marian, do it all the time. She'd sit on her window ledge, with the window wide open so that the smell wouldn't linger. It was tranquil to watch, but I wanted to do it too, so I threatened to tell my parents about her secret smoking if she didn't teach me." She chuckled to herself, shaking her head. "I never would've told them, not really." John sensed she wasn't really talking to him, then. She was facing the bar now, staring at nothing in particular, but smiling fondly at some distant memory of hers.
"Well, yer sis taught ya well. I've never seen a bird do it proper before."
Come to think of it, John had never seen a bird do that at all. Most girls didn't even know how to smoke correctly, for christ sake. They'd blow out the smoke as soon as they'd taken a quick drag. It pained John to see them waste a perfectly good cigarette. He once watched a clot light the wrong end of her ciggy, and she continued to puff on it despite the absence of smoke from the unlit tobacco. He didn't tell her. Her lack of wit and stamina was enough for him to scratch her name and number out of his little black book. He couldn't understand how they seemed to think it made them more desirable when all most of them did was puff, cough and splutter.
Celia turned to John, a glint of triumph in her smirking gaze. "Are you saying you're impressed with me, Lennon?"
The girl could down beer and a full glass of whiskey without so much as a gag or recoil, and she'd turned smoking a fag into a sexy work of art. He was impressed, to say the least. It only added to his insatiable desire for her, though he denied that to himself. He wanted nothing more to do with the little priss.
Before he could snap back with deliberate spite, his eyes caught the attention of a tall, slim woman who was leaning against the wall, a few feet behind Celia. It was her, that Hayworth bird he'd had his eye on all evening. Despite his blurred vision, he recognised the red hair pinned on top of her head and that tight, low cut blouse that squished her big tits together. Was she looking at him? He thought so, but he couldn't be sure with those fucked up eyes of his. He decided to wink at her anyway and immediately she grinned back and perked herself up a little. That was why he stayed at Dukes. Not to entertain himself with miss prim here, but for her. Hayworth knew what she wanted, just as John did. Now they'd acknowledged each other, she put down her glass and made her way towards him, head high, lips pouted.
She winked down at John, and his eyes slid over her body as she purposely strutted past, the clicking of her heels in rhythm with the jukebox music. John glanced over his shoulder at her, his tongue running across his bottom lip. She lacked one of the many things John liked in a female: curves, but god, did that pencil skirt shape her arse, and she knew it too by the way she walked. His cock was already throbbing and now was the chance to follow her, like she wanted him too.
"Oh, seriously, John?" John turned his head back to Celia. He'd completely forgotten the girl was there. "Jesus, can you not keep it in your pants for more than five minutes?" she muttered.
"Can yer not complain for more than five minutes?" he replied. Why was he wasting time on this girl? He quickly slicked back his hair and re-popped his collar, ready for his next mission. "And to answer yer previous question, don't get ya hopes up, love. I'm impressed by the way yer smoke, not by you," John said, voice full of spite. "It's the only impressive thing you've got goin' for ya."
And just like that, John was stupid enough to walk away from the dark horse he was secretly enjoying getting acquainted with, for the carnal pleasure of another whose name he wouldn't even remember by the time he was finished with her.
*
Celia flinched at the harshness of his words, bemused by his sudden hostility towards her. What a fool she was to think that John Lennon was secretly a decent person underneath that hard, acidic exterior of his. Why had she even tried to see his taunting for playfulness and his cruelty for banter? Stupid, stupid girl.
Loneliness had become her only dependable friend. Once again, she welcomed misery, and the self-pitying that came with it. John cleared off, just like her friends did. Pubs were famous for homing lonesome folks who were miserable and intoxicated, so she wasn't really alone at all though, was she?
Giddy, Celia reached for her bag and dug around for her purse. She emptied its contents into her palm and out fell a bunch of coins and a crumpled old bus ticket. Celia stared down at them, and they stared back at her, waiting for her to make a decision. Would she leave now and ride the bus to the comfort of her own home, or would she buy booze to numb her loneliness and give her the comforting buzz that she so desperately thought she needed?
John was such a little arsehole in this chapter. I was getting more annoyed the more I wrote, but as many of you know- characters often write themselves haha
Anyway, thank you for reading this longer than usual chapter. I hope you enjoyed it! Please give it a like and feel free to comment on it if you did!
Next chapter will be updated very soon!
I appreciate you all, Scarlett x