Is it hot in here or is it just George?
Title: I’ve Just Seen A Face: Chapter Eight (That’s What She Said)
Author: thetenwords
Rating: R sexual situation, profanity, and violence
Plot: Anne is your average small-town girl who gets herself caught up in her own version of her favorite fanfic, “Living Lennon”. Things don’t go like she planned and all she knows is she won’t forget her life before or after this bittersweet experience…
Warning: READ LIVING LENNON BEFORE YOU READ THIS STORY!!!! This isn’t a sequel, but it will help you kind of understand the plot. Plus, it’s a kick-ass story.
Disclaimer: As often as I check eBay, the Beatles are never ACTUALLY for sale. So I don’t own them. (Yet.)
A week went by peacefully as ever, me and George getting in arguments, making up, making out, the usual stuff. I actually did try to call Kelsea as soon as my mother left, but there was still no answer. I was beginning to wonder what had happened when I saw her strut into my office one afternoon.
“So, Anne. Haven’t heard from YOU in a while.”
“Kelsea, I called you like, three times. None of which you answered. My MOM came over three days ago.”
“Well, good.” She looked around, as though to check if there was anyone listening. “I’ve found a way to take George back. And now we can finally get rid of him. Maybe you could go out with Trevor again? Oh, and my cousin says he likes you. But anyway, meet me at my house at-”
I knew this was a terrible thing, but I was extremely mad. I grabbed her throat, (Not enough to really harm her, just enough to where she couldn’t move, but could still breathe) and ran her against the wall. “Now LISTEN. I know you’ve liked him forever, and you’re using me to get to him. I’m not taking it anymore, skank. You can have him. He’s a lying, dirty, immature boy, and I hope the worst for him. I am NOT taking George back. I don’t feel you need to know why. GOT IT???”
She nodded, and I let her go. “God, when did you get to be such a bitch? And why do you care? George Harrison may be a Beatle, but he’s DEAD. He was an accident. That we should take back.”
I was insulted, but I didn’t know why at the time. “Just shut up. Maybe he’s here for a reason! Maybe it was fate, Kelsea!”
She glared at me. “You slept with him, didn’t you?” I was shocked at her accuracy. Was it that obvious? I mean, I hadn’t said anything that would make anyone else think that… or had I? She opened her mouth wider than I thought possible. “Ohmigod you WHORE!!! You totally DID!!!”
I was infuriated. Especially with this coming from her. “DON’T even go there with me. You’re a part time stripper and you’re calling ME a whore?!?!?! Get out of my office!”
When I got home, I slammed the door closed and threw my stuff down. “What’s wrong?” George had asked me, swallowing his ice cream first.
“People are bitches,” was my answer, but I didn’t realize how true it was until a week after my mother left.
The day began like any other, George and I woke up naked, and I threw on some clothes, trying not to wake him from his sleep. I was about ready to go to work, when I stepped outside and saw a large crowd of people, mainly reporters. I was curious as to what was going on, though I figured it was nothing serious. I turned to one of the people, a man who looked like a reporter. “Umm… what’s going on?” I asked, and I caught the sight of numerous other faces beginning to stare at me.
I heard one of the cameramen shout out, “Ohmigod! It’s HER!!!!”
The crowd started to, well, crowd around me, constantly asking if I really had George Harrison in my loft, where I got him, if I’d really been sleeping with him and, well, you get the idea. Since I’m a terrible liar, I simply scampered back into my loft as quickly as possible, and locked every lock I was capable of locking. I turned on the TV, only to see that was live.
“Ohmigod! It’s her!!!!” the television blared as you see me absolutely shocked. I kept sitting, until I could see George bouncing in, still wearing his nothing but his birthday suit. A different reporter drones on. “Some people already believe that the home of this girl also safely harbors the deceased George Harrison, the quiet Beatle who tragically passed away nine years ago in two weeks. Her secretive behavior proves she more than likely has the Beatle in there.”
George’s eyes grew wider. “How’d they find out?” He pondered aloud as he began a quest for food.
“I don’t KNOW!!!”
But then the question was answered. I saw none other than my mother on the screen. “Well, I went to her loft just last week. And sure enough, he was there. There’s no denying he was George Harrison.”
I began to frantically run my fingers through my hair and bite my nails. I turned off the telly when Kelsea appeared on the screen. George came back in; eating some ice cream I didn’t even know I had. “What’s going on?”
Trying not to sob, as I couldn’t have stopped the tears from rolling down my cheeks. “My mother and Kelsea TOLD!!! I thought she was my FRIEND!!!”
George sat down next to me and attempted to embrace me. “It’s not your fault. Is there anything I can do?”
I sobbed into his chest, not trying to conceal it anymore. “Tell me what to do. Something that’ll make both of us happy.”
He began to comb his fingers through my chestnut hair while gently kissing my forehead. “Your hair’s soft,” he noted.
I looked up and glared at him. “Really?!?!”
“Sorry, love. I really don’t know what you could do.”
I choked down my tears and tried my best to calm down. “Make me feel better, then,” I pleaded, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“What do you think I’m trying to do, love?” He kissed my forehead, chin, and both of my cheeks as though he was crossing my face. “It’ll be okay in the end. I promise. Do you love me at all? Just wondering.” When he said this question, it was as though he was asking whether I was intending on getting more food soon, or whether I liked the weather. The casualty of the question was actually the slightest bit disturbing.
My mind was instantly cleared of the paparazzi outside my door, and was focused on answering this question. “I… uh… maybe? I mean…”
He silenced me by placing a single finger on my lips. “Shhh. That’s good enough for me. Say no more.”
“I can say no more,” I quoted from Help!, cracking up as I said this. I couldn’t help but think of how Paul and Eleanor Bron looked so awkward slow-dancing.
“What’s so funny?” a wide grin broke on his face, glad to see I was chipper again.
“YOU! Paul and some woman were dancing in a movie you were in, and…” I trailed off, realizing he was strangely interested. “What?”
“We should dance.” He sounded so bold, so confident, I couldn’t refuse. I had never slow-danced with a man before, so I was ready to try something new.
“Sure. I’d dance with you. But I’ve got to warn you, I’m probably really bad at it. So…”
He oddly decided that was a time for him to begin to chuckle, though I saw nothing funny. “You silly girl. I don’t care about that. I could teach you how.”
I smiled, then jumped up and turned on the radio. When I found the song that was on was none other than “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. I pulled George off the couch, not because it was a good, slow song, but because I figured it would be fun. He got up to join me and I began to reconsider.
He smiled and put his hand on the small of my back. “Now just relax. Rape your arms around my neck-”
I was shocked at this command. “Rape my WHAT?!?!”
I could see he was trying not to laugh. “DRAPE you arms around my neck or around my torso…” he explained it all so calmly, as though he had taught a girl to slow-dance numerous times before. I reluctantly placed my arms on his shoulders, trying not to look as nervous as I suddenly felt. “And you just sway back and forth to the music. I’ll lead.”
I took a deep breath and did as I was told; shocked by the fact I didn’t even step on his toes. “Well, Mister Harrison, you’re quite the dance teacher. Like your mother, perhaps?”
He blushed more than I imagined him being able to. “Perhaps.”
The song soon shifted to something better for the kind of dancing we were doing, and described the situation for George and I pretty near perfectly. And, who could do it better than Frank and Nancy Sinatra? That’s right, folks. “Something Stupid.” George even sang along to a few lines.
“I can see it in your eyes
That you despise
The same old lines
You heard the night before...
And though it's just a line to you
For me it's true
And never seemed so right before
I practice every day
To find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come true...
But then I think I'll wait
Until the evening gets late
And I'm alone with you
The time is right
Your perfume fills my head
The stars get red
And oh, the night so blue...
And then I go and spoil it all
By saying something stupid like I love you…”
I looked up at him and realized that it wasn’t just infatuation he was mistaking for love. Guys I had gone out with had done that before, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if that’s what George meant. But, when I looked at him, I realized it was truly… LOVE.
“Anne? Are you okay? You’re stepping on my toes and standing in the same place…”
“Sorry. I was thinking.” I stepped off of his feet and started moving in time again, but he didn’t move with me. He stopped completely, and looked me straight in the eye, as though he knew what I was thinking about. I decided to play dumb and ask, “What?!?!”
“You know what I mean. I’m wondering what you’re thinking about that’s so distracting. Am I being too obvious?”
I couldn’t help but groan. “Actually, you were really batting around the bush when you wrote you love me on my stomach.”
He looked down, obviously ashamed. “Sorry. I was holding it in and I just wanted it out.”
As much as I tried, I couldn’t refrain from cracking up. “That’s what she said.”
The look on his face is just what I feared, and followed by the question, “What does that mean?”
“Like, it would be something that a girl would say while having sex with a guy. You could also say ‘that’s what he said’ but it’s really just meant to make the conversation awkward.”
He nodded, and I started to ponder if he truly understood. “Would you like to dance again?”
“Sure.” I wrapped my arms around him, and we started swaying again to about every fifth beat. I soon felt his hands wandering from my hips to my rear. “What are you doing, you horny bastard?!?!” I said, unfortunately, probably loud enough for the paparazzi outside my door to hear.
He giggled. “That’s what she said.”
I smacked my forehead. “What have I started?!?!”
“That’s what she said.”
“You can’t say that’s what she said for everything!!!! Only the good ones!!!”
“That’s what she said.”
To his credit, all of these made sense in my mind. But you just couldn’t go overboard with it, as it could get annoying really fast. I knew how to get him to forget about this for a while, and I silently promised myself that I’d make whatever sacrifices I needed to make. I stood up on my tiptoes, like a pointe dancer, and silenced his lips with my own. He made no attempt to continue annoying me, (well, for the next couple of minutes, anyway) even and even moved his hands from my ass to the back of my knee, only for me to later be cradled in his arms like a small child. The strange thing was, our lips hadn’t parted even a nanometer since he had decided to lift me into his arms. He was obviously more into the kiss than I was, but I decided to break what I had just glued together, so I could ask him something I needed to know.
“Why’d you do that? I was fine on tip-toe.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable up here. Besides, you’re warm and it’s cold in here.”
I had known this was a lie no later than the words had sprung from his mouth. His skin was warm to the touch, no less than mine. I decided not to argue with this, as his chest was really comfortable and I was impressed he could pick me up to begin with. The knowledge that he wanted to be closer to me was sweet, and I couldn’t say I didn’t return that feeling without lying. His embrace made me feel protected, like he would always be by my side. George being there was sort of assuring, like the two of us were permanent. I couldn’t help but feel the need to cuddle up to him right that moment, most likely scaring the shit out of him.
But, as always, I was wrong. He began to comb his fingers through my locks, which had grown down to my bra line since he had walked into my life. “Enjoying yourself?” With a nod, I reached up to him and planted a gentle, innocent, and sweet kiss upon his lips. I traveled up to his forehead, southeast to his cheek, and ended on his nose. When I leaned back into his arms, I giggled. This felt girly, weak, dependent… but at the same time, felt right. “Thought so.”
“Yep.” The corners of my mouth turned up just the slightest bit. I placed my hand my hand gently on the back of his head.
“Anne? Will you promise me something?”
“Depends. What am I promising?”
“To say something. I’ll translate it after you say it. Now say, ‘Ich verspreche, ich werde sexuelle Beziehungen mit Ihnen heute Abend haben. Und ich werde lieben jede Minute davon.’”
I shrugged, not really wanting to know what it meant. I figured saying it couldn’t hurt, so I repeated the German he had rattled off like no one’s business. But after I said the word “davon,” I realized two phrases I could decode immediately. Sexuelle and lieben. Leibe meant love, so…
His smirk gave his self-satisfaction away all too quickly. “You just promised to let me bone you tonight. And you’ll love every minute of it.”
Playfully, I smacked his forehead. “You BadWord!”
His face expressed confusion, a look I had become very familiar with. “BadWord? Does this have anything to do with all those binders with ‘TenWords’ plastered all over them?”
“No! It’s like saying a Bad Word, only you’re not really saying anything.”
He appeared to be debating whether to throw back his head in laughter, throw me a look of confusion, or simply ignore the statement altogether. Luckily, he chose the third option, and began to carry me down the hall. I began to protest, kicking and fidgeting and screaming, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!?!”
I heard a chuckle emerge from his mouth. “You owe me. Remember? You said, and I quote-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just get it over with.”
He carried me to the bedroom, but not before hitting his head on the doorhenge. “OW! Dammit, My head’s sore now!”
Not able to refrain from giggling, I whispered, “That’s what she said.”