Well…hi. My name is Logan, and I'm pretty new in this section. On this website, actually. This is really just something random, and I don't know how long I'm going to make it or if I'm ever even going to add any more chapters. But here it is :D

George took his girl by the hand, smiling as he wove in between the wild dancers. They all looked at him as he went past, of course, but he only held one gaze. Paul gave him a furtive wink, then looked back at the girl he was hitting on.

"George," the girl behind him whined, dragging her feet slightly. "Can't we hurry up?" Her words were slurred, and he could feel the girl's deep blue eyes on the back of his head. It gave him the chills, so he stopped and waited for her to catch up. When she was by his side, he started forward again.

"My flat is just up the street," he answered in that quiet way of his, side-glancing at her. She didn't seem to be paying attention anymore. "Not too far now."

As the pair approached the large, brick building, the girl's pace increased. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terrible if he called her the wrong thing, wouldn't it? Ah, well. You couldn't remember EVERYONE that passed through the house. There were quite a number of girls, to be honest.

"Hello, sir. Have a nice night?" the doorman asked as George and his friend passed. He guy tried really hard not to look at the girl, who was ogling him as though she had never seen a proper doorman before.

"Hello," she said loudly.

George blinked, leaving his eyes closed for a second or too longer than strictly necessary. Was she gonna be trouble. "C'mon," he whispered quietly, tugging gently on her arm.

Instead of going with him, the girl took a large, stumbling step towards the doorman—what was his name? George wished he knew.

"My name's Catherine," she said to him, as though it were perfectly ordinary to introduce yourself to the doorman of the man you were going home with. She was so plastered, though, that George doubted she'd even remember this in the morning. He didn't really see the point of worrying.

The doorman smiled. "Hello, Miss Catherine."

For some reason, this made Catherine extremely happy. "George!" she squealed, grabbing at his hand. "George, he called me 'Miss'!" She turned back towards the man. "I've never been called Miss by anyone. Except for my old Granddad, of course, but he's long gone. Bless him."

"That's great," George said, trying to steer her towards the door that was still being held open for them. "Why don't we just go upstairs?"

But his attempt was ignored.

"What's your name?" Catherine inquired, her eyes large and doe-like. The doorman looked rather taken aback.

He pointed to his name-badge. "Peter, Miss. My name is Peter. Now, it seems as though Mr. Harrison is getting rather anxious—you wouldn't want to keep him." He gave her a soft smile, wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.

"Harrison?" Catherine repeated, turning to stare at the rather pissed off George. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she gasped. She leaned in towards Peter. "Is that George Harrison?"

Peter let out an amused chuckle. "Why, yes. I believe so. Didn't he tell you?"

She shrugged, looking at him again. "Yeah, suppose he did. I didn't believe him, though. Thought he just wanted to get me in bed!"

George blushed a little bit, looking down at his feet. Why couldn't she just shut up and go upstairs? Why did HE always get the talky ones? Paul and John would be much better equipped to deal with them—God knows Ringo would be, too, from the things they say about him.

Almost as though she had picked up on his uncomfortablness, Catherine moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "George…do you want to go upstairs?" She looked up at him with those eyes—oh, those eyes. They could break hearts, those eyes could.

"Yes," he said in exasperation. He offered her a weak smile, which she returned wholeheartedly.

"Okay," she responded, then spun around. "I bid you farewell, Sir Peter!"

"And you, Miss Catherine," he called back, a deep chuckle added onto the end.

…

It was some hours later that George woke up, drenched in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding, and around him the world was spinning. He felt out of control, scared, and he was trying desperately to regain normal breathing.

Next to him, Catherine slept on. She lay sprawled on the other side of the King Size, her arms open wide and her bare chest rising and falling with each breath she took. As if she could feel him watching her, she suddenly spun around, leaving the bed shaking wildly.

"Please, not again," she moaned, her voice sounding light and airy. "I don't like grape Popsicles." Her face scrunched up, as if she smelled something that displeased her. "I'm allergic!"

George ran a hand through his slightly damp, full head of hair, chuckling at the sight of her. It brought him back to his bedroom, and quickly found his stomach rumbling. Pulling a plain white tee shirt over his bony chest, he ambled out of the room and into the kitchen.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was a little after four in the morning. Smiling to himself, he put on a pot of coffee and took a peek through the cupboards, trying to remember what he'd stocked up on last time he was were. All he found were Corn Flakes and marshmallows. Ahh, fuck. He must have had John do the shopping for him.

With a sigh, he pulled the bag of marshmallows out of the cabinet, popped one in his mouth, and poured himself a steaming mug of coffee.

Without thinking, his hands reached for the phone.

"Ello?" grumbled a sleepy voice on the fourth ring. He had clearly been pulled out of a deep sleep.

"Ello, indeed," George muttered, glancing into his bedroom. There were no signs of life.

Paul sighed deeply, and George could hear a voice in the background as he fumbled for something. George waited patiently for a response, but only rustling filled his ears. And then:

"Why in God's bloody name are you up so early, mate?"

George dragged the phone towards his couch, sprawling out on it and measuring his words carefully in his mind. "I'm…I'm a bit freaked out, to be honest."

"And why's that?"

He took a deep breath, glancing through the French doors that led to the bedroom once more. Catherine still appeared to be sound asleep. And why shouldn't she be? Most normal human beings were. "I had a…a really weird dream."

"Fuckin' hell, George! You woke me up to tell me about a bloody dream?"

George chomped down on his lip, hesitating. "It…it wasn't just a dream, Paul. It was real. Realer than any dream I've ever had before."

"Sorry, so you've woken me up at this time because of a nightmare? Oh, grow up, you—"

"You know that girl I brought home tonight?" George interrupted, closing his eyes and figuring he might as well get on with it while he still had Paul on the phone. "Catherine?"

"Sure."

"I dreamt that…" He tried to find the best way to say it, but honestly his choices weren't all that great. "I dreamt that she died. And it wasn't like one of those dreams where something happens and then another thing happens and then a girl I barely know gets killed and then another thing happens—no, it wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

"It was like…I was watching her die. And that was the dream, ya know? Like I was watching—from a building or something—and this girl goes to cross the street in traffic. And she's smiling and laughing, yeah, and I didn't recognize her at first. But then…" George inhaled quickly, the vividness of the dream coming back to him. "It hit her—a car, a truck, I don't really remember—and then suddenly I wasn't up in the building, I was right next to her. And I was holding her in my arms…"

"That's some deep shit, mate."

"Yeah…and I was crying."

"You were what?"

"Crying. I was crying. And I just kept whispering her name, over and over. Catherine. And then I woke up, thinking she was dead, and she was right there. Right next to me, sleeping away. But I could have sworn I'd just seen her die."

There was silence on the other end, and George figured that Paul was probably struggling for words. The great Paul McCartney? Struggling for words? Now there was a first.

Finally there was an intake of breath. "It was only a dream. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." No.

"George, mate, you hardly know this girl. You only met her last night, right?"

"Yes." But it didn't feel like it.

"And you said she's still there?"

"Yes."

"Mmkay, you need to get her out of there. As soon as she wakes up. No need to be a gentleman about it, either. She's rooted into your brain for some reason, which is pretty obvious by the way you're dreaming about her." It was as though Paul had done it a million times. The bastard, he probably had.

"I'm dreaming about her death, Paulie. That's a little…fuck, I don't even know." He ran a hand through his now dry bed head, trying to get some sense back into it. "It's almost as if I care about her."

"You don't, do you?"

"I've barely talked to her!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "Besides for that little bit with the doorman, I don't know anything about her!"

"The doorman?"

"Yeah, Peter."

Another sigh. "You're too difficult. I'm going back to bed. Good morning, George."

"Good morning, Paul."

And then he hung up, and George was left with nothing but his thoughts, his coffee, and his marshmallows. He popped another one of those in his mouth, and then chased it with a gulp of the steaming, bitter drink. Coffee; the drink that made the world go round.

His eye suddenly caught the gleam of his acoustic guitar, which was sitting in a corner propped up on the wall. He reached forward, took it in his grasp, and set it on his lap. For George, there was nothing that could amount to the feel of his guitar. The way it curved just perfectly around his thigh, how his lanky arms seemed the perfect size when they were wrapped around its smooth wooden surface, how he never seemed to need a pick; his fingers were calloused in just the right places.

Before he knew it, his fingers were sliding over the frets, his thumb strumming out chords, his mind completely lost in the music. Surely, this was love.

And then there were lips on the back of his neck. Soft, pillowy things that he just wanted to melt into. They came to his ear. "I know that tune," she whispered, sending shivers down his back.

It wasn't like George had never had a women in his flat before, but after the dream he just had, he was acting nervous and jumpy. As though he didn't know what to do with himself. So, instead of responding, he just stared straight ahead and tried to pretend like she wasn't there. She would think he was an arrogant son of a bitch, right? She'd probably storm around his apartment, picking up her belongings and muttering about being ignored.

But, no. Instead, Catherine leapt over the back of the couch, then slowly lowered herself down to the rhythm of the music. She swayed her hips, a big goofy smile plastered on her lips. George side glanced at her, and he quickly looked away with a smirk. She looked so funny.

The thing was, George wasn't exactly…smooth, you could say, with women. He was awkward and quiet and his feet were much too large. Not that that had anything to do with it, but he just always saw it as a contributing factor. He could just hear the women he'd been with whispering about him.

"Did you sleep with that George Harrison?"

"Yeah, his feet were so damn big! And his hands…damn, has he ever heard of lotion?"

George shook his head, clearing his thoughts of all his imperfections. He flipped his hair back into position, and then began strumming faster and weaving his fingers in intricate patterns. Next to him, Catherine was silent. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her big smile.

"George Harrison," he barely heard her whisper. "Fuck my life."

And then he stopped. Her words brought a sense of confidence to him—something he certainly lacked, even though he was quite famous. "Why don't you like grape flavored Popsicles?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes and turning to look at her.

This caught Catherine off guard.

"What?"

"Grape Popsicles. Are you seriously allergic to them?"

At this, Catherine bit her lip worriedly. "Oh shit, was I talking in my sleep again?"

George responded with a blank nod, trying not to convey any real feeling into it. In all actuality, he didn't know what to feel. He had a blanket rule that he didn't talk to the women he slept with. Not in the morning, not after the initial sex, and never again. That went right along with what Paul had instructed him on. As though George didn't know the rules. But still, when he had felt Catherine kissing the back of his neck, had he pushed her away? Had he asked her to leave? Had he made up some nonexistent meeting with the lads so that she would go? No, the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

Why was this, he wondered. Why?

Catherine stood up, wringing her hands together worriedly. "I don't like grape Popsicles because when I was younger, my sister used to always eat all the orange and cherry. And all that would be left was grape, and then I had to eat those ones."

George gave her an odd look. "So you're not allergic?"

"No," she admitted with a small, conniving smile. "But I told my mum that so she would let me have some of the cherry and orange. Worked like a charm."

George had to wonder what exactly was in a grape Popsicle that you could be allergic to. Perhaps the dye? He'd have to look into that.

Wait…what? Why would he have to— He pushed the thought away angrily, upset that he couldn't be more like the rest of the boys and be so easy around women. They honestly scared the shit out of him. Not that Catherine was scary…not at all, to be honest. He actually kind of liked her.

Big mistake.

"Smart," he allowed, resting his guitar on the ground. "You want coffee? I promise there's no grape."

She didn't even smile. "That wasn't a funny joke," she informed him, striding right into the kitchen and disappearing into a cupboard. She came out with no coffee grinds, so she moved on.

"Try the fridge," he hinted, waiting her from the door way.

She immediately started complaining, whipping around and snatching the grinds from the door of the refrigerator. "Who the hell keeps their coffee in the fridge? I bet this is going to be disgusting. Like, throw up before you even reach the bathroom disgusting."

George just stood there, listening delightedly to her complaints, thinking the whole time how much he wanted to grab her and bring her back to bed. Wasn't that odd? He had never felt like that the morning after, so the whole second time thing was kind of new to him. He pondered how she might respond if he threw her against the counter and—

No, he would never do that. George might get a lot of women, but it had nothing to do with his confidence level.

Soon, the machine was gurgling and popping away happily, and the air filled with the enticing smell of caffeine. Catherine turned around, a sort of blank expression on her face. She took a step forward.

"You don't say much, do you?"

He smiled thinly; it wasn't the first time someone had said this to him. "Not really, no."

"Why?"

That one was new. "I dunno…" He hesitated, not really having an explanation. "I guess…I just don't see the point of talking when nothing really needs to be said."

She closed the distance between them, inclining her head ever so slightly to look up into his eyes. He was struck once again by the vast blue pools that gazed back at him, and he had to blink a couple times to regain thought.

"But I like the sound of your voice," she said softly, raising her finger and tracing his collarbone through the white tee shirt.

Ridiculous at it was, George's heart began to beat a little faster. His muscles ached, and his thoughts were completely fried. It was like the only world he knew was right in front of him, fingering his bony ass chest. What was wrong with him? He had a million things to do today. Press conferences, meeting with the lads, playing around on his guitar, trying to write his damn song, learning his lines…it was just hectic. He didn't have time to lose himself in a girl that was only going to be there another hour or two.

But these thoughts must have seemed trivial to some part of his brain, for the next thing he knew, George was leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her, taking in her warmth. Kissing her.

Let's just say that after that, the coffee was much forgotten.

…

Catherine left the flat at three o'clock that afternoon, a huge grin adorning her soft features. George stood at the window, watching as she bounded down the apartment building's stairs, danced onto the sidewalk, and opened her mouth and screamed something.

He saw her turn as she called back to Peter The Doorman. What was she saying? Goodbye? So long? Nice knowing you? Oh God…see you later? But maybe that's what George wanted. Maybe he wanted Catherine to come back, if only to have sex that great again.

But there was always that chance that what they had was beyond sex. Sure, they had spent last night together and almost the entire day, but he wanted to know her more. That was an odd, unfamiliar feeling. And somehow, as he watched her happily make her way down the sidewalk, he knew that their parting wouldn't be the last time he got to hold her.

George barely noticed that she was crossing the street before her heard the squelching of tires against pavement. A large truck—which featured giraffes painted in bold colors on the metal box part—was skidding out of control. Around it, cars smashed into each other, their drivers trying desperately to regain control of their automobiles.

And then he remembered why this all seemed so familiar: his dream.

Without thinking, he threw the apartment door open and sprinted down the stairs. He rushed past Peter, who had an ominous look of shock plastered onto his face, and ran his fastest toward the intersection where all the blockage was. In the distance, he heard sirens and screaming and crying, but all he could see was the small figure, lying blood and mangled, right in the middle of the street.

"NO!" he screamed, not believing his eyes. It had to be a dream. It had to be. Things like this…they just didn't come true. "CATHERINE!"

She didn't respond. There was a whole crowd of people gathered in a circle around her banged up body. George pushed through them, shouting her name with more and more fervor as he got closer. No, no, no. This couldn't be.

He didn't care how bad it looked; as soon as he reached the place where she lay, he collapsed to the ground, pulling her into his arms. Putting his fingers to that spot on her chin, George noted that she had a faint pulse. It seemed to be dying with every second, as blood seeped from multiple wounds in her head and cuts all over her body. Her right arm and leg were bent at odd positions. He didn't want to cause her any more pain, but he couldn't help it; he brought her into his arms, holding her with his dear life.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Catherine…? Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

But she didn't respond. The most he got was a flicker of her eyelids. She was in the hands of death, and he knew it. Her pulse had faded so much that he could barely feel it through the spot on her neck. George knew that he was probably on TV right now, some news station, covered in blood and crying out the name of a girl that he hadn't known until last night. That he barely knew now.

But he felt so responsible.

And then, the moment he had dreaded. The world seemed to pause around him. The sirens blared so loud in his ear that they became one long, continuous sound. The people's talking and screaming and crying and general life became a hum, a certain harmony to the blaring siren sound. No cars moved, the people that raced towards him to try and save her life came in slow motion.

And then her heart stopped.

I know that was weird and maybe too intense and much too long for a first chapter, but my words kind of got away with me and I just started writing and I could NOT stop for the life of me. If you liked this, please review and tell me what you think. If you didn't like this, also review and tell me that it sucked. Things can be fixed, taken down, whatever.

And also, for those of you that didn't know, I'm really new here (like I said above) and the one that kind of introduced me to this website was CrazyCatie. So, I decided to name the main character after her…and then kill her off. With a giraffe truck. Please don't get too mad at me, Catie. I just really like your name. :D

REVIEW! …please…?