Paul Bond Beatles Novels & Stories

His voice was sharp and strong as he began. “Council members,” Arthur said, “we have gathered to address the matter brought forward by High Councilor Mitch Jones. His letter has been received and read. I shall now summarize.” Edward Jones leaned back in his seat among the council members. He folded his arms across his chest, his lips twitching with a smile he tried to hide. His cousin Mitch was about to grant his desire. Edward could already picture Lucille’s face the moment she would learn the bond had been broken, the shock in her eyes, the trembling of her lips.

she suggested. "It is about Jonathan," he answered, and she paused, taken aback. "What could possibly be complicated, then?" she asked. "The Romanov think he is weak since he has not bonded with anyone yet," he explained, and she scoffed and walked away without care.

Michael Bolton was still playing over the radios, the newest hit by that year, and when Paul came inside again, he was still wearing a frown on his face. Jane raised her eyebrows as Paul stared at her eyes with a scowl on his face. Jane asked why and he just shook his head and pointed at the speakers. "What's wrong? Is it the song or what?" Jane asked worriedly as Paul nodded quietly and closed his eyes as the groovy beat was playing. Jane chuckled as she glanced at the people who were also tapping their feet.

"Aww... man. You're naked. Really? Shit." I released him and ran my fingers through my hair. "You filming this shit for us?" Paul had to be one of my favorite crew members, but the man had mad skills. He was in high demand, and though we had him on the team for most of the early Bond films, he'd been picked up by several other production companies and we lost out. Frank had promised to work a new deal with him to get him back on the crew. It would seem it worked. "Obviously. Why does it smell like sex and candy in here?" He scrunched up his nose and shook his head as if he were disgusted.

Because for once, Paul wasn't the only person in the photo. Sure, he was front and centre, aged around eighteen at a guess and holding his battle-scarred guitar, the familiar deep gouge down one side testimony to the day he'd got a little too carried away and launched himself, rock-god-like, from the school stage into an adolescent audience unfamiliar with the concept of crowd surfing. But there beside him was Drew, his head huddled close to Paul's behind a single microphone, both of them grinning like lunatics.