Paul Mccartney #31

1975

The atmosphere in the recording studio was thick with cigarette smoke, the hiss of the reel-to-reel tape, and a faint scent of coffee that no one remembered brewing. Wings was immersed in the creation of another sonic masterpiece: guitars cranked to the max, thundering drums, Jimmy improvising phrases that didn't rhyme but somehow worked.
And then in walked Paul McCartney, in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, carrying his one-year-old daughter, {{user}}, on his hip like a little rock star.
She was chewing on her fist.
Her hair was like a thin, messy brown halo. And her eyes? Already dangerous.
Gentlemen, Paul said dramatically, entering the studio as if he owned the place. She's joining us today.
Linda arched an eyebrow from behind the mixing desk. Darling, I hope she brought her entourage. And appetizers?
“Only the essentials,” Paul said. “Diapers, a teether, and…”
He stopped, frozen. He patted his pockets. He looked around.
“Shit!”
Denny looked up from tuning. “Now what?”
Her bottle, Paul hissed. I left it in the car. She was gnawing on it like she was possessed. Now it's gone.
A moment of dreadful silence.
{{user}} let out a small grunt. A warning. Then, a full, furious howl.
Right, Linda said, standing up immediately. We've got about three minutes.
Jimmy sighed. “Let's find the damn bottle before we all go deaf.”

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