Page 76 of The Bargain

“I like it.”

I smile to myself. “Yea?”

“Yes.”

“Despite the rain and the rust and the fact that you can’t even see the stars?”

“I don’t care about any of those things.”

I reach out to take her hand in mine.

“You’re freezing cold, love.”

“So?” Desdemona whispers. “Then warm me up.”

This time, I do look at her, turning my head slowly. Even in the gloom I can see that her cheeks are flushed and that there’s a spark in her eyes that’s unfamiliar, almost feverish. She’s being utterly sincere, and it makes my breath catch in my throat.

If this is pretend, my mind asks itself, then why does it feel real?

Is it still a performance if there’s no audience?

“Be careful what you wish for,” I whisper back. My voice comes out gravelly, like I have a cold. “You might actually get it.”

She smiles. And then Desdemona, the perfect golden girl, rises from her seat and lowers herself onto my lap. I settle her with my hands on her hips, gazing up at her. She gazes back at me and reaches between us, fingers tugging at my belt, the buckle opening with a soft clink.

I let out a breathless laugh.

“Really?” I rasp. “A perfect girl like you—in a place like this?”

She stops for a split second, and there’s something in her gaze that pierces through my chest.

“I’m not perfect. I don’t even want to be perfect.”

“No?” My voice is barely sound. “Then what do you want?”

And the truth tumbles like a silver raindrop from Desdemona’s mouth.

“To fall.”

29

Falling Star

Elias

Desdemona sits above me like a fallen angel, pulling at my belt with impatient, imperious movements. I stop her by digging my fingers into her waist, her skin feverishly hot beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

“Let down your hair,” I command her softly.

She obeys without protest, pulling out a thick gold pin shaped like a narrow V and letting it drop to the floor with a tinny clatter. Her hair uncoils, tumbles over her shoulders like a slow-moving cascade, all that gold, and the summer fragrance that radiates from it, magnolias and sun-drenched sand.

“Like a princess,” I whisper, reaching up to brush my fingers through a long strand.

Desdemona pushes my hand away, glaring down at me.

“I’m not a princess,” she says. “Or an angel or a saint. I’m not made of gold or marble. I’m flesh and bones, just like you. Messy and real—just like you.”

No, you’re not, I think. But I smile, and I slowly drag her skirt up her legs, revealing the strong length of her thighs. Her skin almost seems to emit its own faint light in the dark auditorium. She’s warm and soft to the touch, and she spreads her legs as far as the velvet seat will allow, pushing herself up just enough that she can unzip my trousers, reach down, slide her hand between us.