Further down Merchants’ Row, a pirate swore that our matching silver necklaces would keep us together forever.
“Your souls will always stay connected.” The pirate patted my shoulder and took Jean-Pierre’s credit card. “That’ll be a hundred dollars by the way.”
I smirked. “Is there a refund if our souls separate?”
The pirate grimaced. “My lady, there were no refunds in Medieval times.”
Jean-Pierre and I laughed.
When we arrived at the games section, all the boys went wild. Jean-Pierre did archery and axe-throwing ten times. Louis jumped in. Giorgio challenged. Out of nowhere Rafael appeared. Several people crowded around and watched them battle it out for the best axe-throwing champion.
Next, we spent a good hour at Drench-a-Wench and Soak-a-Bloke. Rafael enjoyed hitting the target and watching the poor employees fall into water. Jean-Pierre spent his time, helping me throw my ball by slipping his body against mine and whispering naughty things into my ear.
Rafael clapped. “We need this on our estate.”
“The water tank?” Jean-Pierre asked.
“No, the whole fair.”
Jean-Pierre shook his head and captured my hand. “Enjoy, Rafael. We’ll see you later.”
Rafael eyed him. “Where are you two going? Louis is still throwing axes. I like someone with you.”
Maybe it was the beer, but I blurted out, “I’ve got him.”
Rafael turned to me. “You better. There’s consequences, if you don’t.”
“Oh?”
“Ignore him.” Jean-Pierre guided us away. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Definitely.”
Jean-Pierre gazed at the fair like a mad man. “Good, because I don’t want to leave yet.”
I laughed.
He squeezed my hand. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re like a kid.”
“I feel like one.”
We hit the fair rides. None were machine powered due to keeping with the period of time. They offered human-powered swings and a horse-motored Ferris wheel. I wasn’t a fan of the animals working so hard, so I passed.
We finished the evening at another set of gaming stalls. There, Jean-Pierre spent twenty minutes winning me a massive bear dressed as a knight.
Hours later, Jean-Pierre and I headed back to his penthouse, full of food and fun, making out the whole time in the limo.
It was such a bittersweet moment.
The date.
The kiss.
The joy that I’d felt with him.
It was all so bittersweet.
Because in the end. . .our experience resembled the spilling sand of an hourglass, falling.
Leaving.
Going away.
In the limo, he held me in his arms, and I rested my head against his chest.
26 more days. . .
I did my best to not think about it anymore.
Friday, we repeated our rainy Wednesday, laying in bed under the covers. We lounged, entangled in each other’s caresses.
I wish this was more than. . .what we are. . .
I dreamt of us on Friday night. I woke up and promised myself that I would never allow myself to do it again.
He’s paying for no emotions. No attachments. No commitments. Remember.
Saturday, I played Eros for him all day, and then we fucked all night.
Sunday morning over breakfast, we discovered our shared love for gangster films. A movie interest that I’d gotten from Aunt Celina.
Jean-Pierre rented out a movie theater that afternoon. A private chef and staff served us champagne, sweetbreads cooked with mascarpone cheese, and smoked salmon stuffed with oysters. We watched a black-and-white French film named Rififi. It was an old heist classic from the 1950s. On the screen, gangsters planned a raid to grab diamonds.
Jean-Pierre handed me my third serving of champagne. “You said you loved Mission Impossible and Inception. Without Rififi, none of those would’ve existed.”
Leaning back into his embrace, I took a sip and loved the bubbly taste. “So, Rififi is the father of those types of heists?”
“Yes.” He stretched his arm around my shoulder. “From the robbery to the dialogue. For its time, Rififi was genre bending.”
On the screen, the hero gunned down someone trying to stop them.
I grinned. “I love the brutality. It’s very dark.”
He quirked his eyebrows. “You like dark brutality?”
“On film.”
“In music too?” he asked.
“Hmmm. I never thought about it. There are scary pieces in classical music.”
“Danse Macabre comes to my mind.”
“Yes.” I took a nibble of the salmon. “Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns? The title carried out the promise. And the song presents a magical story. Death, the violinist, makes the dead rise from their graves and dance a sinister tune.”
“It was one of my favorites as a kid.”
“I was creeped out by it when I was a kid.”
“Which is probably why I liked it,” Jean-Pierre admitted. “I love a little creepy.”
I laughed. “The Jaws© song scared me too.”
“I used to play that song on my violin and scare Rafael with it.”
They grew up together?
I blinked, wanting to ask more, but knowing my position in this moment was short-lived.
You’re the paid girlfriend. Remember.
The film played in front of us, and we slowly ignored it as we carried on with our conversation.
“What about Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath?” he asked.
“By Hector Berlioz.” I set my champagne down. “The best part of playing that song is when you have to use the back of the bow to create the bubbling cauldron sounds.”