Unwelcome by Michael Griffo

prefer it to be just the two of us!”
    How the times had changed. When Brania was a teenager, in years and not merely looks, rebellion was unheard of. She listened, she obeyed, and she hoped that her actions were deemed favorable, hoped that she had pleased and impressed her elders. Today, sadly, it was just the opposite. She watched Jean-Paul caress Nakano’s back, his slender fingers sliding up and down the space between his shoulder blades. She imagined his touch was soft but insistent as he tried to remind Nakano that he was in the presence of such an elder. That helped. At least someone in the room, someone other than herself, understood that she was more than what she appeared to be.
    â€œApologies, Brania,” Jean-Paul said. “You caught us, how do you say? Weeth our pants down.”
    Two out of the three people in the room laughed. Remaining silent, Nakano rolled his eyes. No, our pants were not down; we were just kissing, just trying to feel some warmth during a free period so when I go back to that prison everybody likes to call a school, I won’t feel so miserable. But you two wouldn’t understand that, he thought. You two get to do pretty much whatever you want. Your lives aren’t controlled by school bells and class schedules and writing reports on subjects that have absolutely nothing to do with real life. Panting, Nakano didn’t notice that the laughter in the room had subsided. His mind, like his breathing, just kept racing, stopping only when he heard Brania speak. “I would never stand in the way of true love, or whatever is taking place between the two of you,” she said. “But a word of advice: My father is not as understanding. So please practice caution if not restraint.”
    Turning to go, the only thing that prevented her from leaving was the music. And the only thing that prevented Jean-Paul from answering his cell phone was the glaring look she gave him when he was about to flip it open. Small pleasures, that’s all I ask for, Brania reasoned. Swaying to the music, her fingers played with the hem of her black wool miniskirt and raised the material an extra inch. She closed her eyes and soon she was far away from this place, the concrete floor replaced with sand, the ceiling lifted to reveal an uninterrupted ribbon of blue, and each breeze that floated through her hair carried with it the most exquisite melody. Along with the harshest scream.
    â€œJean-Paul!” Vaughan shouted. “How dare you not answer my call!”
    When Jean-Paul saw that his boss, impatient and unused to such blatant insubordination, had entered the hideout in search of his unresponsive employee, he remained calm, unruffled. It was Brania who became livid by the interruption and shouted back, her voice quite a few decibels higher, “How dare you screech over Puccini!”
    Despite her interference, despite being the obvious reason his driver wasn’t doing his job, Vaughan couldn’t take his eyes off of Brania. She really is a voluptuous creature, not like Edwige, not at all like Edwige. Now why the bloody hell was he thinking of that one when Brania was standing right in front of him? These women were going to drive him round the bend, he just knew it. “Vaughan,” Brania purred. “What a pleasant surprise.” And he was right.
    Stab, stab, stab, one metal heel jabbed into the ground after the other as Brania walked toward Vaughan, the music silent now except for the tune that continued to play in her mind. She stopped only when she was a few inches away from him, closer than he expected, and she saw his shoulders stiffen in response. She knew what she had to do. “Why don’t we take advantage of the moment,” she proposed, “and go up to dead Jeremiah’s apartment to play?”
    Completely ignoring the fact that the last time they were together, Brania rebuffed his advances, and the fact that he had pertinent business to