every kiss. Ronan’s kisses hardly ever tasted like blood, only if they snogged right after he made a visit to that bloody Well of his. Who wanted to be a vampire if you could only feed once a month? Didn’t make any sense. Now this, this made sense, this felt right, Jean-Paul’s soft, lean body on top of him and the hard, concrete basement floor underneath.
“I’m glad you could sneak away,” Jean-Paul said, his mouth nuzzling against Nakano’s throat.
That tickled, but he forced himself not to laugh. “I didn’t sneak out so we could talk.”
Jean-Paul paused for a moment. His dark eyes glistened, contemplated like a snake’s, and he smiled at Nakano, a smile that was much more like a leer, and suddenly Nakano looked a lot older than sixteen. “Then why don’t you make me shut up.”
Feeling as if he had hit the jackpot and couldn’t spend his money fast enough, Nakano clutched the back of Jean-Paul’s head and pulled it close to him. Their mouths embraced, their tongues flickered passionately, nervously, and Nakano relaxed enough to allow his body to respond to Jean-Paul’s grinding movement. How in the world did he ever get so lucky? And why in the world did it have to end?
“Hello, boys.”
Nakano pushed Jean-Paul off of him so harshly that when he fell onto the floor, a small thud echoed throughout the hideout. Across the room, Brania was standing, visually eavesdropping on their private moment but feeling more like a guardian than a voyeur. “Oh, please don’t stop on my account.”
“Could you maybe knock next time?” Nakano asked, his cheeks flushed.
The clicking of Brania’s heels reverberated throughout the dank room, little pieces of metal stabbing the concrete floor, as she walked toward the one table in the room and tossed several envelopes of mail onto its cold, smooth surface. “Come now, Kano, you know I hate to announce myself,” she reminded him. “I prefer simply to arrive.”
She really thinks she can do whatever she wants! “Well, in the future, could you arrive when we’re not here?”
Jean-Paul had tucked his shirt back into his trousers and smoothed the loose strands of his hair behind his ears, so he looked, once again, as crisp and clean as if he were standing next to his car, ready for duty. He touched Nakano’s shoulder as a way to silence him, but it didn’t work. “I don’t know what kind of crazy stuff you get into, but Jean-Paul and I 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.
“Apologies, 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.
“Jean-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 attend to, Vaughan felt his head nod in agreement and his legs start walking toward the staircase that led upstairs. Just before she closed the door behind her, Brania called out, “Have fun, boys, but do remember my warning.”
Finally alone, Nakano felt tense instead of relieved. He looked at his watch and realized he had about three minutes to get to geometry, another free period wasted. When Jean-Paul tried to kiss him good-bye, he brushed past him and gathered up his books, now more preoccupied than passionate. “Are you afraid of Him?” Nakano asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Of Brania’s father?” Jean-Paul replied. “No. When you respect and trust someone, there’s no need for fear.”
That’s a roundabout answer if ever Nakano heard one. “What do you think he’d do if he found out about us?”
Jean-Paul looked down at Nakano and smiled, his hair falling from behind his ear, creating a shadow across his face, “Mon cher, don’t you think he already knows?”
Sitting in the chair a foot away from where Jeremiah had died, Brania recalled a memory. She was once again in this room, watching a man undress, the multiple layers of her long, pale blue silk skirt keeping her body warm despite the chill that clung to her heart, to the fragments of her soul that she still believed existed. He took off his waistcoat and tossed it onto the floor, undid the ruffled ascot that was wrapped skillfully around his neck. Thick curls of black hair peeked out from the top of his tunic, and Brania felt the chill inside her turn icy. She knew how those curls would feel against her naked skin, harsh, oppressive, necessary, and it made her want to flee this place, but she couldn’t. In the corner of the room, unseen by the man, her father was watching, making sure that she did what needed to be done.
“Brania, my darling,” David had told her, “we need a place we can call home. This man is offering to rent us these accommodations and he wants so little in exchange. You.”
She closed her eyes; a new memory took shape. Another man stood before her, darker, his chest hairier than the last, his stomach plump. He rolled his shoulders so the suspenders fell against his wide hips, undid the buttons of his full, pleated pants, and Brania watched as they collapsed onto the floor. Involuntarily, she crossed her legs, but the shimmery beaded cloth of her dress raced up her thigh and exposed too much flesh. She shivered, her hair bouncing slightly. She loathed this haircut. She felt like a boy wearing a short bob and remembered how beautiful her hair used to be, but this look was all the rage so she had no choice if she wanted to fit in. She brushed a piece of hair that had gotten caught within the crease of her mouth and pulled it sharply in
