Chapter Two -- Agony Of Daylight

“Be as a King: Your Sacred Duty is to protect the weak and fight the Mighty”

Book Of Nod, The Chronicle Of Shadows, Proverbs

The daylight was bright, washing through her cheerless and functional room. Gabrielle stirred in her narrow bed.  She reached over and twisted the cheap rod to close the blinds.  Closing her eyes, she tried to recapture the feelings and images that danced on the outer edges of her consciousness.

Dark, alluring and mysterious, her hair soft strands of the night.  Eyes, mercuriable blue flashing sometimes with unfathomable emotions, like lightning in a bottle  Her skin the color and quality of delicate china.  Gabrielle would shudder with every flickering eyelash, every cruelly bowed smile. 

The emotionless gaze was heavy and cold upon, weighing and judging her.  The dark woman was noting every involuntary shudder, judging her only as thing to be owned. 

The cool blue gaze assessing, weighing, considering.  The dark woman circling her, noting every involuntary shudder.  Judging, appraising as if she were on display, a thing to be purchased, owned.  It made her knees weak with desire.

"What can you give me?", the husky voice evoked delicious shivers down her spine, heat licked across her thighs as Gabrielle stifled a moan.

"Nothing to say?  Hmm?" the woman would trace a fingernail across Gabrielle's round cheek, "Perhaps I should leave?"

“No! I -- I can be good for you. . .”, Gabrielle whispered.

“For me? Are you some sort of supplement to my diet? Something to be taken three times a day?”, the tone touched slightly mocking.

The words stung, “No. . . be good to you.”

“Mmm, do I get a taste of what’s would be good to me,” then she leaned forward with her teeth bared.

The dark woman’s canines grew long and sharp, but Gabrielle relished the pleasure-pain in her embrace.

BANG! BANG! BANG!  

“Open the door!”, she knew that voice and cringed inwardly.  Gabrielle slipped into a pair of old shorts and a shirt as the door rattled nervously against the frame.  Making sure the chain was secure, she cracked open the door to peer at the landlord -- a walrus of a man with thick glasses and an ill temper to match his unkempt looks.  What little hair he had left radiated out from his liver-spotted, sun shy skin.  The faint odor of sweat, beer and a more personal aroma always seeped from him like the early morning fog off a landfill.  He could stand eye-to-bloodshot-eye with Gabrielle, if she ever wanted him to get that close, but he carried himself as if he were much taller -- as tall as he was wide, Gabrielle would remark to herself in her private moments.  He wiped his hands across a lightly stained red t-shirt and blue jeans that were crusted with what looked like paint, caulk and other, foul, liquids.

“Morning, Mr. Winthrop, what can I do for you?”, She knew exactly what he wanted.

"Rent money!”, he snapped, “Two months! Where is it?”

And the day had begun with such a nice promise, she mused, “My employer is late with the checks, again.  I promise to give you some money by the end of the week.  I just need to needle my boss for my pay.  Please?”

His face softened into a mask of barely disguised lechery, “If you don’t have the money by the end of the day, we’ll have to make. . . other arrangements," a spark came alive in those normally dead glaze eyes.   

Gabrielle shuddered, her skin crawling at what her disgusting landlord’s idea of  ‘other arrangements’ would entail.  She reiterated her promise to be at his office by close of business with a fair amount of the rent and closed the door. The few minutes in his company, with his leering gaze crawling over her old shirt, made her feel dirty.  She opted for a shower before scrounging up a meager morning meal. Walking through the tiny apartment, she shucked her T-shirt and shorts and entered the bathroom, which was little more than a closet with crumbling tiles, rust red pipes, gray porcelain and a fainting shower stall.  Turning on the water , she prayed that the dying hot water heater in the basement would delay the inevitable for her by at least five minutes.

She made a mental list of things to do.  High up on the list was to go into BMV music, pick up her check and give it a nod before almost all of it went to Old Man Winthrop.  She could probably get Tony down at the recording studio to let her out of the recording session she scheduled and get some of her deposit back.  If she was lucky, she would have enough to pay for the privilege of living in the hovel she called home and have enough to buy a couple of day’s worth of groceries.  

The second was to see if there were any other bands looking for a guitarist -- rhythm, lead, whatever.  Apparently, making it solo wasn’t working, so she’d gather her dignity and enlist her talents in a band. Unfortunately, there were few bands that could use a classically trained acoustic guitarist to spoil their power chords or high octane screaming.  Which was the same reason why she didn’t teach, either.  She turned her face up into the rapidly cooling spray, maybe her standards were too high.  Maybe she needed to aim lower, like her mother seemed to hint at furtively.  Well, her mother had wanted her to marry a doctor and have grandchildren for her to spoil.  She couldn’t do that.  Her need to create, to weave with her music was more than just a fancy -- it was as much a part of her as was her heart or soul.  She needed to make music like a junkie needed a fix.  Without it, she was empty.

Ice water poured over her and she cut off the water, snatching a towel from the hook beside the shower stall and toweling herself dry.  The thoughts coming back to that dark haired woman she met a couple of days ago.  She had been seen every now and then at the club.  Always in the dark corners, focusing her sunglassed eyes on her as if she were the only other thing in the world.  They met afterwards, going to a coffee house and talking. . . and talking. . . well, Gabrielle did most of the talking.  The dark haired woman would sit very patiently and listen, only the arch of an eyebrow or the pout of a lip was the only sign she gave that she was alive.  She would talk, but she would never touch on work or where she lived.  As far as Gabrielle knew, Xena existed in a vacuum, coming out only at night to socialize.  What Gabrielle wouldn’t give to live in that sort of vacuum.  Xena never seemed to want for money or anything else.  She tossed out twenties with no regard for modesty or budget. 

She paused in the toweling of her long, reddish gold hair.  Why was she thinking about the dark haired beauty? 

“Not love. Simple lust, yeah, she’s attractive, but there is more to love than just hormones.  At least, that’s what they tell me.”, she muttered to herself.  Her choice of clothing was simple -- jeans, comfortable shirt with a T-shirt underneath for the beginning chill of autumn.  Looking carefully down the hall for Winthrop, she made her way down the stairs and out the door.  First things first, she needed money.

She pulled in behind the recording studio, a strictly mom-and-pop place.  Gabrielle looked at the small building with a sense of failure and dread.  It had taken her several weeks of scrimping and painful saving to get the time in the booth.  What she did, now had to be undone, the story of her life: one step forward, three steps back.

The young man behind the desk looked up distractedly from his magazine, then hopped up to his feet.  Shocks of red and green ran through his short, black topknot.  Small, thin boned -- he looked like a successful blend of human and gremlin.  He slid his legs off of the counter, smiled and stood up, “Hey, what going on?”

“I’ve . . um. . . come to take back the deposit.  Something has come up and I--”, she trailed off.

"What's your name?" he demeanor went from friendly to aloof. 

It's not my fault that I have a fat, lecherous slob for a landlord, she wanted to say, "Gabrielle Connor.  I had an appointment for the twenty-first at four PM for a recording session."

The man shuffled to the back as if he were about to hand over his firstborn child.     

“Sure, let me get your check.”, the man muttered.  Gabrielle drummed her fingers impatiently.  She wanted this done and quickly.  No sense in hanging around the scene of the crime.  She had a fat landlord to pay off and groceries to buy.  Time's a-wasting, she grumbled.  The man came back with a check in his hand and a sulking curl to his lip.  Gabrielle was glad she never had to tip the counter help.

“Here, Lucas wanted to talk to you, he’s in the back.”, he opened the door to the main office.

“Gabby! Come in!”, Lucas Sancia, the pop of the mom-and-pop studio, waved her in.  He jumped up, not an easy feat for a man of his girth or years.  He looked more like the archetypicial jolly pizzeria owner -- complete with thick, dark mustache and curly hair.  Smoothing out his green cotton t-shirt, he clutched her small, cold hand in a warm embrace.  She sank into one of a pair of chairs, opposite Lucas.  A pair of sandaled feet poked out from the bottom of his desk as he eased his bulk back into the modest brown office chair.  Like his clothes and shoes, his office shared little need for self-puffing pretentions.  On the walls and any vertical space in the room, were flyers from bands that he worked with or for over the years.  Some of them were household names in the city, some had actually gone on to bigger and better things.  Gabrielle hoped to be another one of Lucas’ success stories.

“Mr. Sancia.  Umm, I--”, she felt as if she were preparing to tell a four year old the harsh facts about death

“First off, I hate being called Mr. Sancia, call me Lucas or Luke.  Calling me Mr. Sancia reminds me of my wilder days standing before a judge.”, he chuckled softly as he propped himself up on the desk with his elbows, looking more like a stern principle than the gregarious owner Gabrielle knew,  “So, now that this is out of the way.  I understand you’re withdrawing your deposit.”

She looked down at her lap, glad her long hair hid ears that were red with embarrassment,  “Yeah.  I need the money to pay my rent.”

“Pah. . . your money wasn’t any good here, anyway.  When you’re ready, you just come in, honey.  We’ll get you in that studio and lay down those tracks.  Just remember poor old Lucas when you’re jet-setting around the world," he leaned back in his chair with a radiant grin.

She brightened and blushed at his confidence in her abilities.

“Well, say something.”

“Th-thank you?”

A booming laughter erupted from the man, “Good! It is done in time for lunch!,”, he eased himself up, “You want to stay? My wife makes a tortellini that the gods of Rome would weep over.  Come, have lunch with us.  A beauty like you on my arm and my reputation in the neighborhood is made. 

She smiled shyly, “I’d love to. But I have to pick up my paycheck and get it in the bank before it closes.  Maybe, next time, I’ll stay for dinner.”

“I’ll hold you to that.  Promise that you won’t waste away on me in the meantime?”, he escorted her out the door.  Another wave left her in the car, feeling as if a divine hand had seen fit to stir things in her favor. 

Work.  The bane of the artist.  She pulled into the mall, parking in the assigned spot for employees -- a good ten-minute walk from the front door.  The sunlight was bright, smiling on her like little else could today.  She hoped that her good luck would buoy her through the gauntlet of getting her paycheck.  It was Thursday, so the checks from last week were supposed to show up today.  Or so management promised.  This wasn’t the first time this happened, and she was sure that wouldn’t be the last, but it was happening at a time that was high in the stress factor.  The rust color banners snapped in the bullying autumn breezes.  Pulling back a thin strand of hair out of the corner of her mouth.  Inside, as she opened the glass doors, papier-machete pumpkins and cheap cardboard skeletons grinned back at her.  She looked down at her watch.

"Why do they need to do this?  It's not even October, yet.", she muttered to herself.  She loved Hallowe'en only for the excuse to dress up in a costume.  Last year, she dressed up as Count Dracula, complete with the fake teeth and faker accent.  She picked her way through the thickening crowds of teens trying to catch the eye of their 'true love' for the week.  After a turning a corner she came to BMV Music -- where she spent more time than she really cared to admit.    

She walked in calmly -- although she wanted to race to the back, scream at Joe Hall -- the manager -- as to why the checks were late and what she might have to do to keep her apartment.  Gathering herself after the nauseating flash of her mechanically taking of her clothes in front of a leering Winthrop, she walked by the sheet music section.  If she had more money, she would have bought a new book of blank sheet music.  As for now, she would have to take the tablet and a couple of metal E-strings to be held in the back until everything cooled off and she had money to burn, or her strings gave out, which ever came first.

“Hey, Gabby.”, Richard called to her , turning back to the Britney Spears clone in tight vinyl bellbottoms and a baby tee he was waiting on.  She grinned and waved, as she headed towards the manager’s office.  She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the possibility that there would be no clipboard for her to sign.  Opening the door quickly, she whooshed in behind the gust.

The clipboard sat patiently, along with the manager, Joe Hall, at the desk.  He was on the phone with someone.  He looked up at her as he scribbled down a number.  Gabrielle bent down and scrawled her name on the sheet.  The manager reached for a box on the floor as the person on the other line talked.  He flipped through the checks distractedly, handing hers out.  She smiled her gratitude and turned to leave.  The manager snapped his fingers impatiently, then pointed to the schedule clipboard.  Gabrielle looked at it, searching for her name.  Beside it, in a neat row was her schedule. At the other end of the row was the total of her weekly hours.  It had been cut from 40 hours to 25.

She opened her mouth to protest and shut it abruptly, remembering he was on the phone.  Folding her arms across her chest, she silently waited and stewed.

“Yes, ma’am.  It’s been taken care of this morning.  Yes. . . yes. . . OK, thank you.  Good-bye.”, the manager hung up the phone.

He barely had time to turn to face Gabrielle before she launched into him.

“What is this?  Why are you cutting my hours like this?”, she asked, her voice broke unevenly.  Everything had been starting out so well.

“I’m sorry Gabrielle, but I had to cut everyone’s hours.  This is a temporary adjustment and your hours will go up before the Christmas season begins.  Trust me, when November rolls around, you’ll have more hours than you’d care to stomach.  I just need you to be patient.”, the manager looked gravely at her, “I really hated to do this, but the orders came from on high.  If it’s any consolation, you’re taking this better than anyone else so far.”

“Paul?” Paul Manchester was paranoid to the point of being unhealthy.  He had good reason, when reviews came around -- he always managed to squeak by barely, while Gabrielle, Richard and the others had to work harder to take up the slack he left behind.      

Joe nodded ruefully, scrubbing a hand through his stubby, greying hair , “You would have thought I was trying to kill his mother with the way he was going about it.  Well, crap.  I feel bad, I really do.  You’re a great person -- real friendly and good with music and I. . . I feel bad.  The second that I can, I’ll bump up the hours and you’ll be the first one.  I promise.”

Gabrielle took a deep breath, smoothing out her emotions, “Well, I guess I could use my new found free time to do something constructive."

Joe smiled and bade her farewell.  Gabrielle walked out of the office, stopping to look at the classical music bin.  She picked through the meager offerings, finding only a single CD that caught her attention.  The reduced hours and employee discount still make this meger luxury unfeasible.  She made her way out the door.

“Hey, did you get the news?”, Richard asked her conspiratorially.  A carefully tended pompadour and hawkish features belied his taste for pounding techno and dark industrial.         

“About the cut? Yeah.  Great timing.”

“I guess you learn to roll with the punches, eventually.”, Baker at twenty-four was one of the few grizzled veterans in the store.

“Yeah”, she sighed wistfully and walked out.  She passed a gap-mawed Jack O'Lantern and out into the sun.  It no longer felt warm and welcoming.

She wandered through the aisles of the grocery store.  By the grace of whatever God loved artists, she had managed to scrimp up enough money to get her enough food for when next she got paid.  For now, it was going to be a lean season.  

"Ramen noodles. . . again. . .," she sighed to herself.  At four for a dollar, they were the best thing she could buy.  She scarfed up the three flavors she could stomach the easiest -- Chicken, Beef and Oriental Noodles.  She looked down the aisle carefully.  A single can of spaghetti sauce could turn one night into Almost-Italy night, so she grabbed a can and dropped it in the cart without a second thought.  A can of cut-rate peas and  carrots followed behind.  She turned a sharp left and looked at the shelves of breads, pastries and other assorted things that were suddenly out of the reach of her diminutative budget.  Two loaves of bread were bundled carefully away.  She closed her eyes, trying to remember what else she was going to need between now and Friday after next.

A pair of soft blue eyes came to the forefront of her memory.  She frowned and tried to push them aside.  She chanted the grocery list to herself: milk, bread, vegetables, ramen, chicken slices, peanut butter, jelly, crab meat, lettuce, juice and coffee.  Spinning around, she began to march to the produce aisle.

A wink of black hair made Gabrielle's head turn.  Xena?, she asked herself.  Looking back and forth, she was not to be seen.  Only the housewives and college students were out in this part of the early afternoon.  Gabrielle looked down at the lettuce heads, trying to pick out one that didn't look so sickly.  Choosing one that at least looked palitable, Gabrielle set it down in the basket and pushed on.

I wonder where she works? she asked herself.  She smiled at the idea of just popping up around lunch time just to surprise her.  No, that wouldn't be good.  Highly unprofessional -- romantic, but unprofessional.  She looked around for anything else she needed.  The bananas looked good for being so late in the season, but they were too high out of her fiduciary reach.  Sighing, she pushed on for the checkout lane as she made a mental tally of her groceries.  Made it with a little to spare, she smiled grimly, until one of my strings break.  She strolled her cart into a short line, waiting impatiently to pay for her groceries and leave.  A tune began to shape in her head -- a bar or two of anxiousness played over and over again.  Cursing herself for not carrying a pad of paper, she tried to keep it playing in her mind.  She handed the bills to the cashier and waited for her change.  The tune was growing and building like a maddening itch.  Gabrielle looked over at the bagger, who was moving with a slowness that had to be deliberate.  The last bag was lowered into the cart.  The bagger muttered something, but Gabrielle was already out the door.  Opening the trunk with a pop, she loaded her groceries among with the detrius that she collected -- old string packages, newspapers and the assorted empty styrofoam coffee cup from some late night diner.  She slammed the trunk shut and pushed the cart to the side.  She looked at her watch quickly -- she still had several hours until she had to be at Winthrop's.  More than enough time to put away the groceries, work on the tune and go disappoint the landlord.  An almost perfect day, she smiled again.  This one was a bit more genuine.

She opened the door to her apartment carefully, half expecting to see Winthrop standing in the middle of her  den naked and fondling himself.  She looked around, making sure that she was indeed the only one in the apartment.  Setting her bags on the table, she began to unpack quickly.  She tossed the plastic bags under the sink to be used as trashbags later on in the week.  She piled the vegetables in the refrigerator, whistling the music she had been saving in her head.  Blindly putting the rest of the perishable in the cabinets, Gabrielle scooped up a pad of tableture paper and scribbled down the notes.  She paused to get a glass of water, her fingers still moving across an imaginary fretboard.  More dots and dashes found themselves arraigned on the paper.  She would stop and look at it, then frown and erase a bar only to recopy it with a minor change.

Oh, God!  It’s almost five!, she scurried out the door with the money in her fist.  Racing down the stairs, she hopped in the car and drove quickly to the office.  Traffic was at a standstill, rush hour having started earlier than she remembered.  She knew a couple of side roads that would get her there faster.  Another turn and an impatient shuffling of hands at the stop light, she could see the business office one street down over.  She could see part of the rear windshield sparkling in the distant lot, his rust-scarred Escort.  She grinned in relief as the light turned green.  Her car surged across the road and swung in the lot.  Not even bothering to turn off the engine, she leaped out of the car and ran to the front door.  Just as Winthrop closed the door and locked it.  He looked up at the jogging woman, that leer of his lighting up as his eyes went from her jeans to her shirtfront.

“You’re late.  I closed up shop, so those other arraignments will be made tomorrow.”, he grinned.  

Gabrielle’s eyes snapped from him to her watch, “I’ve still got ten minutes," she jabbed an impatient finger at the glass face of her watch, "It’s ten til five.”          

“Nope, my business day ended five minutes ago and you never showed up with the money.”, he lumbered around her, trailing his fingertips over her shoulder,  “See you tomorrow.”

“You bastard.  You utter fu--”

He waggled a recriminating finger, “Save it for tomorrow.  I love it when my girls talk dirty.”

She would have choked him with her bare hands, if her hands would have fit under his quivering, numerous chins.  Instead, she clenched her fists as Winthrop pulled out of the lot in his car.  Her skull began to pulse painfully as her knees to threatened to unlock.  Stumbling into her seat, she sat numbly.  She tried to think of a third alternative, anything other than having to share a bed with him.

She thought of her parents, but quickly pushed that idea out of her head.  Her parents would be less than enthused at the idea of their bohemian daughter coming back after failing in the real world.  They made no secret of their favoring of her younger sister Lila.  Lila, who had her head on straight and was going to the university with a full ride scholarship.  She leaned forward, letting her head rest on the steering wheel. 

"The lecturing would be over in a minute, you can swallow your pride long enough to take that.  It would be  for a short while, anyway.  I can find another apartment within a couple of months, or I can room with someone.  Maybe Xena?  Maybe she can lend me the money.  God. . . what am I thinking?  How am I going to say that?  'Hi, Xe. . . my landlord is going to force me into unwanted sexual acts unless I come up with the rent money.  Can you spare a few hundred?  I'm good for it, really.'  Real pathetic, Gabs," she backed out of the lot, "I could sell a kidney.  I have a second one, maybe that and a lung could get me some money.

She drove home slowly.  There was no real reason to rush.  Only one other place she needed to go until later that night.  Although she felt more like crawling into a hole than playing the guitar, she had a show to do.  Aphrodite had given her first break on the stage and Gabrielle felt that she owed the ebullient, gracious woman that much.  Pulling into her parking space, she looked at the apartment looming overhead.  An impassive monolith that once stood for her independence, it now was only a reminder of her squallid and hopeless state of affairs.  A rust iron and brick tomb frequented by the ghosts of lower society.  She drudged up the steps to her apartment.

The door squeaked open, and in her mind's eye, Gabrielle saw Winthrop standing in the middle of the room, fondling himself and grinning like an animal.  She peered around the edge, scanning the emptiness carefully.  Satisfied that he wasn't going to leap out at her from the shadows, Gabrielle opened the door fully.  She closed and locked it behind her.  She had enough time to take a shower, drink some milk and get dressed for tonight's show.  She wanted to scrub off every slimy molecule of Winthrop's DNA off her body before she sat down to play.  It was the only thing that wasn't tied in some thin emotional way to her circumstances.  The shower was quick and somewhat cheerless -- a perfunctory cleansing at best.  She dressed in a relaxed pair of black slacks and a neatly pressed wine blouse.  She looked at herself in the mirror quickly before heading out.  Maybe I'll get lucky tonight, she thought to herself as she strode to her car.  On the heels of that thought, a pair of cobalt blue eyes came to her mind.

Gabrielle parked her car in the back.  After their initial go-for-coffee ‘date', Gabrielle couldn’t stop thinking or dreaming about her.  Every passing moment she held Xena in her mind, she felt giddy and warm.  If she didn’t know better, she would swear that she was in love.               

“We’ve been over this before, hormones.  We’re not in love with her, we’re just in love with love.  Let’s just focus on the show,” she opened the door, bathing in the amber light of the back stage.

Performers and stage hands bustled around, all under the watchful eye of the stage manager, looking for their places or any other thing that was needed.  Gabrielle hugged her guitar case close to her as she shuffled through to the wings.  Peering over the shoulder, she saw her place in the night’s line-up.  The place of honor -- dead last, the spot where she could let all the flood gates out and wow everyone in the audience.

“Hey, Gabby,” came a feminine squeal as a hand grabbed her shoulder.  Gabrielle spun about to see the club’s owner smiling like the sun.  In a light green, practically see-through blouse and an almost equally transparent dark dress.  Underneath the clothing appeared to have black and lacy items that made Gabrielle color slightly.  Aphrodite looked less like a business owner and more like an escort.

“Hey Aphrodite!”, the two of them hugged briefly.

“This is so cool that you came.  I’ve been telling everyone to drop by and give you a listen.  I even think a couple of honchos from a record company will be here”, Aphrodite tugged at Gabrielle’s coat, ”You nervous? Gotta hurl?”  Dite’s outrageous manner of stating the uncomfortable truth made Gabrielle catch her breath. 

Giggling, Gabrielle said, “No, I’ll be fine.  I just need a place to tune up.”  Aphrodite showed her to an empty dressing room and closed the door.  Gabrielle never liked the dressing rooms in the club.  They were cramped, even with the spartan furniture -- a table bolted to the antiseptic white walls and a wobbly stool.  The mirror spanned the whole, short length of the room.  Behind her was a small and obviously negeclted shower stall.  The only reason that she would come into this room for anything was the fact that it was the only good room to tune her guitar.  She was alone as she plucked the strings and twisted the pegs to make sure the sounds were right.  Satisfied, she strummed a quick ‘shave and a hair-cut, two bits’ to amuse herself in the bland room.  She stood up slowly, easing the guitar on the stool and bending over to pull out a pick from the case.

“Hope your show goes well tonight.”, a voice whispered from behind her.  Jumping the honey haired musician, caught the guitar by the neck, hefting it like a club.  With Winthrop’s evil leering face foremost in her mind, she was prepared to fight for her honor. 

Xena's eyes widened and she smirked as she pressed the door shut, “I always thought the term ‘break a leg’ meant the actor’s leg, not the fan’s.”

Closing her eyes and catching her breath, Gabrielle set her guitar on a table, “You might wanna knock, before you come into a room like that.  I’m nervous enough as it is, I don’t need you adding to it.”, she forced down the hostility in her voice.  Xena’s eyes lit for a second, an emotion Gabrielle couldn’t fathom in their faded blue depths.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me come in”, she said softly, her dark lashes hooding her eyes from anymore displays.

Pursing her lips, Gabrielle blew out a breath that made her bangs dance, “I’ve had a rough day.”   

The dark haired woman stepped closer, her footfalls overshadowed by the raucous sounds beyond the door. The club and it’s activity gearing up for a night’s entertainment, “Anything that I can do to help?”

Gabrielle’s eyes shuttered close and she shook her head, the emotional ups and downs of the day trying to unhinge her confidence, “Nothing, but to be in the audience.”

“Always, whenever you perform,” the sensual scent of sandlewood, earth and something deeper, primal swept over Gabrielle, intoxicating and comforting at the same time.  Her eyes fluttered open and locked onto a pale blue gaze, asking and being asked, Gabrielle felt herself falling into them.  For the space of a heartbeat, she offered herself to the mysterious, enigmatic Xena.  Her lips parted, her mouth filling with Xena’s scent.

“Hello!  Show -- exsqueeeze me?  Warriorbabe!  Hands off the talent, okay!”, Aphrodite, petulant and demanding swept in, insinuating her voluptuous body between them, shock like cold water splashed across Gabrielle.  Blinking, she blushed, coming out of the romantic dream.  She picked up her guitar as the color rose into her cheeks.  Avoiding eye contact with both women, she stalked out of the dressing room and made her way to the wings of the stage.  A mild uproar reached her ears as Aphrodite berated Xena.  Gabrielle barely discerned the words….“Remember, Brujah, there are. . .”, the voice of Aphrodite’s softened.  Tossing off the discordant feelings and embarrassment, Gabrielle focused on her audience as she prepared to take the stage.  The previous act bowed, a group of flippant, talented jugglers using ribald jokes and intensive dexterity to keep the audience interested, then walked off into the cool wings.  The stage manager nudged Gabrielle once towards the warmth of the lights.  She walked out to a smattering of applause and grinned to the house.

Taking a last deep, cleansing breath, she gave the seats a last look.  There was some frantic movement towards the back, where Xena usually sat.  Pressing her fingers to the neck of the guitar, she let out one slow strum.  The music rolled out with the majesty of early morning fog.  Soon, Gabrielle forgot about all her troubles, losing them to her music.  A loss she could deal with easily.  

The time seemed to pass by far to fast for her to reckon with it.  The final chord reverberated over a  breathless crowd.  Smiling, she bowed and thanked the crowd for their attention and appreciation.  The applause wasn’t thunderous, but every clap was sincere.  As she bowed her way into the wings, Gabrielle looked towards what she had designated as Xena’s corner.  The dark woman was gone, but glancing back over her shoulder, she could see Aphrodite and Cupid were talking animatedly.  Probably waiting for me at the car, Gabrielle mused as she gathered up her case. 

“Not so fast, Gabster.”, Aphrodite had slunk in between the warm crush of flesh with an envelope in her hand.  She pressed it to Gabrielle’s empty hand.

“What’s this?”, she opened it quickly and pulled out a check.

“Permanent employment, girlfriend.  I’m hiring you, silly.  I want you to play for the club at night -- a regular gig.  I don’t mean marching around like a stranded mariachi dude, either.  You’ll do what you do here, but it’s for pay."

Gabrielle was still swooning over the amount before the decimal, “I’m going to make this much just for playing an hour?”    

“As if. . . I want you here four hours.  Gentle mood music, choice of instruments and a break when you want.”

“A lounge player?”       

Aphrodite delicately feminine features wrinkled into a frown, “Complete control, just no nasty little limericks, they are soooo..bogus, ya know.  Say yes, Gabby.”

“Um. . .”, she was on overload, but gathered herself enough to ask, “Can I give you my answer tomorrow?”

“Sure sweetcakes, whatever.  Just call me before Saturday.  I hire only the best, sweetie.  Don’t dis me.”, she turned and walked away.  

Gabrielle kept her composure until she made it out the door and rounded the corner..  Once she felt that she was all alone, she nearly danced and squealed with exalted joy.  With the pay she made in four hours, she could quit her day job.  Heck, quit my day job and save some money to get some better equipment, she smiled brighter than the full moon overhead.  Her feet never touched the ground as she walked to the parking lot.  True to form, Xena was leaning against her late model ‘Argo’ and smiling.  The one person that Gabrielle wanted to tell the good news to first.

“Xena!”, she squealed leaping into the air and drawing her right knee up as she pumped her right elbow down, “ You won’t believe it!  Aphrodite hired me to run the music!  This is so great!”, she threw her arms around the brawny dark-haired beauty.  The resulting warm embrace was not forthcoming. There was no familiar, happy feeling to her at all.  It was like she was hugging a mannequin, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.  I -- well, Aphrodite -- just be careful.  She can be flighty.”, Xena returned the hug, with slightly more warmth than before, “how about some coffee?  My treat.”

“Sure, I’ll let you buy the future darling of the classical world a cup of coffee.  If you’re good, I’ll even autograph your cup.”

Xena rolled her eyes, comically, as she climbed into her car.

Tucked into a deep, comfortable chair, Gabrielle looked out into the night at people passing by the window.  A soft and warm refuge from the cooling autumn night.  The coffee shop was a place where people gathered after the movies, plays and concerts to talk, drink and socialize.  Gabrielle preferred it here at night, more so than day.  Night made the intrusion of passersby and other customers less noticeable, as though the night gently wrapped a protective cushion about her.  A cup of coffee and a high back chair was often the solution to her writer’s block.               

Xena handed down a cup to the young woman.  Gabrielle looked up and accepted it with a smile.  She watched her friend sit down and raised the cup to her lips.  A thin line of red on the edge of the oversized terra-cotta colored mug caught her eye.

“Ug. Xena, this cup has something red on it.”, she wrinkled her nose and handed the cup back.

Xena gave the brightly colored mug a disgusted look and said, “Ew.  I’ll get a new cup for you”.  She snatched it out of her hand.  Gabrielle watched her exchange cups, pointing out the dirty one to the counter help.  He said something that was lost to the noise and distance, but Xena made a gentle dismissive gesture.  A minute later, she came back with a fresh cup.  “Here, sorry about that.”

“No problem.”, Gabrielle took a sip, then added another packet of sugar to soften the bitterness  There was an undercurrent to the brew.  Something with a saline, almost coppery tang that made her heart skip a beat.  She liked it, “Wow, great coffee.”

"Thanks, it's a rare blend that I had found while out of town.  This is a nice little shop.  So, now that you’re a paid artist, when are you going to sell out, officially?”, the arched eyebrow was the only hint that she was being facetious.

“Two weeks from tomorrow.”

They laughed lightly.

“Now, on to the next question.  What’s bothering you?”, Xena leaned forward, blue eyes intent and boring into Gabrielle's soul for answers.

Gabrielle’s face rose quickly, a sudden fever blush staining her cheeks, “Nothing.  Why you ask?”

“Because you don’t have a poker face.  I could hear it in your music.  It was like I was listening to a recording.  Come on, spill the beans.”

Gabrielle’s eyes darted to the side, “It’s nothing, really.”

“Tell me.”, Xena’s voice had a hypnotic timbre to it. 

Whatever resolve to keep her immediate ‘landlord’ problem to herself, evaporated against the tone of her friend’s voice, “I was late on my rent and the landlord is using that to get in my pants.  I had the money and he told me to get it to him by the end of the business day.  When I got there, he closed shop early.  If I don’t follow through, he’ll kick me out of the apartment.”

“How can I help?”

Gabrielle smiled wickedly, “Kill Winthrop?”

Xena’s voice was flat and pitiless, “If that will help.”

Gabrielle's mouth dropped.  In the back of her mind, she could almost see Xena walking up to Winthrop in the middle of the day and shooting him in the face without so much as a second thought, “No! I-I was just kidding.  I don’t want you to get involved.  I can get through this on my own,” she smiled, hoping to relax the tensing mood.

“Stay with me tonight.  I have some favors to call in and I can get this cleared up before dawn.”, Xena leaned back against the chair calmly.  Gabrielle felt the coolness of Xena's emotions sinking into her bones like a wet, winter chill.  What have I gotten myself into? Is Xena that crazy?  Would she kill me? she asked herself.

“I can’t impose on you like that.”     

“If I didn’t want you to come over, I wouldn’t have asked,” her face softened, “Just for tonight?  I would feel better if you were at my house.  Men like Winthrop aren't very patient.” 

Gabrielle mulled over it, “OK, I’ll stay for the night”.  She felt it best to humor the woman for the time being.

“Good, we can stop by your apartment to get some sundries," Xena smiled again and the pair left the shop.

Chapter 3