HEART AND SOUL - JUDY COLELLA (classic novels to read .TXT) 📗

child, she had, in fact, done gymnastics. But when she topped five feet at the age of ten, she started to struggle with the equipment more than anything else. Her center of balance had still been good, and the floor exercises hadn’t been a problem. However, the uneven bars presented a real problem – eventually there wasn’t enough room between the upper and lower one to accommodate her length when she tried to swing between them. The balance beam was fine, except for the dismount, and doing the vault got, as she expressed it, flat-out weird.

This entire speech about her past helped get her through having the gouge in her ankle cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged. Only after that was accomplished and she’d been given a non-narcotic pain-killer, a bowl of angel-hair pasta with pesto, a plum, and a hot cup of tea, was she able to relax enough to appreciate her surroundings.
“This is a huge place for one person to live,” she said, cupping the steaming beverage in chilled hands.

“Guess I’m used to living in large spaces. Our house was ridiculous. Over thirty rooms, if I remember right.”

“Are you rich or something?”

“My parents were.” Again that cold, almost angry tone.

“Oh. So…um, what do – wait. Do you have a name? I’ve been giving you all this personal info about me, and I don’t even know what to call you.”

They were in the part of the loft that carpeting, a sofa, coffee table, easy-chair and some occasional tables and lamps defined as a living room. The fireplace was blazing with a fresh offering of wood, and he was enjoying the way the warm light enhanced her exquisite features. “Are you warm enough now?”

“Yes, thank you.” She gave him a questioning look.

“My name. Well, people call me Gargoyle.” He waited for her reaction.

After several moments she said, “Right. Because you’re such an ugly little thing. Is that seriously what you want me to call you?”

He allowed himself a smile – he wasn’t sure how close he wanted to get to this girl, or if he wanted her to feel familiar with him even a little. “No. But that’s what people call me.”

“Why?”

“Because of my last name, most likely.”

“Are you going make me ask you what that is?”

He gave in. “My name is Xavion Raphael G’Argyle.”

“Uh…”

He spelled it for her.

“That’s one heck of a name. But why the apostrophe? What does the ‘G’ stand for? And is your first name spelled with a ‘Z’?”

“No, an ‘X’. The spelling of my last name is, well, I can’t really explain it, I’m afraid. It’s a family secret.”

“A family secret. Uh-huh. Fine.” She nodded, pursing her lips, but didn’t pursue it. “And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a private investigator.” Of sorts.

“Really! You mean like – ”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to compare me with one of those television P.I.s.”

Emma glared. “Fine. So how are you different?”

“For one thing, the police don’t hate me, so we don’t exchange one-liner insults.” Xavion got up, taking her empty tea cup which she’d set on the coffee table, and went to the kitchen.

Behind him, Emma laughed.

He smiled, appreciating the sound – hers was a pleasant, musical laugh. It was also the first sign that she was getting over the worst of her experience. The cup washed and put away, he asked if she was hungry.

“You already fed me.”

“So? You look like you don’t eat enough, and you’ve been through a lot.”

“I’m a model, Xavion. I can’t eat as much as everyone else. And please don’t lecture me about it.”

He turned around and saw that she had bent over to inspect the wrapping on her ankle. “Is that okay? Is the pain getting worse?”

“Nope. You did an amazing job.” She straightened and smiled. “Thanks. I won’t even ask why you’re so good at things like that.” Her slender index finger was pointing at the bandage.

“Looks like you broke a nail.”

“I did. Several, in fact, when I was yanking myself through that window.” Shrug.

Xavion looked at his watch. Normally, he didn’t go to bed until almost dawn, but after being wakened after only two hours sleep that morning, he was feeling an uncustomary exhaustion. “It’s eight-thirty. What do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going to call someone? I’m sure if you were supposed to be at that studio long before now, someone would be wondering what happened.” And why hasn’t anyone called?

Looking startled, Emma reached into her jacket pocket and took out her phone. “Shit! My ringer was off. Damn it!” She turned it so Xavion could see that she had missed seven calls and about ten texts. “Great. When they find out I’m not dead, they’re going to kill me!”

“Or maybe just fire you?”

“Same thing.”

“You could say you were kidnapped by the taxi driver.”

“I won’t lie.”

“Good.” He nodded, raising her up a notch on his list of possible decent people. “If they fire you for an honest mistake, Emma, you don’t need them.”

“Yes, I do. They’re one of the top agencies, and if they blacklist me, I can forget modeling forever. Besides, I’m almost too old, like I said, for the kind of modeling I do now.”

“Which is?”

“Runway, Paris fashion, trends. In another couple of years I’ll have to settle for catalog work, products targeting a slightly older crowd, stuff like that. And before you ask, it’s not bad work. In fact, it’s easier in a lot of ways. But it doesn’t pay as well, and I’m trying to save up to buy myself a house and a decent car.” She tucked her honey-colored hair behind her ears with one hand and contemplated the list of calls on her phone. “I suppose I should call Sharon first.”

“Your boss?”

“Guess you’d call her that.” Biting her lip, Emma touched the screen, slid her finger across its surface, tapped it, and sat back.

Even from a few feet away, Xavion could hear the loud exclamation of a woman’s voice issue from the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me. And no, I’m not okay, but I sorta am.” Emma closed her eyes and launched into a brief recounting of her afternoon. “It was my fault for getting the address wrong. Temporary dyslexia or something. I don’t know. But that’s what happened. Am I fired?”

More loud exclamations.

“Okay. Thanks, Sharon. You have no idea how much I appreciate that. I’ll see you in the morning.” She ended the call and turned to Xavion who had lowered himself onto the easy-chair adjacent to the sofa. “I still have my job. She said the shoot didn’t go well anyway, because something was wrong with the equipment, so it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been there.”

He suspected Emma’s employer hadn’t fired her for other reasons, too. “She likes your work, yes?”

Smile. “Yeah. Look, not to be rude or anything, but can we stop talking now?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever said this much at one time to one person. I’m not a talker, to be honest. Anyway, give me a few minutes, and then I’ll call a cab. I do know the right address for my apartment.”

Xavion swallowed hard. At various points in his life he had enjoyed brief relationships with young ladies, but none of them had ever worked out. Part of the reason was his reclusive lifestyle. Mostly, it was because he rarely spoke. He didn't like being chattered at and longed for a relationship with someone who understood that, whose silence could communicate more effectively than a spate of words.

There were other, deeper reasons as well, but it all started with this – with needing a woman who appreciated quiet. Ironic, then, that this one had, without trying, coaxed more words out of him than he had ever said at one time to one person…“Of course.” He got up and went back to the table where his notes were still spread out from the file.

Don’t, Xav. Don’t let her in. You can’t afford another mistake. Concentrate on the case for now, and if she’s someone you can honestly consider, you can always find her later. But…why can’t she at least become a friend? I can’t lie to myself – I’m lonely as hell. How amazing would it be to have a person to hang out with who gets at least this much about me? Then again, I would probably fall in love with her after a while, and that means more pain – possibly for both of us. And danger for her. Damn it all! He stopped short of banging his fist on the table in annoyance, instead picking up one of the photographs. An autopsy shot. Lovely.

“What’s the address here?”

He turned to find her holding the phone again, brows raised.

“It’s, just tell them you’ll be on the south end of the abandoned factory on 34th Avenue.”

“Abandoned.” She grinned, sliding a finger across the screen. “Okay.”

He turned back to the table but listened as she told the taxi dispatcher her location and to give her twenty minutes. When the call ended, Xavion stood and went to the sofa, extending a hand. “Ready to try standing on that?”

She nodded and took his hand. When she was on her feet, she looked up at him, her eyes staring directly into his. A slow smile spread across her face.

Noticing how flawless her complexion was, how unusual and beautiful the blue-green of her eyes, he realized he not only hadn’t let go of her hand, but had no desire to do so. He cleared a suddenly tight throat. “How does that feel?” God, I want to kiss you – damn, damn, damn!

She looked down at her ankle, her stance shifting as she put more weight on it.

“I can carry you downstairs, you know. In fact, that might be safer.” Bullshit, Xav. You want to hold her. Cretin.

Emma frowned, taking an experimental step. “Maybe…okay. Sorry.”

“For what?” Making me light up inside?

She shook her head and put her arms around his neck.

Forcing himself not to smile too broadly, he scooped her up and went to the door. “Comfortable?”

“Yup.”

When they were outside, he continued carrying her until they reached the south corner of the large building. Two of the streetlights were out, but Xavion wasn’t worried. He almost wished someone would try something so he could have an outlet for the attack of frustration he was experiencing, and suspected he’d continue to feel long after Emma was gone.

They stood in friendly silence until the taxi rolled up. After helping her into the back seat, he wished her a safe trip home, feeling silly for the remark, and did something he almost couldn’t remember having done before – he blushed.

The taxi drove away. The street grew quiet again. He turned and saw two youths approaching, their eyes shadowed by hoods, their body language threatening. Moving toward them, Xavion glared down at their indistinct faces. “Don’t.”

They faltered, exchanged a glance, and crossed the street.

With perverse regret at their decision, he continued around the corner, up the block, and into the factory. Looks like I won’t be sleeping early after all. He climbed to the top floor, then continued to the end of the catwalk and up the ladder leading to the roof.

Gargoyle, indeed.

 

*******

 

As dangerous as life on the streets may have been, Georgie had nevertheless gotten by well enough. He’d been beaten up two or three times, but never to such a degree that he doubted he’d survive. Black eye, bloody nose, a bad sprain, perhaps a broken rib. Nothing worse. His father’s treatment had been far more severe. So now, having run away from home at fourteen, and managing to live into his mid-twenties, Georgie walked the back alleys and hidden ways with confidence.

The part of the City in which he’d settled, more or less, was the old manufacturing district. All but one of the original factories had been torn down, replaced with apartment buildings that after a few decades were mostly abandoned wrecks. He found food further uptown in restaurant garbage cans, panhandled small change in