Despite having what promised to be a legendary hangover, Xarian woke up happy. This was because he awoke between two beautiful women. And though they’d both spent the night with him, they could hardly have been more different in host of other ways. The girl on his left, for instance, was no conversationalist. Her fiery red hair, generous curves, and enthusiasm for her work more than made up for it, of course, but still, it was one of the ways in which she was entirely unlike the girl on his right. Plus, Xarian knew, the girl on his left would leave when it was time for her to go. This too was not likely to occur with the girl on the right. For the girl on the left, the whole affair had been nothing more than a job, and one for which she was well qualified. Reticence, enthusiasm, and professionalism were desirable traits in a working girl, after all. And after she was gone, Xarian wouldn’t miss the girl on his left. The girl on his right, however, was a different proposition all together.
Just looking at her made Xarian smile.
Xarian hadn’t expected his night to end so well when it had begun. He had, in fact, been deep into his cups when Belle had found him at the Gilded Goat. She’d arrived in a foul mood that might have killed another man’s evening. Fortunately, Xarian had had little desire for conversation. The two friends had therefore drunk in a sort of mutually acceptable silence that others might have found off-putting. And both had been surprised when Alaira had showed up later in the night. Belle had immediately gotten up to greet Alaira, but Alaira hadn’t been interested. Instead she’d loudly challenged all comers to drink her under the table, finding no shortage of would-be champions. Xarian couldn’t remember who called it quits first, but he knew that the game itself had endeared Alaira—and by extension the group—to the rest of the bar’s patrons. He’d soon found himself telling tales of their exploits to any and all who would listen. Alaira had hung on his arm while a small army of hearty scoundrels listened in rapt attention.
As the night wore on, Xarian inevitably began thinking seriously about suitable female companionship. He'd surveyed his audience and decided on the buxom redhead, only to discover that he hadn't the coin to retain her services. Dismayed, he’d grown quiet again. However, Alaira had again come to his rescue, getting Xarian to admit what was bothering him and then flatly refusing to allow him to go home disappointed. After a brief dicker, they'd decided to split the woman’s costs as well as her services and another bottle of whiskey. Xarian didn’t know what had happened to Belle after that, and he didn’t care. He’d had Alaira, and Alaira had had the redhead, and as far as he was concerned, it had been a magnificent evening all the way around.
Xarian enjoyed watching Alaira sleep. He’d been worried about her when she’d arrived at the Golden Goat, but now she slumbered peacefully. Whatever had been bothering her, he hoped she’d gotten over it.
A moment later, Xarian’s door crashed inward. He sat up in bed just as a bolt of pain exploded behind his eyes. Xarian’s dreams of staying in bed all day died instantly.
“Wake up!” Modor cried. “We’ve got a job!”
For a moment, Xarian was dumbfounded. Modor had lost his mind! “What the Hell’s the matter with you?” Xarian asked. Then the pain in his head hit him full force, and he could do little besides cradle his face in his hands.
“Bah!” Modor replied. “We’ve got work and no time for your bellyaching.”
Xarian watched in horror as his friend walked towards the bed.
“Modor no!” Alaira cried, finally coming to her senses. But it didn’t matter. Modor gripped the mattress firmly and smiled like a hungry savage.
“Wait!”
But it was too late. Modor ripped the mattress up into the air, sending Xarian and his ladies flying.
“Damn it to the Hells!” cried the red-head, awake at last and in a fury. “What in the Great Blazes?” She stopped when she saw Modor glaring at her. “Right, I’ll just collect my things then.”
“I’m sorry about this,” Xarian said.
The red-head didn’t reply. She didn’t even look at him.
Alaira watched her go. “Gods Modor! You have an absolute gift for ruining a good thing.”
Xarian looked at her. Despite his pique, he couldn’t help smiling.
Alaira returned his smile with a glare. “What the Hell are you looking at?”
“Sorry,” he said, “I just—“
“Don’t go gettin’ all funny on me now, Xarian,” Alaira said. She got to her feet but made no effort to cover herself. Instead she self-consciously touched the scar on her right cheek. “Lordy, that’s all I need.”
Xarian sighed. Alaira could be like that. She had scars, and not just on the outside. She’d have your back in a fight, and he’d seen her share herself ten ways in a house of pleasure, but real affection was a difficult issue for her. He knew, for example, that she’d never have spent the night with him without the redhead’s presence. She could share a woman and a bottle of whiskey and call it casual, but a moment of honest intimacy was out of the question. It was a pity. Xarian could see past the scars to the quality of the woman beneath, but that didn’t matter so long as Alaira herself couldn’t see it.
And as long as Modor's hanging around, Xarian thought. But he knew that wasn't fair. Modor hadn’t made even a cursory effort to monopolize Alaira's time. If anything, Modor pushed Alaira away more often than not, especially since he himself seemed intent on bedding every woman in Brega and a great many beyond its borders. That Alaira was attracted to Modor was undeniable. It was equally undeniable that Modor would never be hers. Not in any sense that truly mattered.
Xarian pushed himself up and walked to his medicine cabinet. He pulled out two glasses and a small bag of white powder. The powder, a general health tonic of his own design, wouldn't fix everything, but it would take the edge off of his hangover. That would have to be enough.
“So what’s this job?” he asked. He handed Alaira a glass of the tonic and then took a sip from his own.
“Yeah,” Alaira said, “Surely Cindar Belam didn’t hire you, so what’s the deal?”
“No, Belam didn’t hire us” Modor said. Then he smiled. “But I did meet his War Master on my way home.”
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