MAGNOLIA #2
"When do we leave, Magnolia Jenkins?"
"Thursday morning." I swallow. "I hope you like mimosas."
He doesn't let go of my hand.
Not right away. Those rough fingers hold mine in place like we've just sealed a pact with the gods instead of negotiated pastry-based supplemental income.
His grip is warm. Almost hot, like his blood runs ten degrees above human standard.
The calluses on his palm map out a lifetime of weapons I don't want to think about.
I tug. He releases. My hand comes back tingling.
"Parameters," he says, and reaches across the table to grab a napkin from under his tankard.
The napkin is brown. Parts of it are a darker brown. One corner is stiff and crusted with something that flakes when he smooths it flat.
"Is that blood?"
"Probably."
"Whose?"
"The napkin's previous owner."
He pats his chest, his belt, the pouches strapped along his thigh. Produces a stub of charcoal pencil from somewhere inside his vest. Holds it out to me between two fingers like he's handing over a surgical instrument.
"Write the parameters."
"On the blood napkin."
"It's the only napkin."
I take the pencil. It's warm too. Everything about this orc radiates heat like a furnace with a pulse.
"Full operational details," he says, and the way he leans forward makes the bench groan. "Hostile party identification. Engagement rules. Physical contact permissions and restrictions. Exit strategies."
"It's a wedding."
"Every wedding I've attended has ended in a knife fight."
"How many weddings have you attended?"
"One."
Fair enough. I smooth out the napkin, avoid the crusty corner, and start writing.
CONTRACT: JENKINS-ROARK FAKE DATING ARRANGEMENT
"First," Dash says, holding up one scarred finger. "Hostile targets. I need names, physical descriptions, threat levels, and known combat capabilities."
I stare at him. "My mother is sixty-two and has a bad hip."
"Noted. Weapon of choice?"
"Passive aggression."
He nods like I've just identified a Class Four tactical threat. "Continue."
I write: Primary hostile: Patricia Jenkins, mother. 5'6". Blonde. Weaponized disappointment.
"The groom," Dash says.
Secondary hostile: Todd Bellingham III. 5'11". Sandy hair. Weak chin. Weaponized mediocrity.
"The bride."
My pencil hovers. A splinter of something old and sharp lodges under my ribs. I write: Tertiary hostile: Petunia Jenkins, sister. 5'7". Gorgeous. Knows it.
"Allied forces?"
"None."
The word falls out flat and hard. Dash's amber eyes hold mine for a beat too long. He doesn't push.
"Physical contact parameters," he says, moving on with military efficiency. "Specify permitted actions."
"Hand-holding. Arm around my waist. Maybe a kiss on the forehead for show." I scribble furiously on the blood napkin. "Nothing below the waist, nothing involving tongues, nothing that would get us kicked out of the rehearsal dinner."
"Define 'kicked out.'"
"Escorted from the premises by country club security."
"How many security personnel?"
"I don't... it's a country club, not a fortress."
"Every location is a fortress. Some just have better landscaping." He taps the napkin with one massive finger. "Exit strategies. If the operation goes sideways, what's the extraction plan?"
"We leave."
"Through which exit?"
"The... door?"
"Which door? Front entrance? Service corridor? Kitchen access? Second-floor balcony drop to the east garden?"
"Have you been to Silverleaf Country Club before? "
"No. I'll need blueprints."
"It's a country club."
"Blueprints, Magnolia."
Something about the way he says my name, all gravel and gravity, like it's a callsign he's committing to memory, makes my stomach do something I'm choosing to ignore.
I finish the napkin. It's covered edge to edge in my cramped handwriting, charcoal smudged around the bloodstain, a contract written on carnage. He picks it up, reads every word, and folds it into a precise square that disappears into his vest.
"Acceptable terms. I accept the contract." He pulls the bag of gold toward him. The coins clink and settle. "We depart Thursday morning. I'll be ready."
"Great. Wear the tuxedo."
"I will."
"And maybe... clean up a little? Shave? Do orcs shave?"
He gives me a look that could curdle cream. "I will present appropriately."
"Perfect." I stand up. My knees wobble. Adrenaline crash. "So your tuxedo, where is it? At your place?"
"It's at my armorer's. Being stored alongside my formal plate mail and my spiked tactical harness."
"Spiked tactical..."
"The harness is unavailable regardless." He drains the last of his tankard. "It's currently covered in basilisk viscera. Three-day contract in the sewers. The gore hasn't been cleaned yet."
My brain stalls on basilisk viscera and then lurches forward to the actual problem.
"Wait. The tuxedo is at your armorer's."
"Yes."
"Is the tuxedo clean?"
Pause.
"Define clean."
"Free of monster guts, Dash."
Another pause. Longer.
"The tuxedo may need attention."
I move to the table. My knuckles go white. The carriage to Silverleaf leaves from the north station at six a.m. Thursday. That's thirty-six hours away. Every tailor in the Upper Quarter closes at midnight. It's currently ten fifteen.
"Stand up," I say.
He stands.
Gods.
The table comes up to his mid-thigh. His shoulders span wider than the bench. The vest stretches across a body that could double as a dining surface for four.
No off-the-rack tuxedo on this continent will fit this orc.
"We have two hours," I say, grabbing his wrist and pulling. It's like pulling a warm oak tree. "I know a tailor on Hawthorn. She owes me for a cake."
"I haven't finished my drink."
His tankard is empty.
"Move, Dash."
He moves.