Shilloh learned that night that Wade was either a spectacular improvisational actor or he was going to make a phenomenal boyfriend to some lucky person.

  First and foremost. People. Didn't. Talk. To. Her.

  It was stunning.

  With a face like hers, one that tended to look younger than its years and approachable, she would have expected a few people asking about the time or maybe offering drinks. Some person might have even needed instructions to the bathroom or complained about their day.

  Not with Wade around.

  He stood just barely inside her personal space and occasionally put a hand on her wrist to get her attention. That was all it took. There was nary an interruption to be had the whole night.

  That lack of random approachers was the excuse she chose for why she drank so much. Without the usual routines of a night out, it made the time oddly hard to track. She certainly wasn't drinking because she was nervous. It wasn't that Wade had offered her a bet that she deeply wanted to win. Thoughts such as that never crossed her mind.

  Because she was drowning them.

  She grimaced, realizing that the thoughts were crossing her mind again.

  The bartender was quick when she motioned for a few more tequila shots. The shots were for fun. She told herself. It was just that tequila, like, tasted good. And the color was nice, or whatever.

  Before too long, she was sidling up to Wade and making him take a blow-job shot. He was a good sport, winked at her, and then looked at her aghast when she said he wasn't allowed to use his hands.

  Still, the shot went down, and he coughed just the way someone was supposed to, so all the correct follow-up jokes could be made.

  If that had been it, she probably wouldn't have marked his act as that impressive. But he started blustering about how he was better at chugging than she, even if he was worse at shots. Her offense was regal, so he got a bunch of cups of water so they could compete. Only several minutes later, when she asked for a piggyback ride to the dance floor, did it click that he was keeping her hydrated to avoid a hangover.

  The thought came and went, not staying long. Her half-joking request for a piggyback ride received immediate assent. So, the next thing she knew, he was facing away, on one knee, and she realized just how wide his back was. That was a back meant for sleeping in. When the sun rose in the morning, you could bury your face against it and not see a damn thing, even if the window was right next to you.

  She got on with the obligatory 'high-ho Silver, away!' and he trotted them to the floor. She almost didn't get off. The dude was fucking warm. Like, properly pleasantly warm. Sure, the muscles were nice, and his back was a wonder of engineering that had enough space for her to write the whole alphabet if she started scratching his back during sex. However, even if he was ugly as sin, she'd still want to cuddle him at night. It would be like a self-heating pillow. But a pillow that smelled nice and had strong-looking hands.

  To hide from those thoughts, she sought the sweet oblivion of dance. Shilloh was ready to go ham, bust out some ballet moves, and let the music take her. But Wade Fucking Raslow ruined her self-delusion aid by also being amazing to dance with.

  The man, the warrior, an ethereal force that spoke with the world-altering authority of a god, sucked at dancing. He sucked badly. His head bopped too much. He treated bouncing up and down like a move. His limbs were erratic, and even though everything was exactly on beat, there was zero coherence, or skill, or practice, or guile, or shame in his style. Just joy.

  Her fake boyfriend grinned like an idiot, bit his lip with satirical false-confidence, and transitioned from genuinely bad to hilariously intentionally bad.

  To say it was disarming was an understatement. The astronomic levels of unconquered, fuck-it energy were damn near aspirational.

  Shilloh spent just as much time moving to the beat as she did laughing and battling against him for dominance.

  She did the funky chicken.

  He did the worst rendition of moonwalking she had ever seen in her life.

  She did the wave.

  He caught it, tossed it in the air, and hit it back to her with an imaginary baseball bat.

  And so it went. Shortly after, he did a shockingly athletic and impressive rendition of The Worm, and other women started noticing him. Various mascara-ensconced eyes took him in and liked what they saw. Goofy, confident, fit, and dancing like the kind of person who was down-to-earth enough to rub your feet when you were on your period, what wasn't to like?

  The poachers moved in tactfully. They accidentally bumped against him and offered thanks when he caught them. A few found ways to writhe in an unnecessarily sexual way while very close to him.

  Too bad for those the bitches in the fan-wagon, Wade was too busy casting out an invisible fishing rod and making her hop closer as he reeled the line and mimed hauling her in.

  Ohhhh. It felt good. They were all taller, better dressed, and with more expensive clothes than her. They would never be called 'frumpy,' didn't have too much muscle, or ugly, calloused hobbit feet. But they also couldn't even make Wade notice their cleavage. And the looks on their faces when they realized that made her feel alive in a way that probably said horrible things about her character.

  Shilloh hopped along as her boyfriend for the night reeled her in the last few feet, and then she jumped into Wade's arms. She connected their hands and spun him, as if they were swing dancing. He took cues remarkably well, so she took the lead, twisting and spinning him around until he was dizzy and they were holding each other, laughing. And as her head rested on his shoulder, she met each of those greedy, poaching bitches’ eyes and subtly tightened her fingers on his back while she smiled.

  If Birch really had been taking drugs, she would have asked her if this was what crack felt like.

  The poachers wilted away like snow on a skillet. Well, all but one of them was scared off. The last one was extra tall and fit. She refused to look away when Shilloh met her eyes.

  The challenge (and the tequila) were rampaging through her blood, so it took longer than she was proud of before her brain started working again, and the realization kicked in.

  "Kamora! What are you doing here?"

  "Shilloh? Are you the reason that bobcat friend of yours jumped into my passenger seat?"

  "What!"

  "I said—"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  But that was all the time she had before Birch entered the scene.

  Their friend had been doing the running man and dancing with a somewhat out-of-breath Agnes (who had done some shockingly skillful belly dancing earlier), but raced over as soon as she saw Kamora.

  After the tackle-hug, everyone was introduced. Scotty shook hands, profoundly unbothered by the array of stickers someone had arranged on his chest and back so they formed an arrow pointing at his junk/butt.

  "Kamora," Shilloh asked, guiding their group away from the speakers, "how the hell did you know we would be here?"

  "I didn't! I was just passing through and heard a familiar song."

  "That's because I bribed the DJ!" Birch beamed. "I gave him a twenty and told him that Scotty can put his ankles behind his head."

  "Oh! If I tell him that Scotty can fit a whole can of soda in his mouth, do you think I can get him to put on something with more bass?"

  "Sure! Just—"

  "Wait," Shilloh interjected. "We still haven't heard how you got here and found us."

  "You won't," Birch said, happily. "Kamora is some sort of weird ninja assassin. She just shows up places. It's awesome."

  "Come on," Kamora said, tugging Birch towards the dance floor. "Stop talking about lame stuff and dance."

  "Wait," Shilloh said, still having trouble catching up to what was happening. She barely even noticed when Wade pressed a fresh cup of water into her hand. "What business brought you all the way out here? I don't think you ever told me what you do.

  "That's cause it's booooooring. Ask me when I'm drunk. Birch, hurry up," the tall woman with her dual colored dyed hair said, pulling their short friend towards the crowd of bopping people, "I want to get some neck-beard to buy me drinks."

  "Fine," Birch assented, waggling a finger. "But I want the record to show that your response is exactly what a ninja-assassin deflecting attention would say."

  "Fine, whatever. Just stop being weird and dance!"

  "Weird my ass! This is the only time I've been serious all night."

  Scotty took Birch's other arm and laced it through his own. "Come on, Dear. You owe this lady a drink. Everyone knows it's a party foul to mention asses to ninjas when they're off the clock."

  That got him a strange look.

  He returned it with equal puzzlement, unconsciously evening out the sleeves of his shirt, "You know, because of their job. And of the sewer thing everyone makes fun of them for."

  "The what?"

  "There was a time in ancient Japan where ninjas walked through sewers and, since toilets were just wooden seats over a hole, they would kill their assassination targets by stabbing them from below with really long spears."

  Agnes seemed uncomfortable talking about bathroom matters in public, and everyone else was in various degrees of shock.

  "Seriously, you've never heard anyone say they put the ass in assassin?"

  Everyone stared. Everyone but Kamora. She nodded her head, popped in a new piece of gum, and slapped him on the shoulder. "You've got cool ninja facts. You're in. Come on, let's go shake what leg-day gave me."

  With that, the two of them grabbed Birch by the elbows and carried her into the fray.

  "Filthy thing to talk about in public," Agnes said, reaching into her purse—past whatever threats to sanity she had ensconced in there—and pulled out a tissue to dab her forehead with.

  ~~~

  Sometime later, they were all sitting in a nearby ice cream place that kept late hours and was full of other partiers sobering up.

  Wade was talking to Kamora.

  "—and they said that men just ignore everything they say. That, even if they say' no' or they have a boyfriend, these guys just keep talking, and moving into their space unless another dude says he has dibs."

  "Oh yeah, that's totally a thing. Though some of them will get angry and start yelling at you. Call you a slut and a dumb whore for not wanting to sleep with them."

  "That," her fake boyfriend blinked, "that makes so little sense I don't even know how to address it."

  "Yeah, that's why I carry this in my purse when I go out."

  Kamora, wearing her usual neon colors, reached towards a small purse. At the sight of a hand going into a purse, Wade literally flinched back, eyes darting to Agnes in instinctive panic.

  Shilloh cackled and leaned back in her seat next to Scotty as Wade tried to explain why he had reacted so strongly.

  "Oh wow," the cartographer said, wiping at her eyes. "I love Agnes, especially when I'm not the most squeamish one in the group."

  The slender bane next to her nodded while fastidiously licking at his ice cream cone until the middle was concave and less likely to drip on him.

  "She's a treasure. Where did you find her?"

  "I tried to volunteer at a some fancy home for the elderly. I was lucky enough to hit it off with her during one of the few weeks in the year when she was living in her own apartment rather than staying with her latest fling, polycule, or sexual healing retreat."

  "Huh, I sorta imagined that she just showed up in your life, bearing great wisdom and words of encouragement."

  "That's how she met me!" Birch slurred happily from where she was holding a double-scoop ice cream cone in each hand. "Changed my fucking life."

  "Hey, speaking of, wasn't she supposed to meet us here by now?" Shiloh said, scaling the wall for a clock.

  "I think so," Scotty said.

  They both looked at Birch, but it took her a few more licks of the ice cream she was double fisting before she noted the attention.

  "Oh, yeah. Probably."

  When they had left the restaurant, Agnes had been in a corner that was partially obscured by an ATM. There had been three other people there who were… otherwise occupied. Agnes had disentangled herself from the knot of sin long enough to tell them she would catch up later before hooping her finger through one man's belt loop, grabbing a women by the hair (the resulting yelp had been excited rather than angry), and whistling at the third person before moving them all towards a bathroom.

  "Come on, let's do a health and safety check," Scotty said, heaving himself up to his feet. The more drunk everyone else had gotten, the more a bastion of calm he had become.

  "Sure," Shilloh agreed.

  Before she got to her feet, Birch had an ice cream cone tilted in her direction and was glaring. "No. You keep your filthy groping fingers away from my Agnes."

  "Come onnnnn. That was Bi-loh. The tequila is gone, and so is she."

  "I don't trust you."

  "That hurts. That hurts me real deep, like. But," she wiggled her eyebrows," I think I know something you could do to make it up to me."

  "Shilloh," Birch said, her mouth twitching up at the corners even as she backed away. "Don't do it."

  "Shilloh?" the dark-haired cartographer said, coming to her feet with a leer. She stretched out her arms very slowly, fingers wiggling with an unsettling sort of lascivious anticipation. "My name is Bi-loh." She giggled and insane clowns giggle, then licked her lips. "Hey, uh, uhm, want some ice cream, little girl? Just follow me to my van!"

  Shilloh leapt forward, and Birch raced out of the store with a shrieking laugh. Scotty started muttering under his breath and hustled after her.

  In no time at all, Kamora excused herself and followed after the two, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum and texting within two steps of leaving her seat.

  All the other drunk people in the parlor took the outburst with varying degrees of scornful glaring and slurred cheers. What was there to cheer about? Shilloh didn't care. She just picked up the two cups of ice cream by her and moved over to her magic 'don't-talk-to-me' totem.

  Wade greeted her with a disarming smile and a squeeze of her arm. The warm hands and pleasantly rough callouses felt so right that it took her a moment to realize that he was just staying in character.

  For some reason, that realization didn't feel half so nice.

  She sat down and scooted his cup over to him. He'd only eaten a few bites of it. Probably because she had been torn between a few flavors, he had offered to take her third and fourth choices so that she could try all of them.

  Her perfect fake boyfriend, with his horrible dance moves and eyes that only looked at her, probably hadn't even been interested in half of the desert he had paid for. He just did what it took to make her happy without a second thought.

  "You alright?" Wade asked, leaning so he could look at her face even though she was staring down at the dregs of her own ice cream.

  Storm-grey eyes locked onto hers. She thought about the way he had smiled and chatted with Agnes, even when she brought up things that should have made him wince. She thought of the bet he had offered her. The way he had danced with her, and how it had felt to have him lean down and talk into her ear when the music got loud. All while he didn't notice the much prettier, much more human women trying to catch his eye.

  "Yeah," she said, voice quiet, trying to not think about how much less human she was now than even a couple of months ago." Just zoned out."

  He smiled and she found her cheeks warming, and her stomach filling with pressure and its own type of molten heat.

  "Thinking about what?" he asked, scooting his barely eaten ice cream over to her and resting his hand on her arm.

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