Birch was true to her word. They went to a pce to dance. She called others to come and join her. When they asked for an expnation, she merely said, "I found a new friend to add to the gang. I'm pissed about it."
There was more attempt at a back-and-forth from them, but Birch mostly repeated the phrase 'Help. I'm distressed' before hanging up. Shilloh was very satisfied to hear the shorter woman call Nick and try to annoy him into coming over, only for him to ugh uproariously and hang up.
Apparently, loud, sticky pces were not his scene.
Then they danced because Shilloh was not a stick in the mud, and though she hadn't been aware of it, she really had needed to dance.
An hour passed. They kept dancing and took a few water breaks. Birch tried to yell questions over the music and make more jokes, but Shilloh shushed her before going into the funky chicken with life-or-death seriousness.
She had been forced to check her weapons before entering the club. Still, they had very little trouble with men. A few tried to inject themselves into their zone; Shilloh would tell them politely but firmly to leave, and almost all did.
Unfortunately, almost all was not all.
The st two had hair that looked like it had been set in Elmer's glue, shirts that shimmered with cheap synthetic fabric, and had unbuttoned those cheap shirts very low. One man dispyed a chest so freshly shaved that she could see the ingrown hairs start to make bumps even as he spoke. On the other, a deep V fshed the edges of a generic tribal tattoo executed in wobbly lines and ink that had long since bled and made the bulbous, knock-off, inelegant shapes lose their definition. Both had too many rings on their fingers and very tight trousers.
They ughed when she said it was just a girl's night and brushed her hints aside like a joke.
The sort of dancing they wanted felt very much like attempts to grope them, and it took two instances of hand spping and yelling to get them to stay in their own bubbles.
While they were leering, she caught a bouncer's eyes, winced a little, and subtly motioned him to come over. The man was rge and sported a mullet. He appeared to give absolutely zero fucks about the music. He was scanning the crowds with the mechanical regurity of a professional whose mind was miles away. Still, he caught her look and began navigating towards them. Unfortunately, there were clumps of revelers, a convoluted set of stairs, and small dance areas to travel before he could reach them.
They tried to dance in peace, but it was not meant to be. The shorter of the two men stepped to the side so he could grab at Birch's hips and pull her ass against him. The short, curvy woman's features went through a rapid change. There was an expression of rage followed by a profound and intimidating deadness.
After two seconds of grinding, Birch took a deep breath and started ughing as loud as possible. She ripped his hands off her hips, spun around, and proceeded to point directly at his crotch and cackle as loud as she could.
The man's face went from his rendition of 'charm'—which had the same iridescent, oily feel of goo dripping from a trash bag full of decomposing county-fair corn dogs—and morphed into pure rage. Birch seemed to have hit a real and justified insecurity.
His wingman stepped forward, "Fuck you, you beta bitch. Go back to throwing that loose-ass, fish-smelling, gold-digging pus—"
Birch interrupted. She stepped right into the man's face and told him something. She told him to do something so graphic, so disgusting, and in such emphatic detail that Shilloh had no choice but to visualize him and his best friend panting in bed together afterward. Both pinky promising that this was the st time, and they would go to therapy about their issues for sure.
"Fuck," Shilloh whispered, looking at Birch with awe, "that was horrible. Like Satan's poetry."
One of the men tried to shout something at her, but she was staring in awe at Birch. What a magnificent mother fucker. Thank God there was no tequi in her she might have let the beautiful, crazy woman take her right there on the dance floor.
"Stars above, Birch. That was… that was literature."
The first of the party bros started yelling again. Shilloh tore her gaze away from the beautiful, mad woman and looked at him in confusion, having already forgotten him.
"Listen, you shot your shot and missed. Let's part ways with no harm done." She yelled, hands up.
He tried to sp her hand down and shoved a finger in her face so he could keep yelling.
She shoved it aside, and people around them took notice, stopping to stare. "Last warning. Leave before we get mean."
"I mean you across the fucking face with the back of my hand. Rings out, bitch!"
He stepped forward, and she stepped back. Then, after exchanging a loaded gnce with her new best friend, they both proceeded to point at his crotch and start ughing again.
He lifted the back of his hand like was about to sp Birch. She lifted her finger to point at his stupid face, the well-manicured hand, then back to his dick, and ughed even harder.
He tried to swipe her pointing finger away but missed. Still, it was annoying. So Birch started elbowing the women who had been watching uncomfortably around them. Once she had their attention, she pointed again at the man's dick, impersonated his haughty expression and the bowed-legged, I-just-shit-my-pants looking wanna-be-tough guy way he walked, then held up two fingers like she was measuring the first joint of her pinky, and started ughing again.
Their reaction was subtle. Some were uncomfortable and moved away. But a few wrapped arms around Birch, parenting to ugh and subtly putting distance between her and the angry men. The rest crowded in, gnced at his crotch, and pretended to hide their own condescending smiles, diffusing his attention. However, a keen eye would notice that this was always done by a few bold women, and as soon as he locked eyes on one, they would step back, and another would draw his attention by ughing, almost like a wolf pack covering for each other while hunting big game.
It. Was. Beautiful.
But rather than more yelling and posturing, the wingman escated. He couldn't see the bouncer just thirty seconds behind him. So, he stepped forward, face snarling, and cocked an arm back to make good on the threat his colostomy bag of a friend had made.
Unfortunately for them, Shilloh was not one to pause when she saw a fellow woman in a bad position. Maybe it was how she grew up; perhaps it was her Grandma's genes or the wildness in her nature. Probably it was just that she had just decided not to handle anyone's shit so long ago that it had built new reflexes into her brain. Who cared. At this point, it was just a fact: to her bones, Shilloh Methuseh did not like bullies or injustice.
There was also another factor. Aside from a generic and well-cultivated hatred for abuse of power, she had been born with a certain refusal. It had been with her so long it had even shown up in her magic. The moment that poorly dressed douche lifted his hand, she tapped into a deep reservoir of irrational, world-bending rage—the sort that usually belonged solely to zealots, old Irish berserkers, and vengeful ghosts. She would not allow Her People to be abused.
No. Not 'would not.' There was no choice in her. She could not allow it.
Halfway to Birch's face, the man's hand stopped. That tended to happen to arms when just over five feet of psychotic rage rammed a shoulder into your stomach, crouched low, and jumped with the full force of their legs to uppercut you square in the dick.
The other be-ringed man's hand wrapped around her shoulder. She grabbed it, spun, and wrapped her whole hand around one finger. Her other hand grabbed his wrist, and even though he tried to rip his hand free, she still managed to break his ring finger before he pulled his arm back.
He cradled his hand with a wailing shriek, staring down at the broken finger. It was a mistake.
When something like this happened, Shilloh did not possess 'moderation'. There had been a transgression and aim to harm. No goddess had descended to punish it, so it was her wrath that came like thunder and damnation unto those who had threatened Her People.
She tried to kick in the side of his knee, but he was crouched over his hand, and she just colpsed his leg instead of maiming him. Trying to punch him in the throat was too hard, with him curled up weeping like a bitch. So she contented herself by grabbing him with both hands—one gripping an ear and the other in his over-gelled hair—before pulling his forehead into the meanest knee her body could throw.
By the time the bouncer arrived, Birch was gently guiding her back from the two men crying on the ground.
"Come on, come onnnnn," Birch said, hustling her to the bar as more bouncers descended on the scene of the brawl. "Let's just glide over here, my sweet little psychopath. Yes, just come with me, and we'll get you a nice drink."
They got to the bar, and water was pressed into her hand. Someone in a very expressive suit jacket came over to speak with them. Birch did the talking, and the man called her 'Ms. Genandoah' with great respect.
That helped Shilloh calm down and fight off the part of her that was demanding that she comfort Birch, poor Birch who had almost been hit, and to keep fucking up the two men who had dared.
The man in a suit left, and Shilloh took a deep breath.
Then another five or six.
"I'm sorry about that," she finally said." I might have some unprocessed anger and trauma."
"No, duh! Shit bitch, you're grade-A psycho."
Shilloh flinched, "Sorry—"
"Do you know that you actually tried to escort me away at one point? Like petted my hair, said I was safe and looked like you wanted to pick me up and carry me off?"
Shilloh grimaced.
"Thank god there was no tequi around, or I might have let you," Birch said, ughing.
That stopped her short and caused her brain to short-circuit a little, though it was pleasant short-circuiting.
"De ja vu," Shilloh muttered, "I almost said the exact same thing when you were ughing at them and giving them a tongue shing."
Birch cackled and clinked a tropical drink against Shilloh's water, "I know! That was awesome, right?"
The two ughed, and she couldn't hold herself back anymore.
"Is your name really Birch Genandoah?
"Yup, yup."
"Like birch tree and the Shenandoah park, but with a 'G?'"
When it was confirmed to not be a stripper name, Shilloh hurt her throat ughing. The residual madness and post-fight adrenaline made her feel drunk, "Pinky, promise me you aren't a dryad or druid?"
Birch promised, and somehow they were dancing again within twenty minutes. This time surrounded by other women who had seen what had happened. No small number of whom had offered them drinks and only half-jokingly asked to shake their hands.
In the end, Shilloh made it home ter than pnned and earlier than she wanted to end the night. A tall, gorgeous blond woman with perfectly pale skin, and bubble-gum pink highlights had eventually showed up to the bar and relieved her of Birch-duty after exchanging numbers.
Shilloh left after the new woman, Kamora, promised to text her when she got Birch home safe.
She got home, checked for any indicators that someone was waiting inside to kidnap her, and wondered if Wade would really need her out in the field tomorrow. Maybe she could manage a morning sleep-in before having to court dangerous monsters and insecure men with overrge guns.
As it stood, her current record with insecure men who thought violence was the answer was not looking very good. She fell asleep, already wanting to give Jasque a piece of her mind.
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