Shamira grimaced, managed to make it apologetic. “You’ve been great. I’d probably be even more of a basketcase than I am if it weren’t for you. And Shane. No, he’s making me a basketcase,” she said.
That elicited a little grin. “Don’t be too hard on him. His life . . . this world . . . it’s complicated. He wants to do right by you. Actually, he wants to ‘do’ you too, but who doesn’t?”
Her friend rolled her eyes. “Is that all anyone around Shane’s house ever thinks about?”
“When we can.” Clara’s hand fell on Shamira’s legs, caressing the inner part of that denim-clad thigh. “It’s much more fun than stressing out about things we can’t change.”
The presence of Clara’s hand in its present location was making Shamira’s skin tingle all over. “I wish I could just let go like that and not worry about it.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Emotional baggage, I guess.” Shamira wasn’t sure why, but she knew that she wanted to tell Clara about Jimmy Fisk. Shane had almost had to drag the story out of her, but Shamira trusted Clara in a way that no one else had reached. “Because I can’t help but think that I’ll miss something, and someone will get hurt because I wasn’t able to protect them.” Then she told Clara about Jimmy, the object of her first childhood crush who had died because that scared fourteen-year-old girl had stuck her nose into the affairs of bullies and hadn’t been able to stop Jimmy’s persecution or the subsequent “accident.” By the end of the story, Clara’s head was resting on Shamira’s shoulder and that caressing of the thigh was more for comfort than arousal.
“Is that what you and Shane were talking about on the golf course that got you so upset?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell you that there was nothing you could have done, that it wasn’t your fault, and that you shouldn’t be beating yourself up about it?”
“Effectively.”
“And me repeating that stuff won’t make you feel better?”
Shamira actually whispered, “It might.”
Clara repeated everything that she had just said, then kissed Shamira on the cheek. “I’m glad you told me. I know that ‘I’m sorry’ probably doesn’t cut it. But Shane is right. Use him as your strength. It’s not wrong to mourn a friend, a lover, or idol, but you could live forever. That’s a long time to let this weigh on you.”
“How do I get past it?”
“You don’t. You just have to decide HOW you want it to weigh on you. I mean, it’s obvious that you had a crush on him for a reason. Think of those things.”
Shamira smiled. “He had this dumb grin . . . I don’t think he knew how to turn it off. He loved to talk about anything and was constantly learning. He had this imagination, you know? He’d see someone walking down the street with a limp, and he would come up with this hour-long story of how the guy got it. It usually involved giant space-bugs, but it was always entertaining. And he listened to me, even though I was just a dumb bratty little sister to one of his friends. And he’d listen to me, no matter what my drama was.” ‘Kind of like you,’ Shamira thought.
The next few hours were surprisingly tranquil for Shamira, considering her emotion unloading and the fact that her sister, who was supposed to think that Shamira was dead, was apparently trying to communicate with her from beyond the grave. They stopped in Rome for coffee, then Clara insisted on stealing a Confederate flag throw rug she saw being sold outside a gas station just inside of the Alabama state line. They stopped again to throw it into a swamp, then got slushies. Thirty minutes outside of Huntsville, they got a call from Shane.
“Yeah?” Clara said, answering the phone. “Things are set? Where? You’re kidding?! You’re not kidding? Like we don’t get enough of that in Atlanta. I don’t really see why . . . Yes sir, we’ll do it.” She paused. “No, she hasn’t said anything, but I think that this counts as a mission, doesn’t it? I’ll tell her.” Clara rolled her eyes. “Check your desk drawer. No, the top one . . .” She covered the phone with her hand. “He needs to bribe a public official and he can never remember where he keeps the checkbook.” She lifted her hand. “Good. Okay, we’ll call you after we’ve talked to Clyde. Yes sir, I understand.”
“What’s up?”
“He found the checkbook. And he wants to know if you’ve decided on what to do about submissive sex. And we’re meeting Clyde at the Waffle House.”
“Did he say what my options were?” Shamira asked nervously.
“I think they have a menu,” Clara replied.
“Sigh. I meant about making a decision?”
“Nah. But you’re off until we get back from this, so you’ve got some breathing room. So to speak. Unless you don’t WANT a break,” Clara cooed, her hand stroking Shamira’s inner thigh again.
“Driving!” came the reply, though her body seemed uninterested in Clara’s hand being removed.
“I’m aware of that. Too bad we’re almost to Huntsville, otherwise I’d say we pull over and –” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Do you ever think about anything else?”
“Only when I’m working. Sex equals fun. You have been having fun, haven’t you?”
“God yes,” Shamira gasped as that hand rubbed her crotch through the denim. She had been having fun. It was just the post-being-dominated guilt that was the problem.
“Then stop worrying about it,” Clara crooned. She wasn’t sure why it was so hard for her to keep her hands off this woman, but being around Shamira just drove her horny. Well, hornier than usual. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” came the honest reply, “but it’ll be hard to talk to a werewolf with a straight face if I’ve got a cum stain in my jeans.”
Clara grinned. “See? You’re thinking on your feet. Maybe afterward, I’ll see how you think on your back.”
A little while later, they pulled into the parking lot for the Huntsville Waffle House, Clara still making sexual innuendos. Shamira wondered how many of them the younger-looking woman was willing to back up later.
“I haven’t eaten at a Waffle House in . . . I can’t remember how long,” Shamira said, holding the door open for her friend.
“Why? Besides the fact that they’re tacky?”
“Hard to keep down to competition weight and body-fat percentage if you even walk near one of these?”
“So this is your competition body?” Clara asked.
“Nah, this was my regular percentage.”
Clara’s mind was trying to process Shamira being more muscular when she stepped inside. It was almost midnight at the twenty-four hour establishment, but there was a reasonable crowd inside. The ancient woman standing behind the counter looked their way, then nodded her head towards an empty table at the back of the restaurant.
“Have a seat, ladies,” she said, looking disapprovingly at the two provocatively dressed women.
“So,” Clara said, looking around, “how many do you think are Clyde’s people?”
Shamira figured that her friend knew the lay of the land better than she, so figured this was a test. “I’d figure all of them. If Clyde is worrying about trouble and if he is a ‘good guy’ like you said, he’ll make sure that there aren’t innocents around.”
“Good call,” Clara said, waving at a couple of young men at another table. “Take a breath, identify scents. We aren’t as good as weres at it, but see if you can make distinctions.”
Shamira did as she was told, closing her eyes to help her concentrate. Identifying smells didn’t come easy, as it wasn’t something she was used to doing too much when human. “Something . . . woodsy. Like pine and musk. So THAT’S what ‘musk’ smells like,” she muttered. “Something else smells . . . stale and thick and coppery.”
“Weres tend to have earthy smells,” came Clara’s voice, and the ‘thick and coppery’ thing is likely vamp. Blood smells coppery, and vampire blood is a richer version of that. You’re doing good. Anything else?”
“One smells lighter and coppery, so I’m thinking human. And one . . . damn, someone’s wearing a fuck-ton of Old Spice.”
“She IS good,” came a new voice, edged with a southern drawl.
Shamira opened her eyes to see Grizzly Adams, or a pretty close approximation thereof. He was a large man, standing easily six feet four inches tall, with a bushy beard, long wild hair. He had a caveman forehead, but the eyes sparkled with both amusement and insight. And he was built like an Arkansas razorback, meat and muscle and more than a hint of danger.
Clara wrinkled her nose. “Did you bathe in the stuff?” she asked.
“One of my kids likes it, so I wear it.” He shrugged those enormous shoulders. “What can ya do?” He extended a large hand to. “I’ve met Clara b’fore, but you’re a sight for these old, sore eyes.”
“Are you calling me an eye-sore?” Shamira asked, giving a firm grip.
“I ain’t that dumb, and I sure ain’t blind,” the large man said. He opened up a menu, and the girls did the same.
“Why does a triple-stack of pancakes sound so good right now?” Shamira muttered.
“I’m not sure, but you’d better brush your fangs before we make out later,” Clara responded.