Chapter Two

Shamira absolutely did not want to open her eyes. She was still surrounded by silk so she figured that she was still in that coffin.

Except that her eyelids seemed warm. She remembered seeing someone or someone. . . a beautiful Native American homeless girl and a lip-bitingly gorgeous blond-haired guy.

'Wait. The silk, it's against my skin!' She opened her eyes and saw a lovely crystal chandelier-looking thing. She was in a bedroom the size of her parents' whole house, and it seemed decorated in the same black and gold scheme that the club had been.

She was in some super freak's bedroom. And she was naked. That fact just caught up with her. She was naked between black silk sheets in a strange room.

She yipped and pulled the sheets up around her artificially large bosom. One of the problems when becoming a bodybuilder was the loss of breast mass, so she had compensated with fake tits when she turned twenty-one.

That left her with a set of measurements that one would think would garner her more attention, namely 38DD-26-34.

During the competition, she had gotten her body fat down to nine percent, but otherwise, she kept it up at twelve percent.

She had 15-inch arms, 16-inch calves, and 23-inch legs, and she could bench press more than most of the guys she had worked with.

When she had been younger, she encountered a need to grow stronger. She'd admired the way those women looked and how they seemed strong enough to take on anything.

Women like that could stand up to anyone; they might have been able to help Jimmy Fisk.

But boys, apparently, didn't like a woman who could out-arm-wrestle them. They didn't like "barbarian" women. It was not that she was ugly or an eyesore. Not at all. Put a face picture up on the dating website, and she got plenty of responses.

She had high cheekbones, perfect skin, and big amber eyes that got people's attention. She had long black hair that she kept in a single braid most of the time.

Her mom thought she was pretty. But getting that second date just never seemed to happen.

She felt something cool against her arm. No, not against . . . IN her arm. She was hooked up to an IV that was dripping some red liquid. She felt vomit trying to build up inside her. 'That's not --'

"Blood?" asked a voice from the door. It was that Native American girl, but she hardly seemed homeless.

She was slim but not emaciated, standing just a bit taller than Shamira's five-foot-seven-inch frame, she seemed mostly leg. And those legs were exposed. She wore a loincloth of leather that hung down to her knees but wasn't more than four inches wide.

It covered her privates on the way down, but her toned legs and hips were on display. She wore leather moccasins that reached up to just below the knee, and a strange semi-circular neck dress made of strips of wood and beads. She wore black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner.

'Okay, I get it. You're some kind of weird goth babe,' Shamira thought. 'A delicious looking --' She stopped that train of thought. She preferred guys, she had to remind herself.

She'd had thoughts about what it would be like to be with a woman all her life, but she'd always managed to push that part of her down somewhere and tried to drown it. She was enough of a freak without worrying about that.

Or the many other dreams and fantasies that had graced those secret parts of her mind that she never shared with anyone.

The girl strode forward, a sway in her hips that demanded attention.

"Where the fuck am I?" Shamira said, looking around instinctively for a weapon of some kind. She didn't want to start a knife fight with this woman, though she wasn't behaving particularly hostile.

Actually, she was smirking a bit. She sat on the edge of the bed, and Shamira was pretty convinced the girl wasn't wearing a damn thing under that loincloth.

"You," the girl said, "have the most unfortunate timing of anyone I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."

"Who . . . the fuck . . . are you?"

"Watch it, potty mouth. A little decorum wouldn't hurt, seeing as we just saved your life. Okay, technically you saved one of ours first and maybe saved Shane too, but that doesn't change the fact --"

"Who . . . the . . . heck . . are you?!"

"That's better I suppose," the woman said. "My name is Clara Yellowtail, and I've volunteered to be your guide in your new life.

Shamira blinked. She blinked again. "Oh-kay," she muttered. "I'm drugged. That's gotta, be it. What the hell is this?" she asked, looking at the IV.

"Blood."

Shamira blinked. "Blood?"

"You're going to freak out on me aren't you?"

"Blood?!"

"You lost a lot when you died, and we weren't able to give you anything extra until after your funeral."

"Died?"

"You're good with the one-word responses thing." The girl smiled. "Can't say I blame you. You've gone through a lot this week. It was a lovely funeral, by the way."

"DIED?!" Shamira pulled the IV out, applying pressure so she didn't start bleeding all over the place. This was too wrong, and she wanted out.

She wanted to go find her parents and her siblings and her nephews and tell them everything was okay and that there was a misunderstanding. She hadn't died. So why had she been in a coffin, and why hadn't she had a pulse?

Clara sighed. She wasn't doing this right. Shane had offered to guide the girl, but she HAD to volunteer.

Something about the way she had been so kind when most people wouldn't have been, even though she didn't have any idea of what had really been going on. And she had done her job, even though it had cost her her life. Compassion, pride, loyalty, and she was smoking hot.

Some people might get turned off by a build like hers, but not those that dwelt in this house. The strength in that body and the skill and dedication it took to sculpt it were both admirable.

"Do you remember what happened?" Clara asked. "Before waking up here? Let's start with that."

"Uhm . . . okay. Can I have some clothes first?"

"Why?" Clara cocked her head. "With a body like that, why would you ever WANT to wear clothes? You're certainly not obligated to, at least not around here."

"Hey, I don't know what you and whoever else is around here like, but I'd really feel more comfortable with something to wear."

The other woman shrugged. "We can find you something." She walked over to an intercom unit, pushing a button. "Monique?"

"Yes?" (click) came a new voice.

"Our new guest was looking for something to wear."

"Why?" (click)

"I asked her that. She seems to think she should be clothed."

"Wait . . . do I get to measure her now?" (click) The woman on the other end sounded eager.

"Measure? For what?" Shamira asked.

"I don't think she's ready for that quite yet," Clara said, sounding amused.

"Damn! I have some good ideas for that body!" (click)

"Don't we all."

"Hey, I'm sitting right here!" Shamira said. She felt like she was blushing a bit, and no less confused than she had been earlier.

"Okay. Sweats it is," (click) the other girl replied, sounding quite down.

"Measure for what?"

"Oh and Monique, when you arrive I expect that you will show me the respect I deserve."

The girl at the other end spoke again, and this time she sounded demure. Shamira hadn't known what that sounded like, but this was it. "Yes, Mistress Clara."

Clara turned and sat back down. "We have a slightly unusual dress code around here." She paused, looked Shamira in the eyes, and asked again what the woman remembered.

Shamira decided there was really no reason to lie or withhold information, so she recited what she could. Everything from seeing Clara on the street to seeing faces staring down at her from outside her coffin.

Clara went over to the dresser and grabbed a handheld mirror. "You were shot in the face, correct? And the neck? Your vest protected your chest, but not anything else." She handed Shamira the mirror. "Where are the wounds?"

Shamira was confused but took a look regardless. There was a slight indention in her neck that she hadn't seen before, but that was it. Her skin was flawless and smooth everywhere. "That's not right. It should take months to heal from stuff like that."

"You died four days ago. You were buried yesterday. That's fast healing, even for us," Clara explained.

"Us?"