The stage was set with two masked ladies; one bound and suspended in leather and chains, the other lounging on a bed of crimson satin. The bound girl had a black blindfold mask on and was gagged. The girl beneath her cradled a riding crop. Both wore leather bodices. The Asylum reeked of sex and the anticipation of it but the show wasn't sexual. It was sensual and so much better for it. Intoxicating.
The only music in the club was set to the performers' contortions and the club was quietly captivated. The crowd around her dressed to show how they should be received. Latex and costumes and body paint. Their bodies were billboards and their fashion advertisements: I want to be loved, I want to love you, I want someone for the night, I take cash only. The honesty in the room was so strong it was palpable.
Clara sat at a booth alone. She was taking in the show and didn't want to hunt here. She wore a latex dress made of a black top and pink skirt and Nikes. This place was thrilling. Not just because of the false life pulsing in her dead veins. It was like everything pulsing just beneath the surface at the Nox but out and open. If Clara didn't know better, she'd think the club was designed for Kindred.
Kindred. The word and watching the helpless girl brought thoughts of John to the forefront. On a whim she cancelled on Leaves with no excuse--he was wrapped around her finger and just offered to give her a ride if she needed one. She then dialed John's number and pressed it up to her ear.