Chapter 6

Clara awoke on her third day in Australia to the blaring of her alarm clock. Still jetlagged from her flight from the States, she woke slowly, stretching languidly and yawning hugely. She was ripped from her lazy rousing by the scratch of the sheets over her bare breasts. She opened her eyes slowly, staring around the foreign room, trying to get her bearings. It was like one of those times when you woke up in a hotel room and forgot where you were for a minute. When she remembered where she was, all the events of the past week came rushing back.

Clara groaned, realising that the dream she'd been having about being in her own bed back home in Louisiana had been just that, a dream. So far, she'd found jack all when it came to useful information about the Seventh Sanctum or the Totemic Warriors. All she'd managed to get was that they were some sort of myth used to scare children into behaving at night. She had however, managed to score a job interview at the place her mother had recommended she start her search, The Cross.

The shared apartment she'd managed to find, was a shit heap that she payed way too much for but it was only three blocks from the nightclub and her housemate was a scream. So for the time being, it would have to do.

As if summoned by her thoughts of him, her bedroom door flew open to bang against the wall, making her almost jump through the roof. Danny, her roomie, stood framed by the doorway, his hair spiked up and bleached on one side and square framed glasses highlighted gorgeous brown eyes. He wore a Lady Gaga t-shirt, on which her trademark sunglasses were bedazzled, designer distressed and ripped jeans with a chain hanging off one side, and pristine white sneakers graced his feet.

He put one hand on his hip, cocking it out and giving her a decidedly sassy look, "Rise and shine, pretty lady! We have an interview to get you ready for."

She grinned despite herself, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around her body, toga style, before following him out to the living room. The minute she entered the room, the aromatic scent of coffee assaulted her senses. She followed her nose to the kitchen bench, where a cup of that liquid gold sat beside two pieces of toast. Covered in jam, not vegemite, thank-god. She sat on the barstool, picking up the cup between both hands before taking a sip and sighing in pleasure.

"I think I love you," she told Danny.

He planted a kiss on her cheek and flicked her nose, "You know you're not my type."

She didn't know what it was about the two of them, but from the first time they'd met, for coffee to discuss the possibility of her moving in, they'd gotten along like a house on fire.

Danny was a hairdresser, also moonlighting as a makeup artist, at one of the salons in Kings Cross. He was brilliant, so she really didn't know why he didn't try and find a position at one of the more upmarket salons in the city. He'd certainly be able to afford the clothes he bought more easily then.

"I'm loving the jeans, by the way," she told him around a mouth full of toast.

He propped his elbows on the counter, leaning in conspiratorially as if about to tell her a secret. "They're D Squared. Got them on sale at Myers. Even so, I'm eating baked beans for the rest of the month." He grinned, unremorsefully before continuing to pick through the endless amounts of hair and makeup products in front of him.

"You're terrible," she said good-naturedly, shaking her head. There was still two weeks left in the month, so he'd be eating canned food for a while yet. "So," she continued on, "What sort of look are we going for today?"

"Red, with brown and gold highlights," he said, lifting her hair and running it through his fingers. She had a horrible feeling he was going to cut it too. "So we'll be able to keep some of your natural colour – both on top and underneath."

Thank goodness for that. "And it will wash out, won't it?"

Danny gave a much-put-upon sort of sigh. "Of course it will, if only because you would be unbearable if it didn't, and I have to share a shoe box apartment with you."

Clara grinned, "Too right, Mr Gaga. So, are we staying with brown eyes?"

"Nope, they'll be green. Now shut up and let the master work."

Clara snorted softly, but let him get to it, watching him work through the mirror he'd propped in front of her.

The result was surprisingly sexy. The red played against her own natural colour, setting it off rather than clashing, and it contrasted nicely against the warm gold of her skin. The green contacts made her eyes looked startling, and although she'd feared her hair being cut, all he did was give it some shape.

It was Clara, and yet not.

"Wow," was all she could say.

He slapped her shoulder lightly. "Glad you like it. Now, go get changed. Your interview clothes are in the bathroom."

She grinned as she got up, "Am I going to like them?"

"Oh, I think you're going to love them," he said, looking smug. "So scoot."

She did. Her outfit turned out to be a wickedly small black skirt, a hot red singlet top with the words "I Love Boys in Fast Cars" emblazoned on the front, which was appropriate considering it was Bathurst time, and matching red stilettos with a heel that reminded Clara of a glitter ball. There was no bra, but she guessed the whole point of the outfit was to let it all hang out.

She dressed and strolled back out to the living room. "So, do you think I'll get the job? Not sure I needed to be quite this sexy for a waitressing gig though."

Danny looked her up and down, then nodded. "I think the word here is 'hot'. The waitresses at this particular nightclub don't just serve drinks. They're supposed to work as eye candy as well. And I can safely say that if I were a hetero, I'd certainly want you doing a private dance for me."

She grinned, "I'm sure you can convince your current boy toy to give you one."

"Yeah, but his legs are way too hairy to wear that skirt." He glanced at his watch. "You'd better get going; your interview is in ten minutes."

"Crap," Clara muttered before rushing out the door. Traversing the uneven pavement in a mini-skirt and stilettos wasn't the easiest task but she made it to the club with two minutes to spare.

She arrived at an old gothic styled building – complete with three stories of tall, blacked out, stained glass windows and soaring spires – was sandstone in colour. Clara made her way to the entrance that boasted huge, heavy copper double doors inlaid with intricate curving designs. The building really looked more like it should be a bank or something. The only reason she knew she was in the right place was the small red on black sign above the awning that read, 'The Cross'.

Clara grabbed the carved wooden handles and hefted the door open, stepping through onto the onyx marble floor of the clubs foyer. The smell hit her immediately. It was one of the reasons she'd never been much of a 'clubber'. It was a miasma of sweat, booze and lust. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She stepped into the darkness, the door banged closed behind her, closing out the light. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she studied the shadowed confines of the room, taking note of the stone walls and stone archway after stone archway that filled the building. They created an intimate, if somewhat ominous feel, creating hidden nooks for illicit dealings everywhere. Booths lined three of the walls, some with curtains, some without. A large dance floor filled the centre of the room, she realised that the arches where only around the edges of the room, creating a square around the dance floor and somehow framing it. There were raised daises and, she looked up and gulped, cages suspended from the roof – both were empty considering the early time of day. A bar lined the fourth wall of the club, stools lined up neatly in front of it and a row of tables filled the space between the bar and dance floor.

Clara took a deep breath, hoping it would strengthen her but just managed to give her another whiff of the clubs horrible aroma, and walked towards the bar. The bartender, a tall woman with cascading blonde ringlets down her back and decked out in a tiny denim vest and jeans so tight they looked painted on, strolled over, idly drying a glass and chewing gum. "What can I do for you?"

"Um, yes, hi." Clara stammered, her nerves getting the best of her. Just breathe, she told herself. Calm the hell down, play the part.

"Hi," she said again, more confidently this time, lifting her chin another notch. "I have an appointment with your boss at eleven."

There was a slight pause, and her eyes glazed over strangely, then after a moment she nodded and said, "He'll be down in a moment. Do you need a drink?"

"Not yet." Although she definitely might by the time she finished this gig.

Her expression changed from bored to real warmth. "You here about the waitress job?"

"Yeah, I've only been in Australia a few days, but money is already getting short."

"It's a nice place to work," she said, snapping her gum. "Money's good and although the clientele aren't always well behaved; the bouncers are great and the boss takes good care of the girls here."

Clara nodded, then turned around and let her gaze sweep the room again. There were a few people clustered around the far end of the bar, all nursing glasses of amber liquid and wearing unhappy expressions.