The Scene (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

              Tatum and I were laughing hysterically as we neared the club. I had been filling her in on the events earlier that evening with Philippe and Midnight’s Dream. She directed me to the corner of Pico and Norton. We had to drive around three times before we found a parking space. Luckily, the Geo Metro is known for being as compact as a sardine can, so the bad ass parallel parking job I pulled off wasn't as triumphant as it would have been had I been driving a Plymouth.

             
We got out of the car, made the minor costume adjustments needed after a ride in the car, and began the walk around the corner to get to the entrance of the club. The two of us rounded the corner and had to stop abruptly before running into the man in the back of the line. Which was, need I say, long. Tatum grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to the front of the line. Women glared at us as we passed them. Tatum only smiled at them smugly and kept going. We came to the front door and stopped in front of a very large man in the tightest black t-shirt I had ever seen on a grown man. Tatum gave her sweetest smile and flashed her press badge. The man glanced at it quickly and waved us in.

             
Damn, that came in handy.
Note to self: Remember to utilize press badge when stuck in a line.

I was smiling by this point, having been scared at first that we would either be turned away or beaten up by the girls in line. Not that we couldn't have taken anyone of those bitches, I just didn't want to scuff up my new shirt. 

              We strutted into the club as people shouted behind us. I was instantly relieved when I noticed this place was much nicer than the dump I had spent the earlier part of my evening. The chillingly hypnotic music thumped in my head. There were half-naked men wrapped in leather dancing on what looked to be huge speakers in front of the DJ booth. There were people, with what I refer to as RPG loser syndrome, flailing about on the dance floor. Even with all of that this place, known fondly as the Macabre Saturnine, seemed fairly mainstream. While the bulk of the crowd were black leather clad losers, a lot of them looked like me...normal. The night was looking up.

             
Tatum headed straight for the bar, and I gladly followed. She ordered up a shot of tequila for the both of us. The bartender set them down with a side of lime and salt. We looked to each other, then to the thoughtful bartender.

             
“Thanks sweetie, but we don't need training wheels,” Tatum said sweetly pushing the lime and salt to inside of the bar.

             
We slammed back our shots like big tough men. Well, better, because most men need lime. I closed my eyes and sat for a second, feeling the liquid heat course down my throat and burn in the pit of my stomach. I opened my eyes and spun around on my stool when I caught someone in my peripheral vision moving in between Tatum and me, almost smacking into him as I did. I gave a loud burst of laughter, but caught it quickly before it got out of hand. This tool made Philippe look like king vampire pimp. He was wearing a cape as well, but this was not just your everyday cape. No, this must have been his dressy cape. It was a blue crushed velvet number with a high collar - flipped up of course. It added to the mystique, I guess. I thought he looked like a douche. He had your typical high collared, white, billowy shirt on with some stupid little brooch-thing at the neck. I honestly couldn't tell you what else he was wearing because I was mesmerized by his painted on widows peak. He looked like he’d just stepped off the cereal box.

             
He leaned into Tatum’s ear and said, in the most ridiculous Dracula-vanian accent, “They call me The Count.”

             
Tatum looked at him like he was retarded and without missing a beat she replied, “V'one. Ah-ah-ah.” She took the words right out of my mouth.

             
If he got the joke, he didn't show it. He made an attempt to kiss her hand but was thwarted when she reached for her purse.

             
“You are quite beautiful,” he said staring at her, um, eyes.

             
“Thanks,” she replied, turning back around in an effort to get him to leave.

             
The very strange looking man stood there with a look on his face that clearly said he had no clue as to what to do next. The bartender came past us then and asked if we'd like another drink. Tatum ordered us both a stiff Jack and Coke. We were going to need it.

             
“Oh, you’re still here?” she said to The Count as she turned around on her stool holding her drink.

             
“Why yes, of course. I could never walk away from a beauty such as you,” he declared moving his eyebrows up and down rapidly.

             
“What if I asked you nicely?” Tatum said, in her sweetest sarcastic tone.

             
“I would do what the lady bids of me,” he said with a sweeping bow. He used the cape for better effect.

             
“Okay, great! Nice meeting you. Have fun with the blood and all,” Tatum said as she turned back around to face the now snickering bartender.

             
The man stood there for a moment; pondering, I think. At that, he swept his cape up to cover his face, turned around and walked into the crowd. I think it was an attempt at mysteriously disappearing. Whatever it was, I sat watching him in awe. This guy wins first prize in the “I've Never Been Laid” contest. 

I turned around and found Tatum chatting with the bartender. The girl was so thin
, I think I could have knocked her over with a quick exhale. She was tall, almost too tall to be that thin. She had hair the color of an eggplant that was laced up into a very large bouffant that had nothing to do with the sixties. She wore a deep red and black corset that pushed her chest up so high I wondered if I could rest my drink on them. A pair of rumba panties that matched the red of the corset barely covered her ass. The outfit, though quite slutty, was cute. The lace ruffles on her, uh, shorts made the outfit more adorable than anything. She wore a pair of fishnet hose that were almost invisible due to the thigh high stilettos that I could not believe she was working in.

             
“This is Reggie. Reggie, Dylan.” As Tatum introduced us I reached my hand across the bar to shake. She reached out a very thin hand and shook mine firmly. Her hands were like ice.

             
“Wow, your hands are freezing,” I said to her, rubbing my own hand on my leg in an attempt to warm it up.

             
“Yeah, between ice cold beers and drinks on the rocks, they don't warm up until I get home,” she explained, wiping her hand on a towel.

             
“So, you’re writing a book about vampires?” she asked as she wiped down the bar trying to look busy.

             
“Yeah. Well, actually, it will be about the recent vampire-like homicides. I came here in hopes of finding some more information about the vampire culture. But all I got was a retard in a cape,” I scoffed, obviously annoyed.

             
She chuckled at that. “Well I don't know much, but I'm more than happy to help.”

Great
, finally someone with half a brain cell left.

I wasn't sure where to begin, I had so many questions.

              “You’ve heard about the rash of murders from the Valley, right?” She nodded to that. “I want to write a book about it. I have a theory that these poor girls are being knocked off by someone who thinks they’re a vampire. I think it is called Renfield syndrome, or Clinical Vampirism.” Thank you History Channel. “I figured, what better place to find someone of that...nature...than in a place like this.” I waved my hand around my area to show off the room.

             
Reggie, the leggy bartender, was just about to tell me something, which was probably extremely important knowing my luck, when Tatum grabbed me by the arm.

             
“Hello future sex slave...” Tatum drooled as she pointed out an unbelievably attractive guy at the other end of the bar. He had the best hair I’d ever seen on a man, ever. This man was gorgeous, and most definitely sex slave material. He was surrounded by people, making it obvious to me he was some big shot, but he looked like he didn't even want to be there. Tatum didn't even look back at Reggie as she dragged me away from, potentially, the most important person of the evening. Tatum swished and sauntered down the length of the bar with me in tow. She wriggled her way through, pulling me with her.

             
“Hey hot stuff,” she smirked with an obvious wink. “This busty beauty hiding behind me is Dylan Hart.” Why she introduced me first, I have no clue, but you have to love the girl; she knows shit about tact.

He leaned his head around her and gave me a panty-melting grin. I blushed of course, because at that moment
, I was thinking of things that are most definitely not intended for public consumption. He stuck his hand out to me. I took it, and gave him the firm and professional. Well, my kind of profession anyway. A different kind of career girl could charge a pretty penny for a ‘firm and professional’.

             
“Cyrus,” he said with the utmost confidence.

Killer name. Better than Philippe.

              I was weak in the knees and red faced, but I stuck it out like a champ.

             
“So, you look bored. Wanna dance?” Tatum cut-in in just the nick of time. I would have just stood there like an idiot.

             
“Yes, please.” He sounded a little relieved as he glanced around him at all the little Goth losers pawing him.

             
Tatum curved her hand around the bend of his arm and let him lead the way. I, on the other hand, trailed behind like a good little puppy. The next thing I knew, Cyrus was grabbing my hand and pulling me with them. An awkward laugh came out but luckily it went unheard in the loud club. He’s just too perfect to be touching the likes of me.

             
Cyrus
-
Mr-Man-Panties might
as well be a Greek god. His hair was brown, but not just brown, it was like coffee with a drop of cream. He had a natural tan. The kind that isn't really the color us normal pasty people get when we crisp in the sun, but a more subtle, sexy version.  He was chiseled, muscular, and largely built, but not disgustingly so. Tall, but not enormous and had a perfect, pouty mouth. It was full and bite-able, but not Hollywood collagen chic. The kicker were those sultry, olive green eyes, hidden behind black fans of lashes that created an eyeliner look that wasn't as ridiculous as actually wearing eyeliner. He was perfect. I'd seen him before. I knew it.

Wait…
Oh...oh my
.
He's plastered on a billboard in his skivvies not three blocks from my house. Why did I not recognize him before?

              I looked at that billboard nearly every day, usually twice. He looks even better in his man panties by the way. My heart was pounding; I had butterflies in my butt. I was holding the hand of Cyrus, the hottie in his undies that I had been lusting after for months. I had to tell Tatum. The second the thought of Tatum passed through my head, I came to the dramatic realization that I was standing in the middle of the dance floor staring into space like a spaz. Both Tatum and Cyrus were staring at me, brows raised in question as to what the hell was wrong with me.

             
“Sorry guys, space cadet.” I half chuckled and they did too. I attempted to give Tatum the eye. Letting her know I needed a side bar. She was so damn focused on Cyrus she was paying no attention to me. So I did the only thing I knew to do. I danced like it was 1999. I shimmied my way over to Tatum to try the sexy, partially lesbian, dry-hump dance so I could whisper in her ear that Cyrus was the hot tighty-whitey boy from the billboard by my house. I got half way there when Cyrus decided I was the one to dance with at that moment. Don't get me wrong I’m not complaining about the closeness, but my plan was foiled.

             
Damn him
.

             
Cyrus may be completely adorable, but the man cannot dance. I liked this because it put him a little closer to my league.

             
“So, what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” Oh yeah, he really just said that. The oldest and most overly used pick-up line in the book. Well, next to what's your sign? I resisted the urge to pull a Shirley Muldowney and answer with “winning.”

             
Instead I said, “I'm here to see a man about a horse.” I can also be dorky and camp. He began laughing, really hard. I didn't even think it was that funny and I was the genius who thought of it.

             
“You don't exactly look like you belong here,” he said, flashing a beautiful smile.

             
“Is it that obvious?” I thought I looked okay; especially after Tatum’s makeover.

             
“Well, you look like you have class. Too much for a place like this.” He thought I had class. Brownie button for me.