The Scene Read Online Free

long and tedious drive I was finally turning down Tatum's street.
    Why can't that bitch live right off the freeway? Hello, where’s your cool house in the ‘burbs? Shut up inner Dylan you’re out of your element.
    I pulled up in front of the little pale pink house and killed the engine. She had a cute little place, as far as crappy little houses in L.A. go. Tatum’s a tabloid journalist, paparazzi if you will, so she made the big bucks. They pay a lot for celebrity dirt. Way more than a lowly old spinster journalist makes. Also her parents died when we were in high school, so she got a large sum of money when she turned eighteen. That's what she bought the house with. Even crappy little houses are expensive in L.A. My dad was killed when I was six; I didn’t get shit. Except maybe his snide sense of humor and tendency to have a crunchy shell over a gooey center.
                  I got out of the car and sauntered up the small steps to the even smaller porch. I didn't even bother knocking. I knew it would be unlocked. I just walked right in like I always do and called for Tatum.
                  “Marco!?” I yelled from the entryway.
                  “Polo!” Tatum cried from the bedroom.
                  I walked through the small yet utterly adorable living room; my shoes were making a lot of noise on the newly refinished hardwood floor. I made the right turn to walk down the hall, if you could call it that, and into her mid-sized bedroom. I immediately flopped down on her mammoth king size bed that was covered in enough pillows to fill a Motel 6.
                  I could see Tatum's silhouette in the tiny, one and a quarter bath, just off the master bedroom. She was what she called, primping.
    Can't leave the house without that last coat of mascara.
                  “Come on bitch. Let’s go! Times-a-wastin',” I called from the comfort of her feather down comforter.
                  “Okay, okay, where’re we going?” she asked through tight lips as she applied her lipstick.
                  “I want to go to a club. Something different...something dark.” I smirked a little as she poked her head out of the bathroom door with a very confused look on her lovely face.
                  I shot her a smile as wide as my cold little heart would allow before fanning my lashes at her. My rendition of asking for a favor.
                  “Jesus, Dylan. If you need my help, just ask.” She said it sweetly but this was Tatum we were talking about here. She just wanted to hear me beg for help. And I would.
                  “Fine,” I huffed. “Tatum, my friend, my confidant, I need you. I need you to take me to a Goth club where pasty-faced, cape wearing, drama club rejects hang out. Please?” I jutted my bottom lip way out and gave her the big teary eyes.
                  “Hmm.” She stood there for a minute pretending to think about it; like she would say no. “I think I know a few places.”
                  “Yay!” I jumped to my feet and clapped my hands like a three year old.
                  “Oh, on one condition though.”
                  “What's that?” I said cringing already knowing what she would ask of me.
                  “You have got to change that shirt.” She smiled and grabbed me by the arm dragging me to her over stuffed closet.
                  “Whoa dude, I’m not going to fit into anything you have in there.” Tatum was a good five sizes smaller than me.
                  “Here, try this on.” She tossed a familiar black top to me. I held it up in awe. It was a black halter with intricate embroidery trailing down from the bust line. The back laced up like a corset and acted like one too.
                  “When did you get this? Is it the one-” She cut me