The Scene Read Online Free Page B

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