The Scene by R. M. Gilmore

turmoil he created in me. Should I like him? Should I hate him? Should I give him a shot? Should I kill him? So many choices…so few alibis.
                  Tatum and I took a seat on the couch that made me envious. It reminded me vaguely of the dream I’d had earlier. Only this time I was accompanied by Tatum and not some dork in leather pants. Also, I highly doubted Tatum would try to bite me. Well except that one time, but that’s neither here nor there. 
                  “What is with this place? I was kind of thinking Sween Enterprises would be, I don't know, more enterprise-y,” I said looking around the room.
                  “I know. I was thinking city and skyscrapers too. But, I guess if one makes their living on all that is dark and bloody, they'd better fit the part or they'll lose their target audience,” Tatum answered.
                  “This is true,” I agreed. “Or, he's a big scary vampire.” That idea was becoming more and more conceivable as time went on.
                  “Good evening, ladies. Thank you so much for coming.” We jumped, turned, and stared in that order. The man standing before us did not belong anywhere near L.A. I knew immediately the man standing before us was Malcolm McTavish; the accent gave him away. Honestly, Cyrus did it no justice. Aside from the expertly tailored charcoal black suit, there was nothing about him that said Southern California. His skin was milk white and looked like it might have the same consistency. His thick, wavy, shoulder length hair was an almost unnatural shade of red, nearly matching the couch we were sitting on. Though his voice was cordial, it didn't meet his face. The ocean blue of his eyes was his only saving grace from such a stark and harsh appearance. It was the face of a war torn soldier, that of one who had seen more than their fair share of bullshit for one life time.
                  I stood to greet him, handing him my hand to shake. He kissed it instead, having to bend nearly in half to reach me. Normally I would have grumbled, but after the last two days, I was growing accustomed to random kissing. He was really wide and stocky for being so tall. Taller than Tatum’s Amazonian frame.
    “Thank you for having us, sir. We are here, actually, to-” I started to speak, but Tatum cut me off.
                  “Find out what the fuck you’re drugging your patrons with to make them see crazy shit,” Tatum said from behind me with a disgustingly sweet smile.
                  “You look quite familiar. Have we met?” He was staring at Tatum, studying her face. Her eyes went wide for a second before returning to their usual blankness.
                  “Probably not. I'd remember that accent, trust me. So, about this completely safe, harmless, all natural bullshit you’re pumping into these people every night. We need to know exactly what we took, what happened to us after we took it, and why this morning we woke up in this dingle berries apartment?...Please.” She ended her rant with a smile. I had a feeling she was still kind of bent out of shape from this morning’s bloodbath. Her voice held contentment. Especially when she mentioned Cyrus.
                  “If you young ladies would not mind accompanying me to my office, I would be more than happy to explain it all to you.” The Irish brogue was mesmerizing; it rolled off his tongue with the eloquence of a fifteenth-century poet.
                  “Of course.” I nodded. “You're not off the hook yet, dude,” I said as I grabbed the quickly fleeing Cyrus just moments before his great escape. He stopped in his tracks, turned on his heel, and saluted me.
                  Something violent is about to happen to this beautiful man.
                  The three of us followed the fiery red hair up the stairs. The gold carpet was