Free The Scene by R. M. Gilmore

1983.
                  Cyrus looked down sheepishly, hands in his pockets. “You guys got a little drunk; I didn't know where you lived so I brought you back here,” he said, not meeting our eyes.
    Tatum bowed up, flared her nostrils, and squinted her eyes. If he didn't fess up soon , he was going to leave bloody. 
                  “Honest. No touchy.” He held his two fingers in the air.
    Scouts honor my ass.
                  “Fuck honor, Cyrus. You know what I'm talking about. Why can't we remember anything?” she said, as she gave him a look of rage and fear.
    He hesitated for a second. It was time for bloodshed. Cyrus knew he'd better start talking before she ripped his heart out via his sternum.
                  “Okay, okay. You were part of the experience,” he said finally.
    I sat there and watched the perfectly executed right hook make contact with his flawless face. Blood spewed from his mouth; I think a tooth even flew out. He never saw it coming. I instantly burst into uncontrollable laughter. I had seen Tatum knock a fucker out a handful of times throughout our friendship and it never gets old. This time though was a little disheartening, because she may have permanently scarred that beautiful face.
    What the general public doesn't know about Tatum Price is that she’s the daughter of Steven Price, martial artist and professional hit man, turned stunt coordinator for many motion pictures. He’d taught his daughter well before he died. Hell, you should see her handle a firearm. She stood there, face hard and callous, watching as he held his own face in pain.
                  “When you’re able, I would like to know the full events of last night. In detail if you would.” She turned slowly and walked nonchalantly to the couch. She sat softly, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap - very ladylike. You would have never guessed she had just nearly punched a man’s teeth in.
                  I sat waiting in awe. Legs curled up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. I looked back and forth from the astute blond to my left, to the bleeding Persian at my right. No one did anything for a full two minutes. Tatum just waited and watched emotionless, as Cyrus regained his composure. As the seconds ticked, I watched Tatum, waiting for her cool calculated demeanor to waiver with impatience; she didn't even blink. After what felt like a century, Cyrus straightened his posture and slowly removed his hands from his blood soaked face.
    Oh my God he looks like...well...like he just got hit in the face.
    He first looked to me; his face was empty, almost. His eyes held a hint of shame and the sparkle of a secret. After a moment or so, he turned from me to his vicious attacker, who just so happened to be a woman. If he dared tell anyone what really happened, I'm sure he'd be laughed at, there may even be pointing and laughing. Once his eyes were on her, they changed dramatically. Now they were empty, they held nothing. No hint, no clue as to what was hidden behind the mask that is Cyrus Atossa.
                  “I've only ever been a player in the game. But last night, I wanted to see it as it was meant to be seen. I wanted to feel what was meant to be felt.  I wanted to experience what you experience.” He looked to me then. The look on his face was one of sorrow and remorse, with an undertone of longing.
                  “I am also not certain of the events of last night. I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that you were safe. The situation is always controlled and well monitored. No one is ever injured or taken advantage of, we see to that.” His face was still dripping blood.
                  Good.
                  “You know, Mr. Atossa, when I asked for details, I meant it. Now elaborate or you will leave here with flashing lights.” Tatum never moved. Her face