by Alan Griffiths
He’d been drinking alone, wrapped up in his thoughts, vaguely aware of the noises and sounds of the bar. It must have been the effect of the whiskey, as he could have sworn that there were two of them when he first looked over. He took in her athletic curves as she sashayed towards him, dressed in a short skirt, stockings, and open necked white shirt, contrasting against her smooth olive skin and coal black hair. She took her time settling next to him and he enjoyed the view of her legs and a tantalizing flash of lacy bra underneath the partially open shirt; “Let’s get some air out back handsome and enjoy a smoke together,” she whispered, her fingers gently brushing the skin on the back of his hand. Outside he lit them both up with his Zippo; “I’m a writer,” he said, giving her his best smile and moving close to inhale her sweet perfume, “crime fiction mainly.” From his left, movement: her twin stepped from the shadows and pushed a snub nosed .45 hard against his temple, her free hand snaking inside his jacket for his fat wallet; “Welcome to reality sucker,” she said and squeezed the trigger.
Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer from London, England. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir and Pulp Pusher.