LAY YOUR HANDS ON ME
by Alan Griffiths
I’d been drinking alone, for over two hours, wrapped up in my thoughts, as I mulled over my latest idea for a story. Thinking about the plot, characters and dialogue so that I was only vaguely aware of the people and sounds of the bar around me.
It must have been the whisky, as I could have sworn that there were two of them when I first looked over. Now, as The Stones began to play Brown Sugar, I took in her athletic curves, as she got up from her stool at the far end of the bar and sashayed towards me. She was petite, a size eight dress and wearing a short skirt and open necked white shirt, which contrasted against her smooth ebony skin and short spiky coal black hair. I put her in her early thirties but she could easily have been ten years younger.
She took her time settling on the stool next to me and I took my time enjoying the view of her legs and thighs as she let the skirt ride a little higher, getting a tantalizing flash of lacy bra underneath the partially open shirt. Even with the whisky numbing my senses I felt myself beginning to stir and got to thinking that maybe this could be my lucky night.
She had a nice mouth, full red lips, a small button nose and good bone structure around brown green eyes. She winked at me and then briefly touched her glass of white wine against my whisky tumbler and we both drank our drinks.
“Let’s get some air out back handsome,” she said in a whisper, her fingers, oh so gently, brushing across the skin on the back of my hand. “And enjoy a smoke together.” Her English was perfect but I thought I could detect an African accent in there somewhere.
For the life of me I couldn’t think of a suitable line to follow that and had to let it go. Swallowing the last of my malt I felt the burn in my throat and got unsteadily to my feet. With some difficulty I followed her cute backside, as she glided effortlessly through the bar, as if she was walking on air.
The sky was clear, illuminated by a full moon and was dotted with bright stars. I fired us both up with my Zippo and we smoked our cigarettes, both contented to take in the cool air and listen to the music coming from the bar’s sound system. The Stones now giving way to Springsteen’s Brilliant Disguise.
“I’m a writer,” I finally said, giving her my best smile and moved just a little closer to inhale her sweet perfumed scent. Chanel I thought, not quite sure of the exact number. “Crime fiction mainly.”
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow towards the stars and took a last long pull on her cigarette before dropping the lipstick stained butt to the floor and crushed it under her heel.
“A creative kinda guy,” she said, blowing smoke and flashing a white toothy grin. “I like the sound of that.”
I was mesmerised but managed to ask, “And what should I call you?”
She smiled, with her mouth and her eyes. “My friends call me Thommo.”
“Nice,” was all I could manage.
“Most people ask me why I only use my surname.”
“Maybe I’m not most people,” I said, beginning to warm to the task. “But I like the idea of us being friends.”
“Oh please! Is that your best fucking line?” The words were harsh and came from my left. I instinctively turned towards them.
Her twin stepped quickly from the shrubbery, holding a snub nosed .45 in her outstretched right hand. She pushed the barrel of the gun hard into my mouth and I tasted my own blood as her free hand slid inside my jacket for my wallet. My Adams apple felt like a tennis ball trapped in my parched throat as I tried to speak but no words would come.
“Welcome to reality sucker,” I heard her say as she began to gently squeeze the trigger.
THE END
BIO: Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer, from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher and Six Sentences.
