The foul stench of murder overpowered her cheap perfume. But that only added to the sexiness she oozed, standing there provocatively in the doorway on a sweltering L.A. evening.
“I’m all out of matches,” she sighed, the cigarette dangling from her pouting lips. “Got some?”
“I don’t do matches,” I replied as I offered her my lighter. The flame lit up her sultry face.
I flung open the door. The clicking of her high heels on the marble floor inadvertently focussed your eyes on her firm ass, wrapped in the tightest of skirts.
“It is done?”
She nodded. “Never saw it coming.”
Read the rest of the tale and 100 more stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.