The Hit


Sam knew he was a sex machine. Not to be boastful, but what man could ignore the come-hither stares, the girly giggles, the furtive nudges and whispers that greeted him every time he stepped into the velvety fug of a Melbourne nightclub? Which was pretty often, by the way. Sam was a party boy, a frequenter of steamy – some would say sleazy – bars. A wolf, a bear and – yes, ladies – a sex machine.

“Buy you a drink?” Not that he needed to ask but a gentleman does. And this babe could slay a man at thirty paces with her sly, sultry smile.

Sugar knew her way around a gin and lime. Even without the straw, the way she sipped her drink was a downright sin.

He was a big boy, this one. But was he up to the job?

“What line of work you in?” she asked, making room for him at the bar. “Wait. Let me guess. Personal trainer.”

He got that a lot. It was the build. He was ripped, solid, bronzed. “Close. I’m in the servicing game.” It was what he always told the ladies. They loved the innuendo. Subtle. But just in case this one didn’t get it, he threw her a wink.

“Ah.” Sugar caught his drift straight off. “Tell me more.” That smile again.

“Sure you want to know?” Sam faltered. This was where things so often came unstuck. Sex machines are not programmed for verbal finesse.

“Try me,” she said, slipping in a neat double entendre as she toyed with her ice.

“Love to.” For once, he was quick off the mark and she laughed.

He might just do. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but more than enough brawn.

Sugar was oh-so-good at starting things – books, meals, marriages. Not so good at finishing them off. Couldn’t seem to tidy up the mess before she walked away. The bloody entrails of her past debacles trailed after her wherever she went and she couldn’t get free, start afresh, shake off the shadow guy who wanted to try again when all she wanted was a nice, clean ending.

Somebody needed to finish things for her. 

“Oh, no!” Sugar gripped her gin and lime and stared wide-eyed across the room. “See that fella in the corner? The one watching us?”

He saw.

“I wish he’d leave me alone.” Sam eased himself off the stool.

~ fin ~


Paulette Smythe lives in Melbourne, Australia. In her writing and artwork she seeks to capture some of the mystery and paradox that lies beneath the surface of ordinary life. Her work has previously been published in Antipodean SFBewildering StoriesVerandahEureka Street, the Shuffle anthology and Prometheus Dreaming.