Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
I
n true Sloane form, she looks fantastic. She’s
wearing a short, tight white dress that exposes
acres of cleavage and a pair of red fuck-me stiletto
heels that show off her legs.
The men with her all wear identical black suits with white
dress shirts and black ties.
They’re all young and well built. They all have dark,
slicked-back hair. I can’t tell whose gold watch is bigger.
If it wasn’t for the matching tattoos on their knuckles and
the backs of their hands, I’d think they were stockbrokers.
Or morticians.
“You okay?” I ask Kage, standing stiffly beside me in the
entrance to the dining room.
He stares so hard at the three men, I’m surprised they don’t
explode.
He says, “You know them?”
“No. I’ve never met any of them before. Why?”
“Because they’re trouble.”
But not too much trouble for him to handle, apparently,
because he’s already pulling me toward their table.
When Sloane spots me, she grins and waves. The men
surrounding her look over at us.
Then something strange happens.