Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
F
or the next few weeks, I exist in a weird state of
breathless anticipation. I’m keyed up and
jumpy, as if at any moment, a shrieking snakeheaded
monster is about to pop out from under my bed.
I barely sleep. I pace grooves into the floor. I can’t even
look at my drawer of sex toys, much less use one of them. It’s
not so much Kage’s command that keeps me from it, but that
I’m honestly too anxiety ridden.
The anxiety that is due, in part, to the sheriff’s cruiser that
slinks by my house at all hours of the day and night.
Chris keeps his word to keep an eye on me like I keep
grudges: religiously.
I don’t know what he’s hoping to achieve. There’s nothing
to discover by such commitment.
Kage doesn’t return.
We talk on the phone almost every day, but the
conversations are short. He’s always getting pulled away by
business, interrupted by the many duties and obligations of his
position. I get the sense he rarely has time to himself, even to
sleep.
True to his word, though, I get a call from Mr. Santiago at
MoraBanc. When he informs me the balance in my new trust
account is ten million dollars and asks which currency I’d like
to start receiving funds in, I laugh and laugh until he gets
uncomfortable and tells me he’ll call me back at a better time.