Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

He exhales in a heavy rush.
“I don’t want that on my conscience. Promise?”
“You pointed a gun at him, but I can’t?”
“Mine wasn’t loaded. Yours would be.”
I can feel his outrage. “Your gun isn’t loaded? Why the
hell not?”
“I only have it because my dad left it here. And this is a
town of only about four thousand people, with very low crime.
And I have a big dog.”
Kage’s laugh is sour. “The dog who greeted me with a
wagging tail when I picked your back-door lock, then
promptly went to sleep on the sofa?”
“Yeah. That’s Mojo. I know he’s not exactly on high alert.”
“No, he’s on Prozac.”
“He’s a happy dog!”
“Happy dogs don’t make good guard dogs. We should get
you a Rottweiler.”
I picture a two-hundred-pound furry monster baring sharp,
saliva-dripping fangs at me while I’m sleeping. “Hard pass.”
“Then at least load your gun.”
“I don’t have any ammunition.”
Kage’s sigh conveys his extreme disappointment in my
lack of preparation for a home invasion.
I keep my tone light when I say, “I’ll be safe for at least the
next week, anyway. So there’s that.”
Another dissatisfied grumble. The arm around my body
squeezes me tight.
I know his mind is working, running over what I said. I
didn’t mean it as a rebuke, but it might’ve sounded that way.
Like I was blaming him for not being here more.
Like I was trying to make him feel guilty.
When I open my mouth to explain, he interrupts me.