Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
I
n the frantic call I made to my parents before I left
Tahoe, I told them that an ex-boyfriend I dated for
a while made threats that he’d go to their house
and chop them up with a machete unless I got back together
with him.
Dramatic, I know, but it was effective.
They love to watch true crime documentaries. My
mother’s been expecting someone to break into their house
and murder them for years.
So when I call them back and tell them that the alleged ex
was arrested and is in jail, she almost sounds disappointed.
When she asks me how everything else is going, I say,
“Great.”
Because no mother wants to hear that her daughter’s new
boyfriend is the head of the Russian mafia who was originally
supposed to kill her but fell in love with her instead and
recently saved her from being shot in the face by another
assassin whose brain matter is now decorating the ceiling of
the house she grew up in.
That would be a tad much, even for her.
I hang up and call Sloane.
She picks up, shouting. “I’ve been worried sick! Are you
okay?”
I slide to the floor and sit with my back against the wall
and my knees drawn up, eyes closed. “I’m sorry. I know I left