Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

SLOANE
W
hen I disembark at the private jet terminal at La
Guardia, it’s dark, forty degrees outside, and
drizzling. It might as well be eighty degrees
and sunny for how happy I am.
I stand at the top of the airstairs of Kage’s swanky jet and
throw my arms wide, shouting, “Hellooo, Big Apple!”
The uniformed chauffer waiting with an umbrella at the
bottom of the steps on the tarmac squints up at me like I’m
nuts, but I ignore him. I’ve never been to New York, and I’m
going to enjoy every second of it.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and bump into a random billionaire I
can get to work on.
If not, there’s always shopping. The Louis Vuitton
boutique on Fifth Avenue has been calling my name all the
way from Tahoe.
“C’mon, doggo. Time to go see mommy.”
Mojo lifts his head from where he’s been sleeping the
entire flight, on the first cream-colored leather seat in the cabin
near the door. He glances at the door, looking dubious, then
back at me.
I smile at him. “Move your butt or I’ll make a rug out of
you, shaggy.”
Moving at the speed of a slug, he pours himself off the seat
and onto the floor, yawns, scratches his ear with a hind paw,
then blinks at me.