Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I make a show of polishing off my salad as if I’ve got the
appetite of a farm animal, because Sloane’s like a
grandmother: it always makes her feel better when she sees me
eat.
Watching me, she says drily, “I know what you’re doing.”
I answer through a mouthful of salad. “I have no idea what
you mean.”
Looking heavenward, she draws a slow breath. Then she
deletes whatever she had been typing on her cell and starts
over. She sends the message and drops her phone back into her
purse. “Happy?”
“Yes. And I want a full report in the morning.”
Sounding like the head of the gestapo, she demands,
“What are you going to do tonight if you’re not with me?”
I think fast. “Treat myself to dinner at Michael’s.”
Michael’s is a small, upscale casino on the Nevada side of
the lake where wealthy tourists go to gamble and blow their
money. The steakhouse sits above the casino floor so you can
look down on everyone playing craps and blackjack while you
stuff your face with overpriced filet mignon. I can’t really
afford it on my salary, but the minute it’s out of my mouth, I’m
looking forward to it.
If watching me eat makes Sloane feel better, for me it’s
watching other people make bad decisions.
She says, “Alone? The only people who eat alone are
psychopaths.”
“Thanks for that. Any other little gems of encouragement
you’d like to share?”
She purses her lips in disapproval but stays silent, so I
know I’m off the hook.
Now I just have to figure out what to wear.