Wall Street Titan (Alpha Zone #1)

Chapter 1

E mma

“—and then the vet said Mr. Puffs is not ready for that, and I—”

“That’s it.” Kendall plunks down her glass of ice tea with such force the six-dollar liquid sloshes over the rim. Grabbing the napkin, she mops up the spill and glares at me over her half-eaten plate of buckwheat crepes.

“What?” I blink at my best friend.

“Do you realize you’ve been talking about Mr. Puffs and Cottonball and Queen Elizabeth for the past half hour?” Kendall leans in, hazel eyes narrowed. “It’s cat this, cat that, vet this.”

“Oh.” Flushing, I look at the clock on the wall of the brunch place Kendall dragged me to. Sure enough, it’s been almost thirty minutes since we got here—and I haven’t shut up during that time. Embarrassed, I look back at Kendall. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

“No, Emma.” Kendall’s tone is one of exaggerated patience as she leans back, flipping her sleek dark hair over her shoulder. “You didn’t bore me. But you did make me realize something.”

“What?”

“You, my darling, are officially a cat lady.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“Yep. A bona fide cat lady.”

“I am not!”

“No?” She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Let’s review the facts, then. When was the last time you had your hair professionally styled?”

“Um…” Self-consciously, I tug at the explosion of red curls on my head. “Maybe a year or so ago?” It was, in fact, for Kendall’s twenty-fifth birthday party, which means it’s been at least eighteen months since anything other than a comb touched the frizzy mess.

“Right.” Kendall cuts into her crepe with the daintiness of Queen Elizabeth—my cat, not the British monarch. After chewing her bite, she says, “And your last date was when?”

I have to really think about that one. “Two months ago,” I say triumphantly when the recollection finally comes to me. I cut off a piece of my own crepe and fork it into my mouth, muttering, “That’s not that long ago.”

“No,” Kendall agrees. “But I’m talking about a real date, not pity coffee with your sixty-year-old neighbor.”

“Roger is not sixty. He’s at most forty-nine—”

“And you’re twenty-six. End of story. Now don’t evade the question. When was the last time you had a real date?”

I pick up my glass of water and chug it down as I try to remember. I have to admit, Kendall stumped me on that one. “Maybe a year ago?” I venture, though I’m pretty sure that the date in question—a less-than-memorable occasion, clearly—predated Kendall’s birthday party.

“A year?” Kendall drums her taupe-colored nails on the table. “Really, Emma? A year?”

“What?” Trying to ignore the flush creeping up my neck, I focus on consuming the rest of my twenty-two-dollar crepe. “I’m busy.”

“With your cats,” she says pointedly. “All three of them. Face it: You’re a cat lady.”

I look up from my plate and roll my eyes. “Fine. If you insist, then yes, I’m a cat lady.”

“And you’re okay with that?” She gives me an incredulous look.

“What, should I jump off the Brooklyn Bridge in despair?” I stuff the last bite of my crepe into my mouth. I’m still hungry, but I’m not about to order anything else off the overpriced menu. “Liking cats is not a crime.”

“No, but spending all your free time scooping litter boxes while living in New York City is.” Kendall pushes her own empty plate away. “You’re at a prime age to nab a man, and you don’t date at all.”

I blow out an exasperated breath. “Because I just don’t have the time—and besides, who says I want to nab anyone? I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“Says she, repeating what every other cat lady tells herself. Honestly, Emma, when was the last time you had sex with anything other than your vibrator?”

Kendall doesn’t bother lowering her voice as she says this, and I feel my face turn red again as a gay couple at the table next to us glance over and snicker.

Fortunately, before I can reply, Kendall’s Prada purse vibrates.

“Oh.” She frowns as she fishes her phone out and reads whatever her screen says. Looking up, she motions at the waiter. “I have to go,” she says apologetically. “My boss just had a breakthrough with the dress design he’s been struggling with, and he needs me to get some models to him, pronto.”

“No worries.” I’m used to Kendall’s unpredictable job in the fashion industry. Plunking down my debit card, I say, “We’ll catch up again soon,” and pull out my phone to look at my checking account balance.

* * *

The temperature outside is just above freezing, and the subway station I need is about ten blocks away from the brunch place.

Still, I walk because a) my hips could use the exercise and b) I can’t afford to do anything else.

This outing depleted my weekend budget to the point that I’m going to have to push my grocery trip to Monday.

I’ve told Kendall to stop taking me to expensive places, but I should’ve known she wouldn’t regard a twenty-five-dollar brunch as expensive.

In New York City, that’s practically free.

To be fair, Kendall doesn’t know just how strained my finances are.

My student loans are not something I like to talk about.

As far as she’s concerned, I live in a basement studio in Brooklyn and clip coupons because I just like to save money.

She herself is not exactly pulling in millions—being an assistant to an up-and-coming fashion designer doesn’t pay much more than my bookstore job and editing gigs—but her parents cover most of her bills, so all her salary gets spent on clothes and various luxuries.

If she weren’t such a good friend, I’d hate her.

As I enter the subway station, I almost trip over a homeless man lounging on the stairs. “Sorry,” I mutter, about to scurry away, but he gives me a toothless grin and extends a brown bag toward me.

“It’s okay, little lady,” he slurs. “Want a sip? Seems like you could use a drink.”

Startled, I step back. “No, thanks. I’m okay.” How awful do I look if homeless people offer me alcohol? Maybe there is something to Kendall’s cat-lady diagnosis.

Shrugging, the man takes a swig from the brown bag, and I dash down the stairs before he offers to share something else with me—like the coins in the hat next to him.

I’m strapped for cash, but I’m not that desperate.

* * *

One long train ride later, I come out of the subway in Bay Ridge, my neighborhood in Brooklyn. The second I step outside, a gust of wind hits me in the face.

A gust of wind and something wet.

Sleeting snow.

Great. Just great. Gritting my teeth, I clutch the lapels of my old woolen coat, trying to keep the two edges from separating at my neck, and start walking. I don’t live that far from the subway—only five blocks—but they’re long blocks, and I curse every one of them as the icy rain intensifies.

“Watch it,” a heavyset woman snaps as I bump into her, and I automatically mumble an apology. It’s not entirely my fault—it takes two people to bump into one another—but it’s not in my nature to be rude.

My grandparents raised me better than that.

When I finally reach the brownstone where I’m renting my basement studio, I feel like I’ve scaled Mount Everest. My face is wet and frozen, and despite my best efforts to keep my coat closed, the sleet got inside, chilling me from within.

I’m one of those people who has to have the top half of her body warm.

I can tolerate icy feet—I have those too, since my sneakers are not waterproof—but I can’t bear to have cold water trickling down my neck.

If I’d been mad at Mr. Puffs for tearing up my only decent-looking scarf before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. That cat is going to get it.

“Puffs!” I roar, pushing the door open and stepping into my one-room apartment. “Come here, you evil creature!”

The cat is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Queen Elizabeth gives me a placid stare from my bed and licks her paw, then starts grooming herself, smoothing each fluffy white hair into place.

Cottonball is next to her, napping on my pillow.

Both felines look warm, content, and utterly carefree, and not for the first time, I feel a pang of irrational envy toward my pets.

I’d love to sleep all day and have someone feed me.

Shivering, I take off my wet coat, hang it up on the hook by the door, and toe off my sneakers. Then I go in search of Mr. Puffs.

I find him in his new favorite place: the top shelf of my closet. It’s where I keep hats, gloves, scarves, and bags—not that I own many of each item, which is why it’s a tragedy of epic proportions when the evil cat decides to shred one of them to make room for his furry body.

“Puffs, come here.” I’m not exactly tall, so I have to stretch up on tiptoes to grab him. Grunting from the effort, I take him down from the shelf. The cat weighs a solid fifteen pounds, and with his paws windmilling in the air, he feels twice as heavy. “I told you you’re not allowed to sit there.”

I set him down on the floor, and he gives me a squinty-eyed stare that says it’s only a matter of time before he gets the rest of my accessories.

Like his siblings, Mr. Puffs is white and fluffy, the perfect embodiment of his Persian breed, but that’s where the similarity ends.

There’s nothing calm and placid about him.

I’m not sure the cat sleeps. Ever. It’s possible he’s a vampire who shapeshifts into a huge Persian for daytime.

He’s certainly evil enough for that.

Just when I’m about to yell at him again for tearing up the scarf, he rubs his head on my wet jeans and emits a loud purr. Then he looks up at me, big green eyes blinking innocently.

I melt. Or maybe it’s the icy droplets clinging to my clothes that are melting, but either way, there’s now a warm and fuzzy feeling in my chest.

“All right, come here, you stinker,” I mutter, kneeling down to pet the cat. He purrs louder, rubbing his head against my hand like I’m his favorite person in the world. I’m almost certain he’s manipulating me on purpose—the cat is scary smart—but I can’t help falling for it.