Wall Street Titan: An Alpha Zone Novel

by Anna Zaires

  Wall Street Titan

  An Alpha Zone Novel

  Anna Zaires

  ♠ Mozaika Publications ♠

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Excerpt from Darker Than Love

  Excerpt from The Girl Who Sees by Dima Zales

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Anna Zaires and Dima Zales

  www.annazaires.com

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

  www.mozaikallc.com

  Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Photography by Wander Aguiar

  www.wanderbookclub.com

  e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-494-6

  ISBN: 978-1-63142-495-3

  1

  Emma

  “—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 bru
nch 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.

  When it comes to my cats, I’m a total pushover.

  The petting goes on until Mr. Puffs is certain I’m not going to yell at him. Then he strolls over to my bed and joins the other cats there, curling up on my pillow next to Cottonball.

  I sigh and trudge to the bathroom to take a hot shower. As much as I hate to admit it, Kendall is right.

  Somewhere along the way, I’ve turned into a bona fide cat lady.

  As I shower, I try to convince myself that it’s not a big deal. Okay, so my clothes are old and a little ratty, and I don’t do anything with my hair except wash it and occasionally put a little gel in it. And yes, I have three cats. So what? Lots of people love animals. It’s a positive character trait. I’ve never trusted anyone who doesn’t like pets. It’s unnatural, like hating chocolate or ice cream. I can see how one might have preferences when it comes to animals—some sadly misguided individuals prefer dogs to cats, for instance—but not liking pets at all? One might as well be a serial killer.

  Nonetheless, something about that label—cat lady—stings a bit. Maybe it’s because I’m only twenty-six. Like Kendall said, I’m supposed to be in my prime. If I come across as a hot mess now, what’s going to happen when I’m fifty or sixty? Maybe my dateless stretches will widen from a year-plus to a decade, and I’ll wander the streets cackling to myself while knitting hats out of cat hair.

  No, that’s ridiculous. Besides, I don’t want a man. I really don’t. Okay, fine, maybe I want one for sex—I’m a normal, healthy woman—but I don’t need someone dictating my life and dominating my time. That’s what happened with Janie, my other best friend from college. She got a serious boyfriend, and now I never see her. And even Kendall, who prides herself on being independent, disappears for weeks at a time when she’s dating someone. My last serious boyfriend was my senior year of college, and I nearly flunked a class because he needed so much attention—and that was before I got the cats. Now that Queen Elizabeth, Mr. Puffs, and Cottonball are in my life, I can’t imagine squeezing in a man as well.

  Still, when I come out of the shower and grab my phone, some devil on my shoulder—a tiny, stylish one who looks suspiciously like Kendall—makes me pull up a dating app that Janie had me join months ago. It’s the same one where she met her current boyfriend, the one who made her disappear from my life. Before said disappearance, she somehow strong-armed me into setting up a profile there. I played around with the app for a couple of days with some vague idea of finding a nice, laid-back guy who likes cats and long walks in the park, but after about a dozen dick pics, I gave up and stopped logging in.

  “You didn’t really give it a shot,” Janie said in frustration when I informed her about the pics. “Yeah, there are some assholes on there, but there are also some good guys, like my Landon.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding politely. Kendall and I are both of the opinion that Landon—he of the perpetual sneer and petty gossip—is an ass, but I didn’t want to say anything to Janie. In hindsight, though, maybe I
should’ve spoken up, because shortly after Janie made me create that profile, she got sucked into the black hole of her relationship, and Kendall and I haven’t seen her since.

  Placing the phone on the bed, I arrange my pillows to provide a backrest for me—a move that involves shooing Cottonball and Mr. Puffs off one pillow and moving Queen Elizabeth aside. Cottonball and Queen Elizabeth go amicably enough—Queen Elizabeth even jumps off the bed—but Mr. Puffs gives me an evil stare and swishes his tail threateningly from side to side before curling up next to my feet. I know he’s going to remember this offense and seek retaliation later, but for now, I have a comfy spot to look at all the dick pics that are undoubtedly waiting for me on the app.

  Plopping down among the pillows, I log into my profile and check the inbox. Sure enough, there are about three hundred messages, with at least a hundred of them containing attachments of penile nature. Just for fun, I click through a few of them—some are actually of decent size and shape—but then I get bored and start systematically erasing them. I don’t know how men came up with the idea that dick pics are hot, because they’re honestly not. I have nothing against penises, but they don’t turn me on unless they’re attached to a guy I like. Bonus points if that guy happens to come with washboard abs and nice pecs, but personality is what matters to me most.