Page 5 of Meow

Any attempts to thank her earn a dismissive "shhh" as she points to whatever college textbook she's reading, usually by candlelight, wax dripping onto the power company's latest shut-off notice.

Cat ears define me. I remember getting my first pair from the dollar store when I was probably five or six. it was a normal Saturday morning spent roaming the aisles with Nana, as we did most weekends. My mom offloaded me from Friday to Mondayso she couldgetloaded, and usuallytakeone as well from the boyfriend of the moment, or some rando from whatever bar she’d graced the night before.

Now, at eighteen, cat ears adorn my gaming headphones, phone case, backpack—and my head, always. I even wear silicone ones in the shower.

Yes, I'm obsessed. Butcats, amiright?

This fixation made high school in the lovely small low-end town of Durand, MI, a special kind of hell for an awkward girl with a kitty obsession. Being named Tabby while mimicking feline behaviors didn't help.

I'd watched Nana's cats for hours growing up, copying their every move—licking the back of my hand, yawning when someone spoke, occasionally batting objects off tables just to watch them fall.

My purring friends were my only companions besides Nana. Which, overall, didn’t bother me. I never craved friendships. Like a cat, I take people or leave them.

The second thought I had as the elevator doors dinged for our destination floor, was that last night I'd been dumpster diving at this very company’s Birmingham flagship store, scooping premium cat food from the bags they'd sliced open into my own Ziploc bags. I cursed whoever threw out toy after toy, spray painting them purposely ruined, so divers like myself can’t abscond with the thousands of dollars of perfectly good merchandise they throw away week after week.

I've graced their corporate dumpsters behind this building as well. Security's been tighter lately, and the grimacing guard that’s chased me off twice now has been unmoved by my cute ears or rants about how they should donate the food and toys to shelters instead of trashing it all.

I won't mention stealing from their parked semi-trailers that line the back parking lot here. The doors are chained, but I cansqueeze through, shoving food through the opening and into Nana’s waiting trunk with her at the wheel ready to beat it out of there like Thelma and Louise. Those semi loads sit there for months. Sometimes until the food is beyond its expiration.

My cats deserve the best, and if I can't buy it, I'll do what's necessary.

I've perfected shoplifting since Dad decided to "find himself" six years ago in Bora Bora with a bartender named Brad. He sends monthly postcards that Nana burns while cursing how real men don't abandon their families—even for a hot piece like Brad.

I'm tired of choosing between feeding us or the cats. Our neighborhood has developed; rising taxes threaten to evict us. Worse, our snobby neighbors, theMortons, have some vendetta against our cats, petitioning for an ordinance limiting the number per household.

Nana retaliates by planting rotten fish under their porch. But unless we find a little country house where nobody cares about our growing feline family, we'll likely need to rehome some of our babies—a thought that crushes my chest as Pinch Face escorts me to a conference room.

The building awes me. Like Bark and Purr’s high-end cat products, everything screams luxury—wood trim, marble floors, an elevator straight from old-money Manhattan.

My interviewer dismissed me the moment I raised my hand in the lobby. She sucked her teeth disapprovingly as I approached, skidding across black stone, adjusting my ears before extending my hand as Nana instructed.

She walks like she's simultaneously important and uncomfortable from a stick lodged where the sun doesn't shine. I feel like an afterthought as we navigate endless hallways, until everything takes a bizarre turn.

I came for a "no experience needed" assistant position—honestly hoping for free cat food benefits—but ended up straddling the desk of the largest man I've ever seen with my legs spread, deliberately knocking his coffee onto the floor.

His size is otherworldly, like he grew on a planet three times as big as Earth. But that's not all—his glacial blue eyes pierce through me with impossible intensity.

Wild dark curls frame his face, contradicting his immaculate pinstriped suit. His office matches him perfectly: sleek dark wood, rough plaster, and museum-worthy artwork in ornate gold frames.

The paintings tell stories—gory battles with severed heads, wolves gnashing teeth over bloody prizes, and vibrant canvases depicting urban warfare in Detroit's forgotten neighborhoods.

The man himself? His face is a battlefield—asymmetrical, worn, beautiful like a crumbling castle reclaimed by time and nature. Perfectly imperfect.

My intellect screams danger, but my body whispers other things—warm, exciting, decadent things. And his scent? I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale forever. It's powerful—part cologne, part pheromones I never believed in until five minutes ago.

"Do you have a death wish?" he finally asks, tearing his eyes from the coffee splattered over his cream rug from the mug I just toppled off the edge of his Hulk-sized desk.

"Why, do you want to kill me?" I lean back on locked elbows, pushing boundaries while butterflies riot in my stomach.

My legs are still spread wide as he ordered. I have to admit, I never thought I would do such a thing, but that’s my inner kitty coming out to play. Cats are unpredictable, after all.

All my virgin sweetness mixes with this new, daring seductress and the mixture is heady, making me simultaneous drench my panties and wonder if I’m going to end up in one ofthe dumpsters out back, duct taped inside fifty empty cat food bags.

Big boss man nods and leans back, his icy stare turning molten as he spreads his knees and unbuttons his jacket, tongue sliding slowly over his top teeth. His expression is serious but unsteady at the same time. He cuts me a hard look as I drag a finger down my throat, my nipples turning to hard little peaks.

"On the contrary. I want to eat you, but leave you very much alive—if not a little limp and spent."

He watches me like the lion in the painting behind him, stalking a lamb. I swallow hard, pulse racing, legs still spread, wetness gathering between them.

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