Page 1 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

CHAPTER ONE

Emily

The last time I wore orange, I was six years old and convinced I was a tiger. And between you and me, I was kind of badass. Now, at twenty-two, I look like a traffic cone that someone has hit repeatedly, thanks to the neon polyester of my Little Caesars uniform.

The wind slices through my thin uniform. I curse, remembering how I assured my mother that New York would be different. I have a plan, I told her, clutching my degree like a winning lottery ticket. Turns out, having a plan and having a good plan are two very different things.

So here I am, dressed like an orange nightmare, with my butt frozen and my nose redder than Rudolph’s.

Though I’ve looked worse. The chicken costume I wore advertising wings at El Pollo Loco still haunts me. The feathers got everywhere, including places feathers should never, ever be. Like, think about it for a second. Feathers, there. Yeah.

They fired me before my first week ended. No surprise. The manager found me in the parking lot trying to pluck myself. Not my finest moment.

If my mom could see me now, she’d ask when I’m going to get a real job. As if I haven’t been asking myself the same question.

Five more blocks. Five more blocks and then I can take this stupid uniform off and maybe, just maybe, treat myself to a hot shower. If my water heater works today. Big if.

With this comforting image, I twist the accelerator and continue down Madison Avenue. The streets lie almost deserted because of the incoming blizzard, but the rich snobs on the Upper East Side still want their pizza. They don’t care about delivery people, even in January, for fuck’s sake.

Why are they ordering pizza from Little Caesars anyway? I’d never order from a place like this if I could afford an apartment in Manhattan’s most expensive areas. I’d have my own chef and eat delicious gourmet dishes every night.

Stupid rich people.

With a sigh, I speed up. Speed limits be damned tonight. Not that this scooter can go very fast. At least I have transportation, even if only during my shift. But if I get a good tip on this last delivery, I’ll go home on the subway. Otherwise, I’ll walk from the pizza place to my apartment in East Harlem. Five blocks on foot, in January, at night, in New York City.

I’m screwed.

I approach an intersection. The light’s red, but the street’s empty, and I need to get this damn pizza delivered on time. So I floor it. Naturally, at that precise moment, a car appears out of nowhere. I jerk the handlebars and swerve, avoiding a crash into the door of the expensive SUV and becoming a meatball squished against the window. My heart thuds against my ribs as death by a luxury vehicle passes me by.

The driver honks.Look where you’re going, stupid bitch!Or at least, that’s what I would have said if I were the driver.

Under other circumstances, I might apologize, but I need that tip. So I turn my back on the black SUV and putt-putt away.

The cold makes my eyes water, and the scooter tires skid on the icy road. My fingers go numb on the handlebars. Then, just as I reach my destination, two small yellow eyes appear out of the darkness right in front of me.

I scream at the shadowy form, but it’s useless since the beast doesn’t move. Instead, it sits in the middle of the street, licking its paw. I’m going too fast, and when I brake, I lose control and skid.

I lose balance, and the world spins in a blur of orange, white, and black. I hit the ground hard. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs with a painful whoosh. The scooter lands partially on my leg, and pain shoots through my knee. A large rip shows in my uniform pants, with what I suspect is a nasty cut underneath.

My body pulses with pain, but my helmet protected my head. I’m alive, but the cat is nowhere in sight. I can’t have another death on my conscience when I’m already haunted by ten goldfish.

Tears prick my eyes. I didn’t want to kill him. I’m not an animal-hater! They’re the ones who hate me.

Still on the ground, I sob. And then I hear it.

A little meow behind my head. Mocking. Contemptuous. The stupid cat taunts me while I lie here, bruised and bleeding.

I scream like someone possessed. I have to deliver this pizza if I want to keep my job.

But the pizza box has opened, spilling its contents onto the icy New York streets. If I move fast enough, I can shove it back into the box with no one noticing the bell peppers’ coating of asphalt.

Slowly and painfully, I push the scooter off my leg. I can’t feel my toes, but that’s probably the cold rather than the accident. As I prepare to stand, the idiot cat sits on top of the pizza, licking the cheese off it while its muzzle turns bright red from tomato sauce.

I’m well and truly fucked.

Superman, where are you when I need you?

As if by magic, light suddenly bathes me. A post-Christmas miracle? Through the halo of headlights, a figure approaches. The falling snow catches the light, creating a shimmering curtain around the silhouette. I squint through the glare. Brakes sound, followed by a car door slamming. I blink, and my jaw drops.

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