Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(10)

“Well, they’re signifying something,” she grumbles.

“They signify my superiority,” I say, really, really committing.

She furrows her pretty brows. She is liking this less and less. Maybe these things won’t work as part of a diabolical plan to bring Max Hilton to his knees, but they certainly work as a Sienna Carlisle annoyance device. “That’s not the word I was thinking.”

I’m all smiles and utter conviction in my role. If there’s one thing you learn as an actress, it’s that the show must go on, but I so wish I could rip off the sequins and rhinestones and glam eyelashes. “I’m the top cat now. I’m the queen of the cats.”

There’s this little pep talk in the alpha-signaling section of Max’s book where he talks about how difficult it is to stand out from the herd. “When you alpha-signal, it’s not just about looking amazing, it’s also about communicating that you have enough personal power to pull off a bold look. The more you own your look, the more power you communicate,” he writes.

Thinking about that passage comforts me, which is ironic on about five different levels.

“What if I want to be queen?” Sienna asks.

“Too bad,” I say. “There can only be one queen.”

She laughs, like it’s all a big joke. “I can’t believe you’re going to deliver in that.”

“Watch and weep,” I say, though actually, I’m the one liable to weep, considering I’ll be delivering a sandwich to my legendary rival dressed as the most ridiculous cat of all the cats.

What have I done?

Our sector driver, Rollins, comes around to the back of the truck. He gives me a startled look, then starts pulling out carts.

Meow Squad delivers food-truck food to people in office towers and residential high-rises throughout Manhattan. The stuff gets ordered and paid for through an app. We’re a well-oiled network of food dispersal—people in cat costumes whose job it is to wait in line and bring food to drivers like Rollins, who assemble the carts and bring them us runner cats, and us runner cats who do the deliveries.

Our high-style carts are more tall than wide, all the better to fit into crowded elevators. They’re made of brushed stainless steel with the orange Meow Squad logo on the sides and hot and cold insulation compartments. We’re adding new buildings and new cats all the time.

Rollins lifts my cart out of the back and onto the pavement, turning the handle to me with a nervous smile.

Rollins is a sweet, na?ve farm boy who grew up in the rural hinterlands of some western state, and then came to the city as part of a really religious production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

He thinks tattoos and facial piercings are Satanic and says nerdy things like, We give 110 percent of ourselves in every rehearsal! We’re all kind of shocked he’s lasted this long in the city.

We go through our carts, checking our condiments and chips stash.

“This is going to be great,” I say to nobody in particular, trying to exude personal power. “I’m the ultimate delivery cat. And the ending meow? I’ve got something better.”

That gets Sienna’s attention. We delivery cats are supposed to say meow after each delivery. It’s a fire-able offense not to say it. Most of us say it to the tune of thank you. It sounds least dorky that way.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

I mimic putting down a meal, then I put my hands on my hips and strike a pose, focused on channeling personal power. “Meowwwwww!” I say, all style and moxie.

My co-workers just look stunned.

Rollins barks out a laugh.

Okay, I’m officially ridiculous. I can’t even meet his eyes. What a dork I am. When I turn back to him, he has this odd look on his face. Have I finally put poor, wholesome, wide-eyed Rollins over the edge? Is he wondering how he can switch with another driver? Or just go back West?

“Cat got your tongue?” I say. Because if he has something to say, I just want it out there.

“It’s just that…” Long pause.

“What?” I press.

He starts to say five different things and then stops himself each time, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Then he says, simply, “You’re gonna kill with tips out there.”

I blink. “You think?”

He nods. “Queen of the cats. You know you are.”

I grin. I just want to hug him.

In fact, Rollins turns out to be right. My first two towers have been on my route forever, but when I appear as a fabulous alpha cat, people sit up and take notice. They smile. They engage with me more. They give me compliments and say things like, New ears? New boots?

I play up the queen thing, strutting around and having fun. When they ask me about the change, I say things like, I’ve decorated my outfit because I’m the most wonderful delivery cat ever, or, I’ve declared myself queen of the delivery cats.

My tips go through the roof.

I’m stunned. The more I work it, the higher the tips.

I’m back out at noon getting the cart for Maximillion Plaza.

I’m checking the order on my Meow Pad, which is an iPad that they decided they needed an embarrassing name for, and enter the cart number to check the roster. And there it is. An order for a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich. Twenty-fifth floor. No office number.