Considering Moorehead is a good thirty-minute cab ride away with the rush-hour traffic, I’m already going to be half an hour late, and that’s if I roll out of bed and into a cab. Based on the way my head feels, it’s going to take me a while to get moving.

I groan as my phone rings again. This is the one and only time I’m going to grace the brainless drones at Moorehead with my presence. I don’t get why I can’t be a silent partner. I’d sell my shares if it meant getting away from my useless, bag-of-dicks family.

I’m hoping we can get through whatever paperwork is necessary quickly, so I can get on a plane and out of New York by the end of the week. I’ve only been here for forty-eight hours, and I already want to commit seven different kinds of murder.

Blinking away the knives in my eyeballs, I note the tumbler of water and two painkillers on the nightstand. I must’ve been on the ball when I dragged myself up here from the bar. Although I have zero memory of that.

It’s not even my place. My cousin’s family owns the building, and he’s away for the next few months, so he gave me the go-ahead to stay in his penthouse. He flew in yesterday morning for the funeral and then took a flight out last night. I wish I’d had the option to go with him. It would be a lot better than being here.

I sit up and throw my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. I’m still wearing one shoe. The room spins, and my stomach twists then somersaults. It takes several long moments for the nausea to pass. Once it does, I take the painkillers and down the water.

My phone rings for the millionth time. I stab at the screen and put it on speaker. “What?”

Silence follows—a long silence—before a woman finally answers. “Your car is waiting for you, Mr. Moorehead, and has been for forty-five minutes.”

“Well, it’s gonna have to wait a little longer.” I end the call and scrub a hand over my face. I feel like garbage. My mouth tastes like I ate from a sewer, and my head is full of cotton. I also need to take a leak. And possibly vomit. Hopefully not at the same time.

I drag myself to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror—yeah, I’ve seen better days. It appears I slept fully dressed. I’m a mess. I strip out of my rumpled suit and get in the shower, where I puke. And puke some more. I manage to wash myself, sort of, and towel off.

I find a pair of discarded jeans and a T-shirt draped over the lounger thing in the corner of the bedroom and struggle into those. I have to lie down for five minutes when the room starts spinning and the post-booze sweats hit.

Eventually I sit up, but it takes another five minutes of breathing through the waves of nausea before I can do anything else, like stand. I gather my hair up in a half-assed man bun—nope couldn’t be bothered to get it cut or shave my beard for the funeral—brush my teeth and almost throw up again thanks to the strong mint flavor.

I pocket my phone and check to make sure I have my wallet on my way out the door. As an afterthought, I go back for the trashcan I had the foresight to put beside my bed and head for the elevator. I almost hurl again on the way down.

It’s nine o’clock by the time I get in the car. The subway is out based on the way my stomach is rolling. We sit in traffic for what I predicted to be a half hour, and the entire time my phone rings. But I don’t answer. I’m late. The world isn’t going to end.

I try to piece together last night. The funeral was in the afternoon. What a shitshow. Hundreds of people showed up to pay their respects. From what I observed, it was more of an opportunity to network and figure out what was going to happen to Moorehead Media. Surprisingly, there didn’t seem to be a whole pile of his mistresses in attendance.

My mother sat in the front pew, dabbing her dry eyes, possibly to make it look like she was crying. She hasn’t slept in the same room as my father since I was a child, so any tears she sheds will likely result from knowing not all the money will go to her. My jackoff younger brother, Armstrong, sat beside her, probably scouting the room for his next conquest.

He got married a while back. For all of twelve hours. He was caught being blown by one of the guests, and it had been broadcast to the entire reception hall. Idiot. Thankfully I missed that event, and his ex-wife, if twelve hours of marriage even warrants that title, is now engaged to my cousin Lexington. It’s a bit like a soap opera, but they seem happy together, and Armstrong seems miserable and clueless as usual, so all is right with the world there.