Except not for me, because now I have to deal with my brother for the third time in three days. Being forced to go to the funeral for a father whose only real role in my life was to foot the bill for my Ivy League education, and now this stupid meeting for a company I have no interest in, led me to the bar last night.

I remember the bottle of Walker, ignoring two flashy women who looked like they had an agenda, and then possibly getting shot down by a woman who may have been hot, or the booze goggles had been thick. Who knows? I hug the garbage can and close my eyes, breathing through the urge to hurl.

Memories return in sporadic flashes. Getting off my stool and nearly falling over. A pair of black heels, not Louboutins either since they were missing the red sole women usually favor. Long legs. A black dress. Conservative but still feminine and sexy.

Did I bring a woman up to the penthouse? My pants were already undone this morning, so it’s possible. It would’ve been a train wreck of an experience, though. I doubt I had the coordination or the ability to string together a coherent sentence, let alone manage sex, considering how foggy everything is. I check my wallet, all my cards are in there and so is my cash, so I didn’t get taken for a ride.

I put my phone on silent and close my eyes. I spend the rest of the trip half asleep. The worst of the nausea seems to have passed. At least until the stench of New York exhaust and sewers assault me as the driver opens my door.

I lose my protective hold on my garbage can as I enter the building, and it clatters to the floor. A huge clang echoes off the marble everything, bringing back the throb in my head. It also startles the receptionist behind her desk and the security guard.

“That was loud,” I say to no one in particular.

The security guard takes a cautious step forward. “I’ll need to see some identification, sir.” He’s older, probably in his seventies, well past retirement. His nametag reads BOB. I wonder how many years he’s wasted here, doing this thankless job in the pit of my family’s personal merry-go-round of hell. Bob looks familiar, but his name is common, and it’s probably because anyone who’s spent their entire life in a place like this has the same pale, washed-out look about them, along with thinning, graying hair.

“What?”

“Your identification, sir.” He looks me up and down, as if I don’t belong here. Which I don’t. I’m wearing a pair of wrinkled, beat-up jeans and an equally wrinkled T-shirt. My running shoes have holes where my socked toe pokes through.

I motion to my face. “Imagine me without the beard, except thirty years older.” Apart from eye and hair color, I look like my father, which is the biggest genetic insult in the world. My father has the face of a cheat and a liar, because he is one. Was one.

At his frown, I sigh. “I’m the son of the prick who used to run this place and the brother of the one who does now.”

The furrow in his eyebrows deepens and then suddenly lifts. “Lincoln?”

“Yeah. I’m late for a meeting, pretty sure there’s a state of emergency over it considering the number of times my phone has rang this morning.” I wish I’d worn a baseball cap. The lights in here are making my head pound and my stomach roll again.

“I haven’t seen you in more than a decade. I’m so sorry about your father.”

“I’m not. He was an awful human being. The world’s a better place without him.”

He seems shocked for a moment, eyes darting around to make sure no one else is listening, but every single person within earshot suddenly looks away, indicating my less-than-appropriate comment regarding my father’s death has been heard by everyone.

Whatever. It’s the truth, and they all know it. “Anyway, I gotta head to the seventh circle of hell, whatever floor that’s on.”

“I’ll get your pass, Mr. Moorehead.”

“It’s just Linc, and thanks.”

A pass magically appears, and Bob presses the button because clearly I’m incapable of managing simple tasks, either that or he’s treating me like this because he believes it’s necessary to keep his job. Either way, it irks me. Everything about being here does that, though.

The elevator arrives and I get in, staring at the buttons, not sure where exactly the seventh circle of hell is. Thankfully Bob reaches inside, presses the button for the twenty-seventh floor, gives me a somber nod, and steps out of the elevator.

The doors slide closed, and as soon as the elevator starts to move, I wish I still had my garbage can. Thankfully, no one gets on and the trip is blissfully quick, albeit queasy. The twenty-seventh floor of Moorehead Media is a boring, sterile office space. A blond woman with lipstick the color of death wears a fake smile as I step out of the elevator and approach her desk.