I’d been standing in Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was dead. It was shocking that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was always so healthy and full of life.
Gwendolyn, his wife—now a widow—stood stoic behind his desk, papers stacked neatly in the center.
“I’m so very for your loss, Gwendolyn. If there’s anything I can do. Whatever you need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant because I couldn’t imagine how my mother and I would feel if we lost my father.
Gwendolyn’s fingers danced at her throat as she cleared it. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your kindness, Wren.”
“Let me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.”
She took a deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine. “I need your help.”
“Of course, what can I do?”
“My oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the funeral, and he’ll be staying to help run the company.”
A hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Everything from Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references had been with fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as it was Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln through her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how difficult Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone else, particularly his brother.
“Transitioning Lincoln.” Gwendolyn rounded her desk. “You’ve managed to turn around Armstrong’s reputation in the media during the time you’ve been here. I know it hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be difficult to manage.”
Difficult to manage is the understatement of the entire century where Armstrong is concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic proportions. He’s also a misogynistic, narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to deal with for the past eight months on a nearly daily basis—sometimes even on weekends.
My job as his “handler” has been to reshape his horrendous reputation after his involvement in several scandalous events became very public. It wasn’t a job I necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject the offer, but my mother asked me to take the position as a favor to her since she’s a friend of Gwendolyn.
Beyond that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past decade. When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our relationship forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of trying to help repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which was ridiculously high, also didn’t hurt. Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly every single charitable foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my interests lie, it seemed like a smart career move.
“Since you’re already working with Armstrong and things seem to be settled there for the most part, I felt it would make sense to keep you on here at Moorehead to work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for several years. He’s nothing like his brother, very altruistic and focused on his job, rather than recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.”
I fought a scoff at the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a reference to the fact that Armstrong couldn’t seem to keep his pants zipped when it came to women.
Gwendolyn pushed a set of papers toward me. “It would only be for another six months. And of course, your salary would reflect the double work load, since you’ll still have to maintain Armstrong in some capacity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.”
“I’m sorry, what—”
Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she stepped back. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your willingness to take this on. As soon as your contract is fulfilled, you have my word that I’ll give you a glowing recommendation to whichever organization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in starting your own foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if you’ll stay on a little longer for me.” She dabbed at the corner of her eyes and sniffed, then tapped the papers on the desk. “I already have an agreement ready and an NDA, of course. Everything is tabbed for signing.”
I’m pulled back into the present when Lincoln shifts and one of his huge hands slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he pushes his nose against my neck, beard tickling my collarbone. He mutters something unintelligible against my skin.
I’m momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee him in the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi-aware that he’s fondling me. Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room.
I elbow him in the ribs, which probably hurts me more than it does him. At least it gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I roll off the bed and pop back up, smoothing out my now-wrinkled dress. My stupid nipples are perky, thanks to the attention the right one just got. Probably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since I started working for the Mooreheads eight months ago.
I hit the lights on the way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on the counter. It’s a list of important details regarding the penthouse, including the entry code. I nab my purse, snap a pic, and head for the elevators.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long six months.
CHAPTER 2
STILL SCREWING ME, EVEN FROM THE GRAVE
LINCOLN
It feels like a million tiny elves are trying to hammer their way out of my skull. Fucking scotch whiskey hybrids. Fucking stupid funeral. So much inconvenience.
That sounds assholey, even in my head.
That’s what being near my family does to me; it turns me into one of them.
My alarm goes off for the hundredth time. And my phone rings. Again.
I’ve been hitting snooze and ignoring calls since seven.
I peek out from under my pillow to check the clock. The slice of light filtering through the curtains makes it feel like someone is trying to stab out my eyeballs with sunbeams. I’m really damn hungover.
It’s approaching eight thirty, which incidentally is when I’m supposed to be at Moorehead Media for a mandatory meeting. We’re reviewing my father’s will and a bunch of other BS I have no interest in dealing with.
I haven’t set foot in that office since I graduated from Harvard. My father wanted me to come work with him. Since the only thing he’d done for me was put me through school, I didn’t feel any kind of obligation to follow in his footsteps. Especially since his footsteps were full of infidelity and absentee parenting.
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.
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.
Her eyes move over me, that smile wavering, but she manages to keep it in place, which is commendable. “How ca
n I help you, Mr.…” She lets the question hang.
“I’m late for a meeting.”
She blinks a few times. She has to be wearing fake lashes. No one’s eyelashes are that thick or long if they’re not fake. “And who do you have a meeting with, Mr.…” Again she waits for me to introduce myself.
“I have no idea. I assume it’s with whatever pompous douches sit around a conference table and circle jerk each other.”
Her right eye twitches, and she blinks about fifty times in a row.
This is fun, a lot more fun than the meeting I’m going to have to sit through. Hopefully they’ve started without me. I’m late enough that there’s a possibility it’ll be over by the time I arrive and all I’ll have to do is sign a few papers. Then maybe I can book a flight out of this concrete hellhole.
Her right hand moves slowly across the desk. I bet she thinks I’m some whack job who managed to get by security.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I nod to her hand creeping toward the phone like a five-legged spider.
She raises it in the air. “Please don’t hurt me. You can have whatever money I have in my purse.”
I bark out a laugh that makes me sound unhinged, although this building will do that to a person. “I’m Lincoln Moorehead, son of the guy who used to run this nightmare. If you’d be so kind as to point me in the direction of my shit stick of a brother and his team of lemmings, that’d be great.”
“Oh my God. Mr. Moorehead. I didn’t know you were on your way up. Security usually calls.” The phone on her desk rings.
“That might be security now. Go ahead and answer it. I can wait.”
I lean on the desk while she picks up the phone with her perfectly manicured nails, hand shaking. I almost feel bad, but then she’s one of my father’s drones, so I get over it pretty quickly.
“Moorehead Media, Lulu speaking, how may I help you?” She’s silent for a moment. “Yes. He has arrived. Thank you, Bob.” She hangs up the phone and gives me a wide-eyed, terrified smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Moorehead.”
Handle with Care Page 2
