“Sorry, just doing my job.” She pauses. “This is the third time you’ve come in here hungover. ” Concern colors her hazel eyes. “Why are you wasting our time if you keep repeating the same behavior?” She loudly pops her gum.

I asked myself the very same question right before I showed up here. The answer is I want to feed myself false hope that I’m getting better. For six months, I’ve been coming here once a week—sometimes twice depending on my work schedule—trying to get help for my anger issues and the shit-ton of other issues I have.

Realization hits me—I’m a broken wheel on its way to destruction. All I want to do is get fucked up. Jack Daniel and tequila have been my best friends since I was sixteen years old, but my drinking has been heavier than usual. I’d give up my left nut for a drop of alcohol right now.

My life consists of pussy, alcohol, and work.

Repeat.

But I know I can’t keep living my life like this. Especially after last week when I almost got a DWI. When a female cop pulled me over and asked me to blow into a breathalyzer, I clutched my dick, shook it at her, and told her to blow. Her answer was to slap handcuffs on my wrists, and I ended up spending the night in the slammer. Luckily, my friend, Logan, a criminal lawyer, got me off the hook. Whatever illegal shit he did, I didn’t care. We work on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, so if shit hits the fan and he gets caught, I won’t be incriminated for it.

“You know why I’m here.” My tone is still flat.

We both know I’m not talking about my drinking problem or my anger issue.

“I can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.”

“Point taken,” I say, stand from the couch, straighten out my Tom Ford black slacks, and stroll to the door. She grabs the disinfectant spray from her desk to spray the couch.

“I’ll see you next Friday. Be on time, please.”

I nod before the door clicks closed behind me.

* * *

Underwood Banking is in the middle of the Financial District next to Wall Street. Powerful men who shit more money than the US average salary pace up and down the sidewalk with their cell phones glued to their faces. By the time I swagger through the revolving doors of the thirty-story beige brick building with my last name attached, the pounding in my head has stopped and everything isn’t as loud. I tilt my head to Dexter and Waldo, both wearing navy-blue suits with wires linked to their ears, and they straighten their backs and nod in return. They know better than to ask me to empty out my pockets and show my work badge before entering.