Connor raked his long fingers through his dark blonde hair, loosening his skinny tie as he sat at the bar with Liam. Their sleepy eyes surveyed the room at The Strathorne Hotel in TriBeCa. The premiere after-party had ended about an hour ago but there were still several handfuls of beautiful people lingering. The stragglers included a disproportionate number of gorgeous women in their twenties and thirties, which had Connor suspecting that they were waiting to approach him and Liam. That was usually how it went.

Finishing his drink, he slid his rocks glass across the bar. “That was horrible,” he said, his voice gravelly after four scotches.

“It was a bad movie,” Liam agreed.

“Why did people even like it?”

“‘Like’ is an understatement. It’s at ninety-six percent on Rotten Tomatoes.”

“That’s mindblowing.”

“People love movies about robbing casinos.”

“I know but this one was the same as the last casino-robbing movie. And the one before that.”

“I know.”

“It was just bad. Who wrote that piece of shit, anyway?”

Liam looked into his glass of whiskey before drinking. “You did.”

Connor stared out blankly at the room. “Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, taking comfort in the sight of a leggy brunette in a black leather mini. He didn’t avert his gaze when she eyed him with a sultry look she’d probably practiced in a mirror. Connor reached for his empty scotch glass, shaking the ice. “Best part is,” he downed the diluted scotch, “I have to write a fucking sequel. To a movie called The Last Heist.”

Liam feigned shock. “So that wasn’t the last heist, you lying son of a bitch.”

Connor snorted. There was nothing else he could do. He was getting drunk at his own premiere with his favorite Hollywood actor and best friend of fourteen years, Liam Brody, because he could feel his own impending doom. He had signed the contract to write The Last Heist and, depending on its success, a sequel, because after eight years of working in the industry and busting his ass to win awards with small productions, he was finally ready for a massive paycheck. And The Last Heist gave him exactly that. With that paycheck, he purchased a two-bedroom duplex in Chelsea, a complete renovation of his old Doyers Street apartment – which he would use as a massive storage space for his books, bikes and snowboards – and an iconic SoHo tavern that had closed down last summer. He and Liam had put the money down together, hoping to spend this summer rebuilding the place by hand.

But now Connor had to write the second last heist and considering the lack of material and the fact that the star-studded cast was not returning, he sensed his first flop on the way. The kind of flop that would make the remainder of his multi-million dollar contract completely not worth it. Not for his pride. He loved money but he had worked hard for his early success and stellar reputation. He regarded his career like his baby. Save from Liam and his parents, he loved that baby more than anything in the whole world.

And now it was doomed to suffer. Connor could feel himself needing comfort in the form of another scotch.

“Hi, Mr. Schaffer.”

A flirtatious voice interrupted his melancholy. Connor lifted his gaze to see that leggy brunette standing before him and Liam.

Eh, maybe he didn’t need that fifth scotch after all.

“Hi,” he said as his eyes traveled across her hips, which stretched the leather of her mini dress so tight that it was a miracle she could walk. Connor set his glass down for a second time, feeling the warm buzz of the Laphroiag traveling up to his temples. He let his eyes wander about the girl for a bit before returning her gaze. “Connor’s fine.”

She smiled, having expected that response. “I’m Willa. It’s such an honor to meet you, Connor. I’m a huge fan of your work.” She batted her eyelashes over toward Liam. “And yours too. I loved A Soldier. You couldn’t have deserved that Oscar more.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Liam said with a polite smile before turning to his phone. Connor wanted to smack it onto the floor. Had this been a couple years ago, he and Liam would be jockeying for the same girl, trading smart jabs until her friend came along because there was always a friend.

“My roommate is actually such a huge fan of yours, Liam,” Willa said, nodding behind her at a tall, tanned blonde in a short, white dress. That combination was one that once brought the most lecherous beast out of Liam but tonight, his dark eyes didn’t even flicker when he looked up. All he did was offer a polite smile.

“That’s very flattering,” he said genuinely. “Please tell her I say hi,” he added before gathering his tie and jacket from another chair.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving,” Connor flashed a look of disbelief.

“My friend would really love to meet you,” Willa purred, the undertones of her voice suggesting a little beyond just meeting. Connor flashed his eyebrows at Liam, a devilish smiling curving his lips. Liam laughed.

“My fiancé’s waiting for me at home,” he said, laughing harder when Connor pretended to twitch at the word “fiancé.”

“What was that?” Willa teased, sliding her hand up Connor’s arm as he pulled her close by her waist.

Liam shrugged his jacket on. “He has allergic reactions to the idea commitment.”

“That’s not true. My last relationship lasted five whole months.”

“Impressive,” Willa humored him. Connor grinned, watching his own hand as he let it run down the perfect curve of her hip. His eyelids grew heavier as she slid it backward until he cupped her ass. Yeah, it was probably time to go.

“Alright, brother, I’m out,” Liam laughed, giving a half salute before getting the hell away from the imminent hookup. Once he was gone, Connor looked up at Willa’s opaque green eyes. Colored contacts. Kind of weird but whatever. Connor knew he’d soon forget the turnoff, especially with the blonde friend sauntering over in her little white dress. She introduced herself to Connor but he promptly forgot her name. Not that it mattered. They were leaving soon anyway.

“In case you were wondering,” Willa stroked his tie, “you don’t have to worry about commitment tonight.”

Connor laughed as he stood and felt her hand wander briefly downward. “Yeah, I had a feeling.”

With that, he, Willa and her friend headed for the exit. But just as they reached the door, a familiar face stopped them.

“Just a minute, Schaffer.”

Connor’s grey eyes blinked, slowly processing the icon standing before him with his famous silver-streaked hair, white-framed glasses and massive veneers. It was Russell Cohan. In his mid-fifties, the guy could still wear the hell out of a Givenchy suit and printed pocket square. His fake tan was a bit of an eyesore, but as a Hollywood giant who’d reigned supreme since Connor was eight, he could pretty much get away with it. Under normal circumstances, even Connor would be taken by Russell’s kind of industry royalty, but tonight, he was one scotch past the point of having normal reactions.

“Don’t call a car just yet,” Russell smirked, taking Connor’s phone from his hand and slipping it into his own pocket. “Ladies, give us a minute.” Connor couldn’t help but groan a little as his two beauties excused themselves elsewhere.

“You’re killing me, Cohan.”

Russell laughed, flashing his oversized teeth. “I know you think you need to drown your sorrows in some twenty-two-year-old models right now but I’ve got a solution that will actually help instead of just numbing the pain.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t make it to your premiere tonight. But I heard your movie was good, in a generic, over-the-top, unrealistic way.”

“Thanks.”

“I also know you don’t want to write the sequel since it’ll be a guaranteed howling trash fire.”

Connor rubbed his eyes, blinking into the bright lights. “What’s this conversation about again?”

“I can help you.”

“How?”

Russell flagged a server, who brought a glass of water. Russell handed it over. “Maybe you’re too drunk to remember this but I’m Russell Cohan. I can do anything.”

“I won’t argue that,” Connor said, gazing across the room at Willa and her friend, who eyed him while cozying up together on a single chair. The hems of their already short dresses were riding up in a way that made Connor tug on his lower lip. God, he wanted this conversation to be done already.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Russell chuckled. “I can get you out of your contract with the studio, Connor. You know that’s impossible but I can nix that sequel for you if you want me to.”

Say whaaat? Connor’s bleary eyes turned back to Russell. The mere suggestion of being contract-free was getting him hard. Or maybe it was a combination of things. “Why would you do that for me?” he asked.

“Because you would do something for me in return.”

“Obviously, but what’s that?”

Russell flashed those impossibly white veneers again before laying down the terms of his offer. Connor listened more carefully than he thought he could for someone who was essentially trashed.

“Think it over a bit and call me when you’re ready to accept,” Russell said, returning Connor’s phone and handing over his own card along with it. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

Connor plucked the phone and card from Russell’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Talk to you soon.”

As Russell walked off, Connor watched the girls return to him, hand-in-hand with more mischief in their eyes than before. He ran his thumb over the embossed letters of the heavy business card before slipping it into his pocket, a grin spreading his lips as he let both girls follow him into the lobby.

Forget the car. It had just become a night for champagne and room service.