"Finally," Vinny said, leaning back against the leather seat. "No more scripts."
Drama turned around from the passenger seat, eyebrows raised. "So you're just done reading now?"
Vinny nodded without hesitation. "I confirmed the movie. I don't need to read anything else unless I feel like it. Do you know how many awful roles I've been pitched this year?"One guy wanted me to play a haunted closet.
Samuel blinked. "Like… an actual closet?"
"Yup."
Turtle burst out laughing from behind the wheel. "Hollywood's cooked, bro. Straight-up scorched."
Vinny stretched and smiled to himself. "Not tonight. Tonight's about real talent. This kid gave me the script I didn't even know I was waiting for."
Samuel said nothing, watching the road ahead as the SUV pulled off the main drag. The vehicle dipped into a private drive lined with thick palms and elegant lighting. The sign outside the beach club was barely visible—gold, discreet, no name. The kind of place that didn't need to announce itself.
Then the lights hit.
The moment they reached the valet loop, camera flashes exploded against the dark like fireworks. Dozens of paparazzi were already gathered, lenses aimed, voices raised. Names were shouted over one another in a chaotic chorus.
"Vinny! Who are you with tonight?"
"Ari, who's backing the new film? Is it Warner or Paramount?"
Drama hopped out first and threw a pose like he was stepping onto a red carpet. Vinny followed, slipping on sunglasses he didn't need just for the effect. Ari was already outside, yelling into his phone and waving off questions with practiced irritation.
Samuel stayed seated.
None of those lights were for him, and yet, just being inside the blast radius felt surreal. The noise, the rush of exposure—it was overwhelming in a way he hadn't expected. He'd seen this kind of thing on screens, never from the backseat of the car being swarmed.
E remained next to him, calm and unreadable. He looked out at the photographers without flinching. "They wait here every night. Not even for us. They just hope Leo or Kanye drops in."
Samuel leaned toward the window, squinting at the strobe-lit chaos. "Weird seeing it up close."
"You get used to it. This spot always draws a crowd. Old clients, studio heads. The press knows which places are worth staking out. You learn where the cameras are, where they're not."
Samuel nodded, more to himself than anyone else. "Feels like I walked into someone else's life and forgot how to get out."
E looked over and gave the smallest of smiles. "Welcome to the ride."
They stepped out together. Most of the noise had already shifted back toward Ari and Vinny. Drama stood near the entrance pretending to fix his collar like someone had asked for a photoshoot. Samuel lowered his head and followed the others inside.
As soon as the doors shut behind them, the atmosphere changed completely.
The volume dropped. Warm, golden light filled the lounge, casting smooth shadows over velvet chairs and sleek marble. Music played low in the background—soft jazz and ambient beats that blended with the sound of conversation and clinking glasses.
This wasn't a place where people tried to be famous. It was a place where they already were.
To Samuel's left, Miranda Kerr was half-laughing on a velvet couch beside a man dressed like a runway model. To the right, he caught sight of a chart-topping singer from the radio, lounging with the relaxed ease of someone who'd grown up under a spotlight.
Jessica Alba walked past them near the front, and when she spotted Vinny, she stopped to touch his arm and whispered something that made him grin like it happened all the time.
Samuel stayed quiet, letting it all wash over him. A passing thought crossed his mind: if paparazzi came with perks like that, maybe Vinny didn't have much to complain about.
They walked further in, past polished wood and brushed metal, past familiar faces he couldn't name. Not until the bar.
The noise there wasn't louder, just denser. Overlapping voices created a low, continuous hum. No one yelled. No one postured. The luxury was casual, lived-in.
Samuel slowed his pace.
In a booth near the far corner, a bald man in a slightly wrinkled blazer leaned forward, whispering something to his companion. The man next to him—unkempt, unshaven, slouched in a crumpled black button-down—looked like he hadn't changed clothes or opinions in days. There was a ragged sharpness to him, the kind that didn't come from age but from years of self-inflicted damage. Sleeves half-rolled, collar wilted, he sat like bitterness had permanently shaped his spine.
He was ranting softly, voice hoarse—gravel dragged through whiskey. The kind of voice that used sarcasm like punctuation and defeat like breath.
"Every asshole in this city thinks they're the main character. That's the problem."
No one at the bar flinched. The bartender barely glanced up. Just kept polishing a glass, like he'd heard worse on quieter nights.
Samuel slowed as he passed. The words were familiar—too familiar. Not just the tone, but the cadence. Like a typewriter given a throat.
Then he saw the man clearly. And it hit.
Of course it was him.
He recognized the face first. Then the posture. Then the human anxiety attack sitting next to him.
Hank Moody.
And beside him—what was his name again? Runkle? Funkle? Bunkle? Something that sounded like a Muppet. Samuel couldn't remember. Just that every season of that man's life seemed to spiral further downhill, like God was writing his arc with a grudge. And somehow, despite it all, his ex-wife still loved him.
That sealed it.
Of course it was them. Of course they were real. And of course they were at the bar. Where else would you run into the king of literary burnout and the world's most exhausted agent?
Samuel slowed, watching them from a few feet away. He could've walked on. Left them to their booze and bitterness.
But something about it—about him—was too ridiculous to ignore.
He drifted closer, pacing behind the booth like he belonged there, and let the words fly just to see what would happen.
"Can't argue with that."
The man turned, slowly. First the eyes, then the tilt of the head. Bloodshot. Sharp. Sizing him up.
"Jesus," he muttered. "What are you, twelve?"
Samuel opened his mouth—maybe to explain, maybe to lie—but didn't get the chance.
"You famous or something?" the man cut in. "They letting Disney stars into bars now?"
Samuel blinked, half a breath from answering.
The man waved his glass like it was a remote and the world was on mute. "Christ. My daughter's your age. She's with my ex-wife tonight. Probably watching some G-rated nightmare with her new boyfriend."
He took a sip, then muttered almost to himself, "You know what kills a man faster than whiskey? Watching another guy raise your kid."
There was no bitterness in the delivery—just a quiet, worn-out kind of exhaustion.
Samuel hesitated, unsure if this was a conversation or a monologue he'd wandered into.
But something about the rant… the way Hank spoke like regret hadn't calcified into bitterness yet—like he was still trying to hold the world off with a scowl and a sentence—it told Samuel this had to be before everything.Before the scandal with the underage girl.Before the monkey incident.Before the jail time, lawsuits, and tabloid years.
This was still Hank Moody with damage, but not yet wreckage.
He looked older than Samuel remembered, but not hollow. Still had sharp eyes and a voice like gravel and gasoline. A man who hadn't hit bottom yet—just started digging.
Samuel slid onto the barstool beside him, curiosity outweighing caution.
The balding man on Hank's other side turned, blinking in surprise but not alarm. "Charlie Runkle," he offered.
Samuel gave a nod. So it was Runkle.He tried not to smile but felt the smallest flicker of pride. One for the archives.
His attention stayed on Hank.
Hank didn't look impressed. "You got a name, or are you just here to remind me that youth still exists?"
Samuel didn't answer. Not because he didn't have one—just because he knew it didn't matter. Not to this guy. Hank Moody didn't care who you were unless you gave him a reason to.
Samuel leaned in slightly.
He remembered the trick. Not from life—but from watching. Episode after episode of this man unraveling, trying to hold the world together with nothing but sentences and cigarettes. There was one way in. One pressure point that always worked.
You flatter the writer. Not the drunk.
"I read your book," Samuel said, letting it land like a lifeline. "God Hates Us All."
That stopped Hank mid-sip. His head turned slowly, eyes narrowing, scanning Samuel like he was looking for a punchline.
Samuel didn't blink. He just kept going.
"It was sharp. Bitter. Honest. The kind of book that cuts too deep for most people to admit they like it."
Something flickered behind Hank's eyes. Not a smile—but something that might've been one in a past life. Like a flicker of oxygen in a long-suffocated room.
"You read that?"
Samuel nodded, smooth and casual. "Twice."
Hank blinked. "Shit."
He leaned back in his seat, recalibrating. Like the night had just taken a left turn he didn't mind. "Didn't think anyone under thirty even knew it existed."
Samuel gave a shrug, quiet and practiced. Like good taste didn't need defending. "It deserved better. The movie butchered it."
And just like that, the edge in Hank's posture softened. Not by much—but enough to let Samuel in.
Hank groaned, half-laughing. "Don't remind me. Took everything raw and real and polished it into a damn tampon ad."
"Hollywood couldn't handle how dark it was," Samuel said. "So they made it soft. Sanitized. It lost all its teeth."
Hank stared at him for a long beat, then finally nodded—slow and approving. Like someone who'd just found a cigarette behind the couch after quitting for five years.
"You might actually have a brain," he muttered.
Runkle grinned. "You just made his week."
Hank downed the rest of his drink. "Real art can't be rushed. You either get that, or you don't. Most people don't."
He gestured broadly with his empty glass. "This town eats the ones who try to fake it."
Samuel glanced around. Golden light. Flawless faces. Fame in slow motion.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Runkle tapped the bar. "He's not wrong."
Hank looked at Samuel again, a little softer. "You're not just a pretty face. You actually read. Which is more than I can say for—"
He cut himself off, eyes drifting. Spotted someone across the bar. A man in designer jeans and a jacket too tight to breathe in.
"Like that guy. Looks like he hasn't read a book since fifth grade."
Samuel smirked.
A few yards away, Turtle slowed his walk and squinted toward the bar.
"Yo," he muttered to Vinny, "is that Samuel?"
Vinny glanced over. Samuel was seated at the bar, mid-conversation with two guys they didn't recognize—one looked like he'd crawled out of a whiskey commercial, the other like he filed taxes for fun.
"He looks fine," Vinny said, though he kept looking.
"Yeah, but I dunno," Turtle said. "One of 'em's talking like he's auditioning for The Big Lebowski 2: Even Sadder."
Vinny sighed, already changing direction. "Alright, let's check it out."
They weaved through the lounge, passing actors, producers, models, and maybe a DJ or two, before finally stepping up behind Samuel.
Turtle raised a hand as they got close. "Yo, everything good over here?"
Before Samuel could answer, the seated man—Hank—spoke without turning."Can't even have a goddamn conversation at a bar in this town without someone barging in like it's their scene."
Samuel gave a dry smile. "It's fine. They're my friends."
Runkle blinked as he got a proper look at them. His expression shifted instantly—eyes widening, posture straightening like someone just handed him a briefcase and a red carpet.
"Wait—are you… Vincent Chase?"
Vinny gave a polite nod. "Yeah."
Runkle's eyes widened in slow-motion horror. "Oh no," he muttered, then quickly stepped forward like a human firewall. "I'm so sorry about Hank—he's, uh… had a long year ."
He laughed nervously and extended a hand. "Charlie Runkle. I'm his agent. I swear, he's not always like this."
It wasn't rehearsed, but it was muscle memory—damage control, the kind you develop when your client's mouth keeps trying to murder their career.
Hank raised his glass, unimpressed. "Why are you apologizing? They're the ones who barged in. I was mid-rant, not mid-crime."
Runkle leaned toward him, whispering—but not really. "That's Vincent Chase, Hank. Aquaman. Highest-grossing movie last year."
Hank turned to look, finally registering Vinny like he was a misplaced lamp. "You say that like I should care."
Turtle choked on a laugh. "You're the first guy in L.A. who doesn't."
Hank shrugged. "I don't give a shit about box office numbers. I care if someone can write a sentence that doesn't make me want to eat glass."
Vinny raised an eyebrow, half-amused. "So you're a writer?"
"I'm a fucking cautionary tale," Hank said, deadpan.
Samuel leaned forward, gesturing between them. "He's actually good. Wrote a novel that got turned into a movie. A bad one. Like, 'why did they even buy it' bad."
Runkle winced. "He still brings it up like it happened last week."
"I bring it up," Hank snapped, "because I had to sit through a test screening. You ever watch your own words die in a room full of teenagers and suburban hostages?"
Vinny raised an eyebrow. "You think actors like that part? We get blamed when a studio rips the guts out of a script."
Hank gave a dry laugh. "Actors get blamed for everything—except the paycheck. But you still cash it, don't you?"
"Only after they cut out half the character to fit a brand partnership."
That made Hank pause. He gave Vinny a longer look now, eyes narrowing—not in dismissal, but interest.
"You've been in that room too, huh?"
Vinny nodded. "Long enough to know when a project's dead before the first table read."
Hank squinted, reassessing. "Alright. You might be more than hair and cheekbones.
He took a sip, grimaced at the taste. "You probably got another one of those disasters lined up. Romcom with a psychic dog. Studio note buffet."
Vinny glanced toward Samuel, then back to Hank. "Actually… no."
He tilted his head toward Samuel again. "This guy made sure my next one doesn't suck."
There was a moment of pause.
That caught Hank mid-sip. He lowered the glass slowly, squinting at Samuel like he was seeing him for the first time.
"This kid?"
Samuel didn't flinch. He looked Hank straight in the eye. "Yes."
Runkle blinked. "Wait—what movie?"
Turtle jumped in before Samuel could speak. "Whole pirate epic. Wrote it in like two weeks. No joke—Ari's already calling studios."
Hank leaned back. Eyebrows raised. Skeptical, but curious.
"You're serious?" Hank asked the room, eyes circling back to Samuel like he was scanning for cracks in the story.
Samuel didn't blink. "I know you said real art can't be rushed, but… it was like the entire movie already played in my head."
That landed.
Hank stared at him, glass forgotten in his hand. No smirk. No sarcasm.
"Shit," he muttered, setting the drink down. "You might actually be dangerous."
Then he leaned in, voice low but razor-sharp. "So here's what you do, dangerous kid. You guard that thing—whatever it is in your head. From everyone. Producers, execs, agents with too many opinions and zero imagination. They'll smile, nod, and butcher it for lunch."
Samuel didn't flinch. He was listening now. Really listening.
Vinny gave a small nod. "He's right. This town loves taking good ideas and sanding the edges till they're bland enough to test well."
"We're still early," Samuel said. "No one's bought it. It's just us."
"Good," Hank said. "That's the best version. Before the meetings. Before the rewrites. When it still belongs to you."
Vinny glanced at Samuel. "We're being careful. Nobody's signed on as writer yet."
Runkle's ears perked. "Well, if you're still looking, Hank's your guy."
Hank let out a dry laugh. "I write books, Charlie. Stories with chapters and regret. Not three-act structures and fake tension."
Runkle shot back, "You don't write books either. You've been 'working on the next one' since Friends went off the air."
Hank turned to him, deadpan. "Yeah, and it's gonna be great when I finish page two."
Turtle cracked up.
Vinny grinned. "That sounds like a no."
"Damn right it's a no," Hank muttered, reaching for his drink again. "Last time I took a meeting, they asked if I could add a dance sequence to a divorce scene."
Samuel blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
Hank raised his glass without looking at him. "Dead serious. And not even a sad dance. They wanted upbeat."
"I wish I was kidding," Hank said. "But hey—if you can keep your vision intact, maybe there's hope for this town after all."
Vinny stood up first, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. "Alright. We're heading back to the table before Ari thinks we ditched him."
Turtle nodded and gave Hank a half-salute. "Nice meeting you, man. You're wild."
Hank raised his glass in a lazy toast. "And you're…surprisingly literate."
Vinny turned to Hank. "You'll probably get that book written soon. You've still got the venom for it."
Hank gave a begrudging smile. "Takes one to know when someone's still got something to say. Good luck with the movie. Don't let anyone sweet-talk you into compromising."
Samuel nodded. "Thanks. I won't."
Vinny and Turtle started toward the exit. Samuel turned to follow… but paused.
He glanced back at Hank—still slouched at the bar, drink in hand, that same weary defiance carved into his posture. The guy had years ahead of him to keep messing up. But maybe he didn't have to. Not all of them.
He didn't owe him anything. But still.
Samuel stepped closer, leaned in low.
"Hey. One more thing—might be smart to start checking IDs."
Hank blinked. "What?"
It took a second. He stared, frowning—then the meaning hit.
His face twisted. "Are you kidding me? Who the hell do you think I am?"
Samuel held his ground. "Someone who's drinking. Who's newly single. And might not think to ask. That's all I'm saying."
Hank opened his mouth like he was about to fire back—then stopped. His jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed.
He looked down at his drink, then off toward the doorway where Samuel was already walking away.
Quietly, more to himself than anyone else, he muttered, "...I've never checked an ID in my life."
Runkle glanced over. "Maybe you should start."
Hank didn't answer. He just kept staring at the door, like the warning had landed somewhere he wasn't ready to admit.
"Smart mouth for someone so green. Might actually survive out here."
Runkle smacked his arm. "You're in no position to talk about the kid who didn't even blink when offered a movie script. You haven't written a damn thing in years. If I hear they need a writer, I'm giving them your name. You need this."
By the time Samuel caught up with Vinny and Turtle near the edge of the lounge, they were already laughing.
Vinny gave him a look. "Okay, but seriously—what the hell did you whisper to him?"
Samuel just shrugged, playing it cool. "Nothing important."
Turtle nudged him. "Man, whatever it was—it shut him up fast. Guy looked like someone just handed him a mirror."
Samuel said nothing, but his smirk said enough.
Vinny chuckled. "Alright. Keep your secrets."
They stepped back into the glow of the lounge, the beat of low music pulsing underfoot. At the table, E looked up from his drink, catching the last bit of their conversation.
"Did I miss something?"
Jessica Alba, seated nearby with two friends, leaned in curiously. "You guys looked like you were deep in something."
Vinny gestured casually. "Just had a run-in with a writer at the bar. Total wild card."
Turtle grinned. "Looked like Hemmingway with a hangover."
"Who?" E asked, raising an eyebrow.
Samuel slid into his seat. "Hank Moody."
That made E freeze for half a beat. "Seriously?"
Ari, halfway into a drink, lowered his glass. "No shit. That guy still floats around?"
"I've heard of him," Jessica said, intrigued.
"Oh, you've definitely heard about him," Ari said dryly. "Brilliant when he writes. Which is never."
E leaned in. "He's a good writer, though. Back in college I read God Hates Us All. Guy's got teeth."
"He's got something," Vinny said. "Even now, kinda rattled me. Said to watch who touches your story—or it won't stay yours."
Ari gave a small nod, as if that struck closer than he wanted to admit.
Ari leaned back, swirling his drink. "He'd be a legend if he wrote half as fast as Samuel."
The table laughed again—everyone except Samuel.
He was still thinking about what Hank had said. That the script was his—for now. But the notes would come. The meetings. The rewrites. If he wasn't careful, it would stop being his at all. Just another product, diluted into something familiar and forgettable.
His phone buzzed beneath the table.Michael [10:42 PM]
You've had enough Hollywood for one night. I'll swing by after work. Be outside.
Samuel read the message, then held up the screen to Vinny. "Summoned."
Vinny grinned. "Hollywood giveth, Michael taketh away."
Turtle raised his glass. "To dodging producers and psychic dogs."
"To pirate movies that still belong to their writer," E added.
Ari smirked and tipped his drink toward Samuel. "And to the kid who might actually survive this town."
Glasses clinked.
Samuel smiled—part amused, part unsure—and stood. "Thanks for the ride," he said to the table. "I'll see you guys soon."
He stepped away, the warmth and chatter fading behind him. The air outside was cooler. Quieter.
Up the block, Michael's truck waited, engine low and steady.
The script was still his.
For now.