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buck fifty?”
    â€œEven if.”
    Someone plopped several bags of chips on the counter. Niall ripped one open. Barbecue. Bleah. But he ate some all the same. “Aggie’s a pain in my ass.”
    â€œIf you didn’t blow all your money as soon as you made it, she wouldn’t have to ride herd on you to divest yourself of your assets just to keep your head above water.”
    â€œMy assets are my business.”
    â€œShe’s got your assets in a sling, for your best interest. So listen to her.”
    â€œYeah, yeah . . .”
    â€œShe wants you to put this place on the market too.”
    â€œWhere does she want me to live? All the good subway grates in the neighborhood are taken.”
    â€œIf you’d just let her handle more of your money for you—”
    â€œDrop it, Trent.”
    â€œAggie’s a good accountant. Just make more of your income available for her, don’t blow it on whatever you’re—”
    â€œI said drop it , Trent.”
    â€œFine.” He sighed. “Then you’re going to be on this hamster wheel for the rest of your life.”
    â€œHey, maybe I like making crappy movies just for the paycheck and . . . and . . . cutting the ribbon at supermarket openings.”
    Trent snorted as another large group of people flooded into the loft. One, apparently a self-styled graffiti artist, looked around, assessing, then pulled out a massive Sharpie and started drawing on the wall in the living room area . . . dangerously close to Niall’s prized Keith Haring original.
    â€œShit.” Niall lurched across the room, grasping people by the shoulders and moving them to one side, watching the flying Sharpie the whole time. One last leap and he had the Haring off the wall and tucked under his arm. Then he reached out and plucked the marker from the artist’s fingers. “Beat it,” he snapped.
    â€œHey, you should let me finish—someday my art’s gonna be worth ten times that stick figure picture.”
    â€œDue to your untimely death, you mean?” he growled, and the guy moved off, into the crowd, with a wary look back at his wild-eyed host.
    Hoping the incident wouldn’t make it onto a celebrity gossip site within the next five minutes, Niall squired the painting to a safe place—the back of the coat closet in the entryway, by the front door. When he emerged, he turned to Trent, who was still behind him, as always. “You were saying?”
    â€œBusiness. Money. Guest appearances.”
    â€œHey, an invitation to a supermarket ribbon-cutting isn’t in that stack of papers you’re waving around, is it?”
    â€œLet’s find out.” Trent shuffled through them. “Ah, here we go. Supermarket—”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDidn’t think so.” He put a slash through that one, then relegated it to the bottom of the pile. “Fundraiser, animal shelter, Brooklyn.”
    â€œMaybe. Probably. Sure.”
    His assistant scribbled a note on the corner of the paper. “I’ll tell them to make sure whatever animal they hand you for the photo op won’t pee on you. Next . . . skin care boutique opening, Rodeo Drive, next week.”
    Niall made a face. “What the—? Doubtful.”
    â€œOkay. Um . . . not that one . . . not that one,” Trent muttered, and Niall appreciated the fact that Trent was filtering out the noise and only giving him the highlights. “Oh God.” He laughed. “Emcee for an American Idol type thing.”
    Niall nearly tripped over a group of partiers sitting in a circle on the floor, prepping for God knew what—drum circle, bong circle, naked yoga-in. Whatever it was, they sure had made themselves comfortable. The thought of doing a reality show made his stomach churn. He knew it might come to this eventually; he was just surprised it had come so soon. Then again, the entertainment industry was pretty unforgiving, and