Page 11 of Off Script

He and the Bright Futures board members were in talks regarding their annual gala. Tristan had suggested doing a fair this year in Santa Monica, and they’d jumped on it after he promised to promote it. They’d been planning it for months. But it wasn’t the prospect of putting on a big fundraiser that mattered to Tristan. Imagining all of the kids getting to attend a carnival in their honor had been what pushed him to make the fair a success. There was no way in hell he was going to let them down.

“I’ll personally call LeeAnn later,” Tristan added.

LeeAnn was the main program coordinator, and they had developed an easy rapport. LeeAnn saw beyond the movie star persona. She didn’t shower him with praise for simply showing up. Instead, they talked about real ways they could help the mentees, and she consistently sent him emails about all the events. As Bright Futures’ star player, she would be able to smooth things over with the board better than Tristan or Doug ever could.

With their apology tour in place, Tristan hung up and practically bolted for the door. He hated being late in general, but it would especially upset Timekeeper Kurosawa (a nickname born out of love and frustration that the director—luckily—didn’t know about). Before he could reach his trusty Mustang, which would normally get him there in a flash (by L.A. standards), his phone vibrated again. He needed to start putting it on silent right when he got up.

“What is it now, Doug?”

Tristan had answered without checking the screen this time, his main focus on unlocking the car. With the phone up to his ear, he slipped into the driver’s seat and waited to hear Doug’s latest request. The only reply he got was mostly static and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a few deep breaths on the other end. Then the line went dead altogether.

“God, whatever,” Tristan mumbled, ready to give up and throw his cell in the cup holder. But as he set it down, the phone number from the missed call jumped out at him. In bold bright red, the area code flashed at him: +57.

Bogotá. There was only one person with a Colombian phone number who would call him and then hang up. It wasn’t some weird butt dial or an automated scam. It was his mother. Isabella Moreno. One of the biggest telenovela actresses of her time, and also a proud member of the Shittiest Moms Club.

Shaken to the core, Tristan couldn’t start the car. All he could do was think back to the last time he’d received a call from his mom. When his dad passed away two years ago, she’d reached out to offer her condolences. His comeback included several swear words and banning her from attending the funeral. Not that she would have come. Regardless, she had no right to try and weasel her way back into Tristan’s life during such a vulnerable time. If you abandoned your husband and fourteen-year-old son ages ago, you didn’t get to waltz back in like nothing happened. All that being said, his stomach gnawed at him, wondering what she wanted this time.

With inner turmoil churning through him, it was a miracle that Tristan got his shit together and made it to work in one piece. Nevertheless, his day was ruined. He’d do his best to put on a happy face and go along with his job, but on the inside, his mind was a mess. Why had she called? And why had she hung up without saying a word?

Walking onto the studio lot in a daze, he ran straight into Erica juggling several cups of coffee. Tristan managed to steady her before she could topple into a hot mocha mess.

“Jeez, Tristan! If you wanted a cappuccino all you had to do was ask.” She laughed, handling the situation with more grace than he would have.

“I’m sorry, Erica. You okay?” Tristan asked, checking her hands and arms to make sure she hadn’t suffered any burns due to his spaced-out state. Once she reassured him that she was fine, Tristan kept walking, more carefully this time. No matter what was going on with his flaky mom or outside of work, he had to be on his game now. Resisting the urge to hide out in his trailer, Tristan mentally prepared himself for a long day and his ongoing psychological chess match with Angela.

For a while after their last altercation Angela had seemed to accept their fling was over, and had resorted to catty remarks. And yet during their last day off, she’d sent him a WYD text, clearly fishing to see if he wanted to hook up. He didn’t. Instead, he’d spent that night watching Jada and her friends geek out over theUnboundpremiere. Remembering she would be on set as well, Tristan figured she’d be the one bright spot today. However, the first person he spotted was Ren, consulting with the cinematographer, Mateo.

As he walked up to his friend and director, Ren spoke up with a stern scowl, “She’s not here yet.” For a moment Tristan thought he’d read his mind about Jada, but then realized he meant Angela.Great. Tristan sighed inwardly. He almost would have preferred sparring with Angela versus seeing Timekeeper Kurosawa come out in full force. But it was too late. The director studied his watch again, his left foot tapping impatiently. If there was one thing Ren hated it was a lack of punctuality. Actually, as history had proven, Ren hated a lot of things. But then again, his high expectations and relentless drive were exactly why he had become such a successful director, even though he was only in his thirties.

After leaving Japan to attend USC, Ren had worked his way up from promising film student to one of Hollywood’s emerging stars after his first independent film won awards at Sundance. Tristan had been at the iconic film festival to see Ren’s film,Kyoto Dreams, at its first screening. The whole venue had been buzzing over it, calling Ren the follow-up to the original directing juggernaut, Akira Kurosawa. When they met after the showing, he and Tristan bonded over Ren hating the pressure of that comparison, and became fast friends. Over the years of their friendship, Ren insisted there was no way to get accolades and name recognition by letting your actors and crew do the bare minimum. But Angela’s flagrant disregard for his ideals and proper set etiquette was definitely going to give Ren premature grays. Judging by his frustrated sigh, he wouldn’t work with her again, even if his life depended on it.

“That’s not surprising,” Tristan teased him. Aware of his friend’s antics, Ren gave him a look that had shut up or else written all over it. He jerked his head toward the dressing room.

“Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You know the drill,” Ren said.

Like a good soldier, Tristan did as he was told. When he walked into the hair and makeup department, he found Jada was already there. Seeing her made him momentarily forget about his rough morning, his tense nerves easing as he noticed her chatting with Cass.

“Hey, Jada,” he said.

And yes, he might have spoken in a slightly more suggestive tone than a friendly co-worker would. He couldn’t resist flirting, even if she hadn’t taken the bait so far. Wooing women had become an inclination since he’d kissed Becky Miller on the cheek in the third grade. It was the talk of the playground for weeks.

“Hi, Tristan,” Jada said.

“I’ll be right with you, Tristan,” Cass said as she flitted around.

“Take your time. I can go slip into my costume,” Tristan offered.

“That’s a negatory, handsome. Val noticed a ‘stain’ on your shirt and sent Mikayla off on a removal mission,” Cass said in her droll tone. With nothing else to do for the moment, Tristan sat down in the chair beside Jada.

“So, you’re a Zillian shipper too? Best choice,” he said.

Jada’s face lit up. “What can I say? I like my romances risqué.”

“Does that extend to a personal preference, by any chance?”

Eyes widening, Jada bit her lip self-consciously, much to Cass’s frustration.

“Don’t ruin my art, dear.” Cass scolded her and reapplied the lipstick.

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