Page 3 of Off Script

“Angela, we’ve been over this. I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Why?” she said. “You think I’m not good enough? I’ve been on the ‘Hottest 30 Under 30’ list, won three Golden Globes, and my family’s net worth could rival Bill Gates!”

She also had a torrid past of public breakdowns, several drunk and disorderly bans from other bars, and a stray mug shot tucked under her resume. Tristan would let that slide—he wasn’t perfect either—and focus on the issue at hand.

“That doesn’t mean we’d be good together long term,” he said.

“Then why the fuck did you hook up with me in the first place? For the movie? You’re one of those fickle jackasses who uses their co-stars and then dumps them a few weeks after the press dies down.”

Tristan could not argue that point. He should have never hooked up with a co-worker. Every time he did it, there were equally disastrous results. People might say he was a glutton for sadistic punishment, but he’d never intended to let things get this far with Angela. For the sake of the film they had bonded and hung out to get to know each other. A few dinners and movie nights led to a “just this once” rendezvous, which inevitably turned into more. However, what had started out as an innocent affair quickly escalated into a problematic shit show. But reasoning that they weren’t right for each other would be hard with Angela already six tequilas in.

“This whole aloof act is bullshit. You’re trying to hide your real feelings and act like you don’t want me. Well, guess what, Tristan? You’re not the only man in the world!”

With that, she sauntered away from him, snatching her latest cocktail before Tristan could steal it from her. Her drinking was not the only problem. After offering him a condescending sneer, Angela started chatting up a major creep at the other end of the bar. The beefy dude screamed textbook predator, with eyes that flickered with nefarious intentions.

“Oh shit.” Tristan groaned, now reaching for his own rum and Coke.

Judging by the guy’s calculating look, he’d realized who Angela was. If Angela hooked up with him, he’d definitely leak all the dirty details to the gossip rags. Having been Angela’s romantic partner himself, Tristan knew just how dirty those details could get. If Tristan was as big a jerk as Angela thought, he’d leave her to that horrific fate and go home. But despite how often Angela tried to emotionally blackmail him, Tristan couldn’t let that happen.

He’d never wanted to come to this obnoxious club in the first place, but Angela had insisted—even though they had just finished a long day of filming. She’d pointed out that tomorrow was their off day and said they should go out and blow off steam. She’d also mentioned needing to discuss “something important.” Tristan had assumed that meant her lamenting about her dad, a massive media mogul, and their latest falling out. Their fights usually revolved around Angela’s questionable behavior and her dad’s obsession with their public image. However, tonight was not about her daddy issues. Instead, Tristan was on another guilt trip, watching Angela make horrible decisions. Regretfully inching closer, Tristan managed to catch a few tidbits of the awful flirting between Angela and the creepy guy.

“My God, you are gorgeous. Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Angela Collins?” the guy gushed.

“Oh honey, there’s only one Angela Collins, and you’re looking at her.” Angela flipped her hair over her shoulder.

Upon her confirmation, of course the guy’s interest increased tenfold. While Angela let out fake, tinkling laughter at his crappy jokes, Captain Skeevy started some casual groping. His hand stroked her back, then lowered down to Angela’s ass. That disgusting image was more than enough for Tristan. As the new couple meandered to the door, Tristan stepped into their path.

“Angela, I think it’s time I drove you home.” Tristan pressed her but Angela shook her head defiantly.

“She’s clearly coming with me.” Skeevy snorted. He eyed Tristan the way most wannabe alphas did, trying to size him up.

“Sorry, man. That’s not gonna happen,” Tristan responded, keeping his tone calm. As Tristan moved to grab Angela’s hand, the guy puffed up his chest in exaggerated, toxic masculinity.

“Just because you can’t keep up with someone like her doesn’t mean you can cockblock me. Now move.”

The man made to push past him, but Tristan kept up his top-notch defense. His moves would have made any pro linebacker proud. It was also all Angela’s new boy toy needed to take a swing. Tristan dodged his first attempt but that didn’t stop the impending scuffle. Skeevy’s next move was to tackle Tristan and wrestle him to the ground. The move went sideways, smashing Tristan and his competitor across the bar. Distantly, he could hear Angela and the other club’s patrons screaming as the two men tussled, glasses and liquor crashing to the floor. Tristan’s back cried out in pain as tiny glass shards embedded in his skin before he and his opponent hit the ground too. At this point, Tristan gave up all defensive niceties and went in with some jabs of his own. Trading blows, Tristan was holding his own pretty well until the guy managed to get a shot in against Tristan’s cheek.

Before Tristan could retaliate the club’s bouncers came to the rescue. Their strength outweighed Tristan’s opponent’s (and Tristan’s, too, honestly). The gruff bodyguards escorted them and Angela out, kicking them onto the street. The slap of fresh air didn’t help Mr. Creepo come back to reality, though, especially now that Angela was clinging to Tristan’s side and fretting over his injuries.

“I should sue your ass,” the guy shouted.

“Go ahead and try,” Tristan challenged him. “My lawyers are so ruthless they could have gotten O. J. off the hook. Not to mention you struck first. My team and I will slap you with a shit ton of damage clauses.”

Realizing his tough guy act wasn’t going to get him anywhere, the man gave up, cursing them loudly as he stumbled down the street. Meanwhile, Angela leaned into Tristan’s injured side, the one that had endured most of the bar collision. She devolved into a fit of giggles at the whole spectacle.

“Glad to see you’re still enjoying yourself,” Tristan snapped.

“Of course I am. You just showed me you do care.” In a singsong voice, Angela began reciting Sandra Bullock’s iconic lines fromMiss Congeniality. The off-key refrain about her own beauty haunted Tristan all the way home after he dropped Angela back at her mansion.

He only felt true relief once he’d made it back home to his own house in Calabasas, but the feeling didn’t last long. As he leaned back on his living-room couch to rest, his phone nearly buzzed off the coffee table. Thankfully, it wasn’t a typo-filled text from Angela telling him to come back to her house but a text from his agent, Doug Fineman.

It read:This You?!, followed by a link.

TRISTAN MAXWELL BEATDOWN

Tristan groaned as he skimmed the post. Some trashy blog had caught wind of the night’s antics, superfast. The article went on in lavish, hyperbolized detail about how Tristan got in a fistfight at a bar. It was filled with utter nonsense about him flying into a jealous rage over Angela talking with an attractive stranger. That greasy Godzilla had been far from attractive or worth getting jealous over. Tristan sighed and texted the agent back.

Tristan: Evil twin doppelgänger. I swear

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