Off Script

by Sam Couste

  Off Script

  By Sam Couste

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 Sam Couste

  ISBN 9781646563104

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Thanks to KLF & BNF for unknowingly letting me borrow their house. Love always to AP & JP for cheering me on during word droughts and floods alike.

  * * * *

  Off Script

  By Sam Couste

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 1

  The tile floor was cool against Christina’s feet as she padded into the kitchen. It was barely past five in the morning, but the heat of the day, unseasonable for June in New Jersey, had already started to set in. The back of Chris’ cotton tank top stuck to her skin. She plucked at the fabric with a grimace, then grabbed a mug from the cabinet and set it down on the kitchen table next to her laptop. A quick rummage through the fridge produced a pitcher of iced tea.

  Once her mug was filled, Chris sat down and took a sip as she waited for her laptop to fire up. She glanced at the time on her phone. Ten past five in the morning. There were still twenty minutes to go until Anna called.

  Chris smiled against the rim of her mug. She hadn’t talked to her girlfriend in nearly twenty-four hours, other than a few rushed texts. Anna had kissed her goodbye at Newark airport, then boarded a private flight to Iceland. It wasn’t the longest they’d ever been apart, but the distance felt heavier than the times when they’d been separated by a few hundred miles.

  There were three new emails in her inbox. One was an evite to a second cousin’s first communion in a few months; Chris accepted it without checking the date. She knew no less than three family members would be sending her calendar invites with the details, if they hadn’t already. She’d have to wait and see how she was feeling closer to the event before she decided whether or not to attend.

  The second email was from Anna. It’s starting already, she had written, followed by a string of emojis ranging from excited to nervous, and ending with five kisses. A link to a news article was included. Chris clicked on it as she took another sip of her drink.

  On Location: Shooting for Reflex Memories, James Andrews’ latest spy thriller, is scheduled to start next week. Cast and crew were spotted around town in Reykjavik, including veteran director Akari Jones, newcomer (and out transgender actress) Anna Jackson, and the leading man himself. James and Anna were spotted grabbing coffee at a local shop, and Anna even indulged in a pastry as well. Enjoy while you can, Anna, we’re sure Akari’s action sequences will be grueling!

  A photo of Anna and James accompanied the blurb. They were settled at a small table outside of the coffee shop. Anna’s hazel eyes were hidden behind sunglasses and her hair was a mess of copper waves around her face, but Chris could spot the telltale curves of her face that indicated she was laughing as she bit into a cinnamon roll so large that she needed both hands to hold it. James only had his coffee, and the photo had caught him as he was speaking, one hand raised in gesture towards Anna. He was laughing, too, the white frames of his own sunglasses crisp against the deep bronze of his cheekbones. His trademark salt and pepper waves remained impeccably styled, as always.

  They looked relaxed together. Anna had been nervous about taking such a potentially monumental step in her career, but Chris knew that having James on set would be a comfort. James had been a friend and mentor to Anna for the past four years. Chris had met him several times when they lived in California, along with his wife Aisha and their four children, and he’d always come across as a kind, calming presence.

  They’d met when James had taken a break from acting to direct an indie flick, in which Anna had been cast in a supporting role. The film had been well received in its limited release, and James had taken a shine to Anna. He’d asked her to star in his next directorial project, and she’d accepted. And when he’d been called back to Hollywood to star in Reflex Memories, James had insisted that Anna be offered the co-starring role.

  Anna had leapt at the chance, though she’d been nervous about taking on such a high profile role as a relatively unknown trans actress. So far, the majority of media coverage had been kind, if a little awkward, in their support, but there would undoubtedly be extra scrutiny of her role once the movie came out. Both Chris and Anna were aware of that fact, but Anna always said that as long she had a positive review from Chris—who was never anything less than honest with her girlfriend—she’d consider it a success.

  Still smiling, Chris clicked on the last email. It was from her great-aunt Donna, with the exciting subject line, Hello. Her smile faded as she read the note. Congratulations! Always knew my lovely great-goddaughter was a talented gem! We need to celebrate the next time I’m in town!

  Chris didn’t click the article linked below. She recognized the link address all too well. It was three months old by this point, but Aunt Donna was always a little behind when it came to family news. She lived in Virginia and was flighty in the best of times, being selective with which parts of the conversation she paid attention to and retained.

  Had she clicked the link, Chris knew she would be greeted by the headline, Venture Capital’s 30 under 30. Should she decide to scroll down to number sixteen—Christina Marino, age 27—she would see her own face smiling back at her. Rich brown eyes accented by the black rimmed glasses she’d been so certain made her look more professional. Pale olive skin with ochre undertones, inky brown hair smoothed into controlled waves around her shoulders, rather than the flyaway mess she scraped back into a ponytail these days. East Coast humidity was a beast that she was still trying to tame with regards to her hair and skincare routine.

  It was the smile, more than anything, that Chris didn’t want to see. Hollow, forced. Insincere, ungrateful for the accolades that she’d worked so hard for, yet no longer brought her joy.

  These days, even with her morning hair frizz and spotty breakouts and squinting eyes from contacts shoved in to accommodate her growing sunglass collection, the smile in the mirror was more genuine that it had been in months.

  The back door opened, startling Chris from her thoughts. She clicked out of the email and turned to greet her father, who’d entered the kitchen from outside.

  “Good morning, sweetie.” Nick dropped his car keys on the counter by the door and set a white pastry box on the kitchen table. He was still dressed in his work suit. Chris leaned over to accept the offered forehead kiss, then reached for the box. It was filled with miniature sticky buns. Chris grabbed f
ive and placed them on a napkin; Nick did the same as he nodded towards the laptop.

  “Have you talked to Anna yet?”

  “Not yet,” Chris replied. “Still got fifteen more minutes to go.”

  Nick stifled a yawn. “Well, tell her I send my love. I want to stay up and say hello, but I’m beat.”

  “Rough night at work?” Chris grinned. Nick was a pit boss at the Milano casino in Atlantic City. Despite the large amount of time spent putting out fires—sometimes literally—and soothing irate guests, Nick loved his job. A soft-spoken man, he maintained an air of calm in the most stressful of situations, and he took pride in his team’s work.

  Plus, as Nick often pointed out, he’d met the love of his life in that casino. Thirty-two years ago, Chris’ mother, Maria, had been a cocktail waitress and Nick had been a dealer. They’d had a whirlwind romance and tied the knot within six months of their first meeting. Maria had migrated from job to job after that, eventually going to college for her masters in library science fifteen years later, but Nick had remained content to grow his career at the Milano.

  “Aren’t they all?” Nick chuckled as he popped his last sticky bun into his mouth. “I met the nicest couple from Milwaukee, they own a goat farm. Remind me to tell you about it when I wake up.”

  “I will,” Chris promised. She munched on her sticky buns and drained the last of her iced tea as Nick headed towards the stairs.

  Only a few beats of silence went by before it was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps on the basement apartment stairs. The door swung open to reveal Chris’ older brother, Antonio. He wore a pair of dark blue board shorts and a grey rash guard over his wiry frame, and was struggling to pop one of his sunglass lenses back into place.

  “Help?” He held out the sunglasses with a pout. Chris accepted then and popped the lens back into place. Tony put them on, flashed her some finger guns, and pushed them up on his head. His hair was black, like their father’s, and cropped close.

  “You’re the best,” he declared. He glanced at the pastry box on the table. “Pop’s home? Did I miss him?”

  “Yeah, he went to bed, but he brought sticky buns.”

  Tony grimaced. “Too sweet. It’s lunch time, I need real food.”

  “It’s not even five-thirty in the morning!” Chris protested.

  “I’m on summer hours.” Tony was a teacher, and took full advantage of his summers off, doing odd jobs and searching for adventures up and down the East Coast.

  Tony went to the fridge and opened it. He pulled out a Tupperware container, pulled the top off and sniffed it. “Who made the enchiladas? Ma or Tio?”

  “Tio. Ma brought them home yesterday.”

  “Safe to eat, then.”

  Chris nodded. She loved her mother and appreciated her many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Despite Maria’s claims that her own abuela had been renowned throughout southern California for her expertise in the kitchen, she was not among the grandchildren who had inherited those gifts. Luckily Maria’s brother, their Tio Aaron, was one of them, and he kept the New Jersey branch of the family supplied with their traditional Mexican favorites, along with his own creations.

  Tony set the enchiladas on the counter and grabbed the iced tea from the fridge, filling Chris’ mug along with his own. He downed his tea as he used one hand to wrestle an enchilada free from the container and onto a plate. He set the mug in the sink and wolfed down the cold enchilada in about three bites.

  “Gotta go teach a surf lesson, but tell Mari I’ll be back in time to hit up the craft store. And tell Anna I said hey.”

  “Will do.” Chris watched as Tony toed on a pair of flip flops and left through the kitchen door. She heard his ancient pickup truck roar to life. It was still crunching its way down the stone driveway when their oldest sibling appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  Marisol was in her pajama tank top and shorts, printed with a moon and star pattern that mirrored the sun and clouds set that Chris was currently wearing. Her thick curls were tied up in a headscarf. Their dark blonde color was a genetic surprise from some northern Italian ancestor on their father’s side, but the rest of her rounded features, so similar to Chris’ own, were from their mother.

  “Was that Tony?” Marisol asked, her eyes narrowed. “He said he’d come to the craft store with us. He better not be trying to bail.”

  “Like he would,” Chris said in a dry tone. Tony was a free spirit, but he was dependable. “He says he’ll be back. Want a sticky bun?”

  “Ugh.” Marisol wrinkled her nose. “It’s too hot.” She filled a glass with ice from the fridge dispenser, then poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Holding the glass to her forehead for a moment, she asked, “You talk to Anna yet?”

  “Not yet. She should be calling in a few minutes.” Chris tried not to keep staring at the clock, which seemed to be stuck on five twenty-seven for far longer than sixty seconds.

  Marisol clicked her tongue. “Long distance is rough,” she sympathized. Marisol would know. She and her fiancé, Dion, had spent the majority of their five year relationship living apart. Marisol had a shared apartment near her job in Philadelphia, which was about an hour’s drive from the house where Dion lived with a couple of his cousins in Atlantic City. On a good day, at least. In commuter traffic, it could be two hours or more, and during the tourist season, it was a full day commitment.

  Once Marisol’s water glass was empty, she placed it in the sink and yawned. “All right, I’m going back to bed. It’s too damn early, but I was parched.” She gave Chris’ shoulder a squeeze as she passed by on her way out of the kitchen. “Tell my little sis I miss her, okay?”

  “You got it.” Chris heard the stairs creak as Marisol went back up to her room. Her eyes darted to the laptop as the Skype app alerted her to an incoming call.

  “Morning, babe.” Anna’s face filled the screen, blurring slightly as she settled back against the pillows on a hotel bed. “Ugh, you look amazing. I love your hair all floofy like that. And those pajamas! The little suns complement your smile.”

  “Wow, you’re a charmer,” Chris laughed. “How jet lagged are you?”

  “Extremely.” Anna sank deeper into the pillows. From the way she held one arm out, she was dialed in on her phone. “Or maybe I’m beyond time zones at this point. I exist outside the concept of time altogether.” She threw one arm across her face. One hazel eye remained exposed, heavy with false lashes that were slightly askew. Her face looked scrubbed clean of other makeup, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. A UC Berkeley sweatshirt slid off one shoulder; Chris couldn’t tell if it was one of hers or not. She and Anna weren’t the same size, but when it came to loungewear, they both preferred roomier things, and their drawer of comfy clothes had always been a shared resource.

  Chris giggled as Anna’s eyelashes slipped further. “You’re drooping, babe.” She tapped her own temple with her pinky. “And I don’t just mean the fatigue.”

  “Shit!” Anna swore as she picked at the lashes. “I swear, this glue is ridiculous. I used the special makeup remover they gave me, but it’s useless against this cement.”

  She hissed as she peeled the lashes off, then flung the offending strip towards the nightstand. “There. Probably took off my real ones, too, but I’m free.”

  “Hmm.” Chris made a show of squinting at the screen. “I don’t know. Come closer, let me see.”

  A smirk unfurled on Anna’s face as she pulled her phone closer. She puckered her lips and wiggled her eyebrows, and Chris did the same as they each kissed their screen—or in Chris’ case, as close to the screen as she could reach while hunched over her laptop.

  Laughing, they shared a few more kisses before pulling back. “Mmm,” Anna murmured, “almost as good as the real thing.”

  “Yeah, you’re definitely jet lagged.” Chris frowned. “How are you doing, really? Are you getting enough sleep? You look exhausted.”

  “I am exhausted,” Anna admitted. “B
ut I’ll be all right. There’s so much going on right now, interviews and meetings and everything, but I’m hoping once filming starts I’ll get some more downtime. You know, once I’ve got a routine down.”

  “I hope so,” Chris said, but she was skeptical.

  Apparently Anna was, too. She shrugged and yawned widely. “I mean, I knew what this would be like. James told me all about the horrors of big budget movie making as opposed to indie stuff. And even when people are trying to be polite about the trans stuff, things still get awkward. ‘Course, we get plenty of perks, too. Let me tell you, private jets, assistants, and hotel suites are working conditions that I can very easily get used to.”

  Chris chuckled as Anna nestled deeper into the pillows with a smug smile on her face. “Sounds luxurious. A lifestyle upgrade.”

  “No.” Anna’s expression turned serious. “Not a lifestyle, just work. This stuff…” she waved her free hand to gesture towards the hotel room, “all of this, it’s not important. It’s not my life. Chris, you’re my life. Always.”

  “You’re such a sap.” Chris felt her chest tighten even as she kept her voice light. “But you’re my sap. You’re my life, too.”

  Anna raised her pinky to her lips and tapped it against them in two quick kisses. Chris did the same, and the ache in her chest sharpened. That pinky kiss had been their secret I love you since they were kids. Chris had lost count of how many times she’d seen Anna share it with her. Across the classroom when the teacher wasn’t looking, lying in bed as the morning light began to stream in, onstage during the final curtain call.

  It made her heart leap every time. And now, the distance hanging heavy between them brought a bittersweet sting to the gesture.

  Anna seemed to sense her melancholy. She had always been good at reading Chris. “How’ve you been feeling, babe? Everything still balanced?”

  “You’ve been gone one day,” Chris pointed out. The stubborn set to Anna’s jaw indicated that she wasn’t going to be dissuaded from her inquiries.