Page 11 of On the Beat

Wait… Ryder Black?

Do I have the worst and possibly best luck in all of celebrity-stalking journalism history?

Before I can ask, the back door opens.

And in walks the pop star who’s graced hundreds of tabloids, famous for his long-standing rivalry with Naoya Sugawa, his humble, small-town background, and his song about his ex-girlfriend.

Ryder Black.

Chapter 7: Ryder Black

The minute I step back into the house, the air feels different. Not just because it smells of soy sauce and coconut milk, but because it holds the awkward yet warm hint of a family reunion. And to think, I flew here to get as far away as possible from all families, my own being at the top of the list.

“Ryder, this is my cousin that I was telling you about,” Paulo says. “She just got here, and she’s going to be staying here for the next three months.”

The girl walks toward me, her eyes taking me in with a judgmental tilt of her head. Not how people usually judge me, as if I don’t measure up to the glamorous celebrity depicted on social media and magazine covers, but like I’m a puzzle she holds half the pieces to, and she can’t quite put me together. “I’m Isla.”

Isla Romero extends her hand. I shake it out of necessity. Despite my annoyance at her presence, she’s only visiting. And she’s Paulo’s cousin—it wouldn’t do me any good to totally dismiss or disdain her. “Nice to meet you.”

“And your name is…?” She arches an eyebrow like she has no idea who I am. Maybe she’s the one person in L.A. living under a rock, but something tells me otherwise. I recognize her. I’m not sure where I know her from, but I know I’ve met her before. And that means she has to mean something in my world—not a fan, but someone important enough for me to care. For me to worry about.

“Ryder,” I say.

“He’s my old roommate from college,” Paulo interrupts. My shoulders relax somewhat, muscles uncoiling. No, Paulo wouldn’t give away my secret, not even to his cousin.

“I feel like I’ve seen you before somewhere,” she says, tilting her head to one side.

“Isla is my sister’s daughter, from New York,” Tita Evangeline interjects. “You’re a journalist, right?”

Isla nods. “That’s right.”

I wonder why she looks like the confirmation of her profession is something painful, a secret she wanted to bury.

“Interesting.” Is there more to her than this nagging sense that I’ve met her before? “What do you write?”

A sudden hiss of steam reaches my ears, surging from the kitchen. Tita Evangeline mutters a curse under her breath and bolts toward the kitchen, dragging her son with her.

“I write whatever strikes my fancy.” An evasive answer. One that bothers me more than it should. “What do you do for work, Ryder? I don’t think my cousin mentioned your job.”

Does shereallynot know? “I’m in the music industry.”

“Music producer?” she asks. “Have I heard you anywhere?”

“My music was in theTeen Wolfsoundtrack,” I say.

“Sorry, I didn’t watch that show. I prefer Nat Geo documentaries,” she says with a shrug.

Really? “Is it the British narrator’s voice that draws you in?”

“It’s just reassuring to know that people aren’t so different from animals after all.” Isla shrugs.

I have the paranoid urge to mine every syllable of her voice for clues, combing through every change of intonation like a secret code. “Did you come here to observe the wildlife, then?”

“The wildlife, calledthe extended family in its natural habitat.” She fidgets with the end of her braid. “Plus, a guest.”

As we walk to dinner, I get the feeling that she feels more like the guest than I do. But I can’t understand why.

* * *

---