Page 16 of On the Beat

“Maybe ifyouweren’t just showing up mysteriously out of the blue to visit family that you’ve never met, I wouldn’t have to have this conversation with you.”

“This is my family.You’rethe guest here,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. Even as I say the words, they don’t feel true. I’ve felt more like an outsider all day than Ryder has, seeming to fit in seamlessly to whatever landscape he’s dropped into. Or maybe it’s just the friendship between him and my cousin that makes it seem that way. “I have every right to be here.”

“But whatreasondo you have?” He flips through more of my photos, and a lump swells in my chest, rising to my throat. “What is this?”

“Those are my personal recordings and you have no right to them, Mr. Privacy Laws,” I snap. “Give. It. Back.”

“I have every right to know who I’m sharing a house with and to be free from beingrecorded. So tell me, why were you recording me? Wasn’t it for a video? To sell to theDaily MailorTMZorPage Six?”

I swallow, because he’s so on the nose and so far from the mark that I can’t wipe the guilt off of my face. “I wasn’t… I’m not strapped for cash.”

“No? Then stop invading my privacy.” He shoves the camera back into my hands, with so much force that I stumble backwards against the rattan couch.

I can’t deny his accusations.

“Wait,” I say, before I know what I’m saying. “Truce.”

“Truce?” he repeats. “You want to call a truce?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Then, wincing at his still-angry expression, perhaps made even more furious by my tone, I try to soften my voice. “I mean, I just think it would be a good idea. We’re going to have to live together for the next few months.”

He studies my expression like he wants to make sure I’m telling the truth. When he can’t find any sign that I’m lying, he sits down on the chair opposite to mine. “Fine.”

“Fine.” I try to lower my tone, not wanting to sound defensive. “Should we set some ground rules?”

“Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “First off, no flash photography. Actually, just don’t record me.”

“Like, with a camera?” I say, to clarify, and maybe to assuage my conscience.

“No videotaping, taking pictures, whatever,” he says. “Got it?”

I nod. “Then, don’t mess with my camera.”

“Fine, as long as you don’t use it on me.”

“Next?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Neither of us tries to force the other one to leave,” he suggests.

“Defineforce,” I say.

“What are you a lawyer?” He rolls his eyes.

“Physically, emotionally, mentally…”

“All of the above.” Ryder crosses one leg, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “Do you want a third rule?”

“Whatever happens here, stays here.” I swallow, knowing it’s a rule I’m about to break.

“Deal.” He extends a hand for me to shake. I don’t miss the way his engulfs mine, the tips of my fingers barely brushing his wrist.

But I don’t tell myself it matters, either, that I notice it. I drop his hand. “Deal.”

Chapter 9: Isla Romero

Last night—my second night in the beach house—Ryder Black spent all night playing guitar, belting nineties pop songs at the top of his lungs, and refusing to shut up no matter how many times I banged on his door and asked him to. I may be used to the noise of New York and cars rushing past or the sounds of L.A. nightlife, but those are at least more distant than someone singing at the top of their lungs one room over. That stunt made Ryder Black the equivalent of an annoying twelve-year-old brother or maybe just a spoiled brat of a celebrity, who thinks that being famous makes him entitled to everyone else’s peace and quiet.

Not to mention, the incessant heat kept me from sleeping. Even wearing shorts and a camisole felt like death by entropy.

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