Page 17 of On the Beat

Okay, maybe I brought it upon myself by following him here, filming him (kinda sorta) without his permission, and essentially being a dedicated stalker.

But even dedicated stalkers (which I am not) deserve peace and quiet in the wee small hours of the morning.

I wake up with dark circles, useless earplugs on my pillow, and a throbbing headache which, just like its progenitor, Ryder Black, will not be quiet or go away.

Well. I’m not sure if I want him to leave. Technically, I came here for him. I just didn’t anticipate his extreme hostility towards me. But where else can I go? Even after those stupid ground rules that he laid down, I need him to stay here. I’ve landed on a gold mine and I’d be a fool not to jump on this opportunity. Guilt will not stop me from getting the promotion I so desperately want.

Dragging myself out of bed and getting ready to down coffee like my life—or maybe career—depends on it, I pull on a faded N’SYNC t-shirt and denim shorts. I fully expect to see the house’s other occupants. Well, I expect to see Paulo, since his mother left late after dinner on the first night, and definitely Ryder since he had to be awake to produce such horrible karaoke, looking as half-dead and bedraggled as me. Instead, Paulo looks fresh-faced, even whistling as he makes himself a cup of coffee. Ryder is nowhere to be seen, at least.

“Did you sleep well, Isla?” he asks, as the coffeemaker fills the kitchen with the sound of bubbling water and the mouth-watering aroma of beans.

“I could have slept better,” I say, tying my hair into a ponytail and wincing at the knots that I didn’t have the energy to brush out. “Didn’t you hear the… singing?”

“What singing?” he says, looking genuinely confused. “I always wear earplugs.”

Weird, since I was the one sleeping on the second floor, and he and Ryder shared the main floor.

“Must be nice,” I mutter, sliding onto a barstool.

Paulo hands me pandesal and I brighten. I haven’t had these since I lived in New York—well, I haven’t had them freshly made since then. My mother used to make them once a week, and I would dip them into hot chocolate, or, as I got older, coffee. Since moving to L.A., I always looked for a good bakery to make them, but they were too expensive to justify buying any.

He slides a cup of coffee across the counter toward me, too.

“Thanks,” I say, resting my hand on my chin. Do I look so pathetic that he has to take pity on me? Or is he just being a polite host? I dip the pandesal into my coffee and sigh. Bliss. The slightly sweet roll perfectly complements the bitter richness of the coffee. Sugar and caffeine never fail to perk me up in the mornings, no matter how unhealthily addictive a combination it may be. “You’re officially my favourite cousin.”

“How many of your cousinsdoyou know, though?” he retorts.

I tap on my chin, trying to think of the number. My brain refuses to do the math before noon, though, so I let the figure slip out of my head, washed away into the abyss of sleeplessness. “I’vemetall of them, we just never really becamefriends… well, except your sister, Gloria. Hey, where is Gloria?”

“She’s staying with my mom and dad, but I moved here when I heard that Ryder was coming.”

“Oh.” It would’ve been at least nice to have another girl around or someone that I used to talk to, even if she is closer to my younger sister’s age than mine.

Footsteps clomp down the stairs, mimicking the pounding at my temples, which aren’t soothed by any amount of sugar or caffeine. I rip off another piece of the pandesal before taking a sip of coffee.

“Good morning,” says Ryder Black.

“Oh, look, my headache is back,” I mumble.

“What was that?” he says as he slides onto the chair next to me. He’s all elbows, sprawling out on the small seat as though he’s determined to steal all my personal space as well as my sleep. Ryder even has the gall to look refreshed and well-rested.

“I said, itwasa good morning.”

Instead of responding, Ryder pours himself a glass of water, turning down the coffee that Paulo offers him.

“Isla said she heard someone singing last night,” Paulo says, gesturing toward me. “Did you hear anyone singing?”

“I didn’t hear anybody singing,” Ryder says. He yawns. I take it as some kind of victory, marking it down on our scorecard:Isla: one. Ryder: one. “Though, I’ve been told that I talk in my sleep. Maybe that’s what you heard, Isla.”

“It sounded like someone was singing Destiny’s Child,” I press on. “More specifically,Say My Name.”

Maybe I should have added more conditions to our little deal. Such as,don’t keep me up all night.

“Weird,” my new nemesis comments, drinking his water. Or should I say, slurping his water, like an ill-mannered caveman who can’t use a fork.

Every sound that comes out of his mouth only aggravates me further. I’m going to write a terrible expose of Ryder Black.He has no consideration for anyone besides himself, and when he sings karaoke, he prefers to sing Destiny’s Child. He has the annoying habit of somehow looking perfect without a hair out of place, even after getting approximately two hours and thirty-seven minutes of sleep the night before—Well, I don’t need to say that he looks perfect. He doesn’t. He’s not even my type.

I prefer guys with better music taste. And decent manners.

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