Page 22 of On the Beat

“I’m not taking pictures of him,” I say, and realize my voice has risen to new, defensive pitches that it has only reached when I was a teenager, telling my parents that there was nothing wrong with my belly button piercing.

“Great, then keep onnotdoing that.” Paulo’s unruffled demeanour reminds me of Isko, my older brother, who could never be bothered by anything or fazed by any pranks, tears, or yelling. “Also, stop assuming the worst of him.”

“I’mnotdoing that either.”

Paulo looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Every time he enters the room, you look at him like you’re waiting for him to draw a sword and murder a puppy or something.”

“I donot.”

“You asked me for advice. Constant denial is not going to help you.”

I sigh, unfolding my limbs and sprawling on the arm of the sofa.

“He’s a good guy once you get to know him, Isla. He just… has a prickly shell that you have to get through first. Even when we were in college, he never trusted anyone easily.”

That, I can relate to all too well. “So, I should just try to be nicer to him?”

“Just treat him like you would a friend.”

It would be easier to take his advice if my feelings for Ryder were remotely close to friendly.

“Thanks, Paulo.”

Listening to him was easy. Putting his words into action, well, that’s a whole ‘nother ball game.

* * *

I’m beginning to question whether my job is worth sacrificing my sanity, my dignity, and my most precious resource: sleep.

Since starting this assignment and landing in El Nido two weeks ago, I’ve slept maybe four hours total, had my belongings thrown onto the beach, and woken up to a lizard on my pillow. I’ve been hot, miserable, and hopelessly sweaty.

I’ve done my best to stay out of Ryder Black’s way. But he hasn’t stayed out of mine.

Thus, there’s an ever-increasing list of headlines on my trusty notepad.

Ryder Black is an arrogant, entitled, selfish jerk.

Ryder Black proves his fans are deluded morons.

Ryder Black’s music is so terrible, I’d rather listen to feral cats.

Ryder Black should go pound sand. Maybe his voice would sound better afterwards.

Okay, the last one is a bit of an exaggeration. He has an angelic voice. Sadly. I just wish I didn’t have to hear it so much. And in so many awful songs. I mean, seriously, who told him thatLet Me Gowas a good idea for a song title, when it only reminds everyone of how they had to suffer through the movieFrozena dozen times with their six-year-old niece? He didn’t even write his last three singles himself. It’s like he’s become a mouthpiece for someone else’s crappy music.

Though, I guess I can relate. Over the past four years, I’ve seen my soul and integrity slowly sucked out and drained dry by my job, being one of the lowly underlings at SnapBuzz who has to write pieces about Justin Bieber’s mustache and the Kardashian family. I thought I came to L.A. to write because I wanted to change something. I wanted to start a revolution, or at least leave a legacy. To build something that would last beyond me, even if that something was as simple as a music review or an article. I wanted to write something that would make people think differently.

Instead, I’m only perpetuating the same dry celebrity fluff pieces, and getting paid far worse than Ryder Black for it. Maybe he sold more of his soul for his career.

If he did, at least he’s been well-compensated.

Me? Well, being in El Nido is the most luxury I’ve experienced since a trip to Disneyland with my parents, back when I was still living in New York. And that was ten years ago.

But being sleepless on silk sheets is still sleepless. I’m not sure how much longer I put up with Ryder Black’s juvenile pranks, and think I now rival Naoya as president of the Ryder Black hater club.

I summon the last of my strength to pack my purse for a blessed day away from Ryder Black’s presence. Concentrating on not tripping over my own feet, I bump smack into a solid chest. Ryder. Of course.

Up close, he smells like saltwater and musk. Yawning, I stumble back. “Excuse me.”

---