Page 6 of On the Beat

Some part of me seizes, squeezing tight at the sound of George Hugh, posh and dignified British guy he is, calling meman. It feels wrong, unnatural, forced; as fake as the persona I wear onstage, as false as the song I just sang. “It’s my brother.”

“What about him?” George says. “Unless you mean to tell me that River Black—”

“River Black is my brother,” I confirm, staring into the mirror. One of the bulbs surrounding it is winking out slowly. Marring the otherwise bright perfection. “He’s under arrest for more scams than my lawyer can name, and he’s got me entangled in them.”

“What are you going to do?” Mia asks, hanging up my phone.

“What did Jennifer Wong suggest?” I ask, gesturing toward the cell, assuming her call was full of the publicist’s usual rapid-fire, staccato advice. Cold, clinical, detached, but effective as a surgeon’s scalpel.

“She said to just go about life as normal,” she said. “Running away would make you look cowardly or like you have something to hide.”

“Well, too bad for her,” I say, staring at the ceiling. A spot of water damage stains the leftmost tile. Everything in this dressing room is perfect but breaking. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Get me on the next flight out of here. I don’t want to be in L.A. for any longer than I have to be.”

“But Ryder, you’re scheduled to perform—” George begins to say, looking through an actual leather-bound appointment book.

“I don’t care. I need to get outta here.”

“When will you be back?” Mia Rose asks, frantically typing something on an iPad.

“The Grammys. I’ll be here for the Grammys.”

Only the most important night of the year for music. About three months away. Three months should give me enough time to get my life in order.

I pick up my phone and click one of the few contacts who knew me before I became Ryder Black, pop star, and when I was just Ryder Black. “Paulo, by any chance, do you still have that beach house in El Nido?”

Chapter 4: Isla Romero

“Isla, you’re here, great,” my editor, Jane Thornton, says right when I walk into her office, aka the head office ofSnapBuzz. For a celebrity gossip magazine, the walls are surprisingly bare of any bright colours or fun accessories, consisting of only wooden panels with white driftwood shelves. “Take a seat, please.”

I do so, perching on the edge of one of her weird chairs, which is more like modern art passing as furniture with strange angles and too-sharp edges. “How can I help you, Ms. Thornton?”

Jane pushes up her sunglasses on the bridge of her pointed nose. I’ve never seen her without them, and the office has a running bet on what she’s hiding. She’s not blind, that much is certain, but some say she has one glass eye and one lizard one. I’ve never joined in on the gossip, too afraid of being overheard.

“Isla, I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Jane,” she says, folding her silver-nailed hands neatly on her lap.

“Okay, Jane…” Even though shehastold me to call her that before, I always feel weird calling her that. She may be eccentric and friendly, but she’s still my editor.

“Isla, I called you in here because I have a special assignment for you.” She adjusts her beaded sunglasses that look like she got them from a bohemian flea market. “Reports have reached theSnapBuzzoffices that Ryder Black just left LAX in a private plane, less than twenty-four hours after the revelation of his brother’s legal and financial problems, as well as his own financial issues. Now, I have an inside source on where he went, so I would love if you could follow him on the next flight out of here, and see what he’s up to.”

“You want me to fly out and chase down Ryder Black to write an article about him?”

“Isla, I know it sounds crazy…” Jane sighs. “But this is the line of work we’re in. Besides, I have something in it for you.”

“What kind of article should I write about him?” I change the subject, pulling out my iPad.

“It should be a bombshell piece. Something shocking, something scandalous, an expose that perfectly captures the audience’s attention while having something of substance to say.” Her gaze catches—or I assume it does, since I can’t see her eyes—on the window behind my head, a view of L.A. smog and traffic outside. Her berry-painted lips are pursed.

I scribble down notes on the tablet in front of me. “Anything else? Length?”

“It should be two to three thousand words long, and you have exactly three months to finish this assignment,” she says. “So I want you back here on December seventeenth with the article on my desk. I know you’ve been eyeing some moreseriousjournalism, so consider this your stepping stone away from writing about Kim K and Pete Davidson or whatever other celebrity is stepping out on garbage day with a bad haircut.”

I nod. “So, if I write this article…”

“If you write this article and I like it, I’ll be promoting you. You’ll be a senior writer and you’ll be doing more serious things, moving ontoLa Mode.” Her pursed lips are replaced by a sunny smile. “Cheer up, Isla. This is a big opportunity for you.”

“I’m… I’m really excited.” That’s not a lie. What bothers me is the whole stalkerish behaviour part.

La Modeis one of the most prestigious fashion and women’s lifestyle magazines in the country, rivalling onlyVogue, Vanity Fair,andMarie Claire. It would be a dream come true to work there.

---