Page 30 of On the Beat

“How do you know that?” His eyes are dry, his face stony, bearing the expression that no child should ever wear. It’s a look that says even though his body may be here, his heart is far away. His soul is back in that place, back on that beach, buried in the ocean. “Why did you agree with me when I said that I was Aquaman?”

“Eddie—”

“Eddie, that’s enough,” James says, clearing his throat. “Ryder Black has somewhere to go.” He mouths toward me,I’m sorry. “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, Eddie, but Ryder hasn’t done anything wrong to you.”

I straighten slightly, not having realized I had bent down to talk to Eddie. I pick invisible lint off of my pants. “Well, um, thanks for the meeting, Mr. Dilag. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. You have my agent’s number and I’ll give you mine, too.”

As I enter my number into James Dilag’s phone, Eddie watches the two of us, standing behind a tall, leafy potted fern in the hall. I feel his eyes—his accusations—trail me as I walk down the hallway, into the elevator, and leave the building.

For Paulo—for Eddie, even—I will easily abandon my plans for a vacation, my dreams of privacy.

They were just that, after all—plans, dreams, not reality. There are more important things to do now.

Chapter 15: Isla Romero

When people told me journalism was a useless degree, I never wanted to believe them.

But now that I’m here, watching the televised carnage of a storm that has brutalized the Philippines, I definitely believe them.

Capturing people’s pain and suffering on camera or on paper feels like a violation of their privacy. Writing a celebrity fluff story or even a celebrity expose seems like an insanely trivial endeavour when people are sick and injured and dying.

There’s nothing for me to do, and yet, I can’t leave.

This is why when Ryder Black pounds on my door, I see no choice but to answer his too-loud summons.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

“I need your help, but if you’re going to be so rude, I guess I’ll just leave.” He leans against the doorjamb, wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and ripped jeans. Ryder’s hair is rumpled, a crease on his face like he’s just woken up from a nap.

I scramble to my feet. One of my legs has fallen asleep from hunching over my phone and making calls to my parents to tell them about how Paulo went to help with relief efforts. I take a step forward, nearly tripping on the carpet.Embarrassing much, Isla? “What do you need help with?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe. Who knows what he might rope me into? Though, anything would be better than lying in our connecting hotel room, regretting my decision to come here.

Ryder straightens. “Great. This is actually… two favours.”

I clutch my notebook in my left hand. “What is it?”

“First, I’m hosting a birthday party for Paulo.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want to help?”

“How do you wantmeto help?” I fiddle with the pages of my notebook. “I may have known him for longer than you have, but I think you know him a little better.”

“I was taking pity on you,” he says dryly. “You can say no.”

Paulo has been too generous by letting me live in his house, uninvited, so of course, I say, “Yes. I just… was surprised that you’d want to work with me.”

“Anyways, the second favour is, I want you to help me with publicity for a charity concert I’m taking part in.”

“I’m not a publicist.” Of course, I’ve worked some odd jobs for PR firms and worked in some overlapping departments, but I was trained as a journalist. “Or have you forgotten how you accused me of spying on you?”

He ignores my question. “I know, but I thought you might have some connections to people back in L.A.”

“I would thinkyouhave more connections than me,” I say.

“I’ve been invited to do a charity concert, and I thought you might be interested in helping to publicize it. You know. For the Philippines, and your family.”

Who am I to discern the motivations of Ryder Black? Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s just a pop star with a heart of gold. I flip through my notebook again, looking at the smeared words while I try to formulate a response. What else do I have to do while I’m here?

“Isla, I’m asking for your help.” He forces out the words like pulling a bullet out of a wound, digging into the flesh and dripping blood. “Just tell me yes or no, but I would sincerely like you to help me.”

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