Page 83 of On the Beat

After Poppy finished gloating about how she was right to tell me and Naoya to collaborate, while also reminding me not to betoomean to him, she finally wrote down his address for me. Two hours later, the driver pulls up in front of Naoya’s mansion in the Hills. We drove up the winding, narrow roads that traverse one of L.A.’s wealthiest neighbourhoods, populated by billionaires, actors, and musicians alike. I’ve driven by this house countless times but never knew it was his.

Naoya’s house has a door painted bright green, and the colour only reminds me of the party we threw for Paulo.We. There isn’t aweanymore. There never was one.

I march up to the lime-green door and use the brassy knocker, which is shaped like a snake’s mouth complete with fangs. The decor makes me wonder what eccentric millionaire used to live here. Or maybe Naoya installed it himself, being a snake himself.

After a few minutes, Naoya himself opens the door. Huh. I always imagined him having a butler, or maybe a housekeeper to answer it.

He’s shirtless, with a temporary tattoo of a flower on his left pec, and low-slung jeans. Somehow, I never expected to see him standing on his front step looking dishevelled. Even in paparazzi shots, he’s always perfectly coiffed, the perfect playboy who’s ever-ready to smile and smoulder for the cameras. “Ryder. I didn’t expect to see you here today. Or on any other day ending iny.”

“Yes, well, there’s a first time for everything. Can I come in?”

“I’ll have to get my security detail to pat you down first.” He’s apparently not joking, because a huge, muscular guy in a three-piece suit–who I assume is his bodyguard–appears at his side a moment later. “Gustav, please do the usual for Mr. Black.”

I hope the usual doesn’t involve actual physical force, because while I may feel rather like looking for a fight, I’d rather pick one with Naoya, who is closer to my own size.

Instead, Gustav directs me to hold out my arms and stand in a t-pose, like I’m being frisked in the TSA line at the airport. After I’ve been checked for dangerous weapons, I step into the realm of Naoya Sugawa’s lair.

With more thorough observation, his house seems decidedly… normal. It’s not the den of iniquity or villain’s lair that I might have pictured. He’s displayed his Grammy awards in a glass case along one of the walls, but that’s about it. The walls are painted in white and blue nautical stripes, there’s a low table with floor mats that he must eat at, and the decor is almost homey.

“You caught me by surprise when I was cooking dinner,” he says. “I spilled sauce on my shirt.”

He gestures toward the kitchen chair, where a sauce-splattered t-shirt is draped.

“And here I thought you were just in the middle of hooking up with a random girl.”

Naoya’s scowl surprises me. “Who I havedallianceswith is none of your business, Ryder. And besides, I wouldn’t bother leaving the company of a girl just to see your ugly mug.”

“Charming. I see why they call you the cinnamon roll playboy with a dash of e-boy aesthetic.”

He walks toward the fridge. “Were any of those words English?”

“All of them.” I lean my hip against his kitchen counter, eyeing the ingredients spread out there. Shiitake mushrooms, carrots, onions, rice… It’s hard to believe that he cooks his own food, but he must, since the kitchen doesn’t even look like it’s a chef’s kitchen or something. “You’re just too old to understand them.”

We’re the same age, but I think he’s older than me by four months.

Naoya pulls out two Asahi beers and tosses me one. ”Catch. Now hurry up and tell me what you came here for. Gustav’s already checked you for a wire, so I know you’re not here to catch me on a hot mic saying something stupid.”

“No, if I wanted to hear you say something stupid, I would just stream any of your songs.”

“I’m glad you want to contribute to my ever-growing amassment of wealth, Black. It’s way too generous of you. Now spit it out. The reason you’re at my house, I mean. Not the beer.”

“I came here to ask you if you wanted to perform at the Grammy’s with me.”

He spills beer on the flower tattoo on his chest as his hand jerks in surprise. I expect the tattoo to rub off when he dabs at it with a paper towel since he’s known for his temporary tattoos. To my surprise, it remains in place. “You’ve got to be pulling my leg.”

“I’m standing six feet away from you, so no.”

“Don’t be so pedantic, Black, you know what I mean. Why wouldyouwant to perform at the Grammy’s withme? What song would we even sing together?”

I shrug. “Let’s write one together.”

“Now you’rereallykidding me.”

“Okay, you’re right. If we were in a recording studio together, someone would die and it wouldn’t be me. But let’s sing someone else’s song. We’ll do a Shawn Mendes or One Direction cover.”

“Give me one reason to agree with anything you just said.”

“I’m feeling generous and want to lend to your ever-increasing amassment of wealth. Also, Poppy asked me to.”

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