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🕑 Added 2025-06-12 16:34:08 +0000 UTCChapter 168: Breaking Through
Ronan’s steps were light as he bounced over to the next room. He rapped on the door with four knuckles in a crisp, rhythmic tap—not loud enough to shake the walls, just sharp and neat. Leaning his ear against the door to avoid disturbing other hotel guests, he muttered under his breath.
“Cliff, Cliff, Cliff, Cliff, Cliff,” he chanted over and over until the door swung open. Ignoring Cliff’s grumpy scowl, Ronan shoved past him, tiptoeing into the room with a grin. His chant shifted gears as he kept going.
“Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up,” he repeated endlessly. “Interview! We’ve got an interview to prep for—hurry, hurry, hurry!”
Cliff and Maxim were already awake, just lingering in bed. The relentless grind before the concert had drained them, and they needed the rest. Now, watching Ronan prance around the room like a horse on parade, their heads spun along with his dizzying energy.
“Wait, what’s going on?” Maxim latched onto Ronan’s words, sitting up straighter, urgency in his voice. “Explain.”
“Rolling Stone magazine called to set up an interview. Three p.m., downstairs in the lobby.” Ronan summed it up in one breath.
Cliff took a step forward, like he wanted to say something, but held back. Maxim, meanwhile, was still processing, looking like a computer buffering with too little RAM.
“Oh, I was worried it might be a scam call, but… well, we’ll know for sure when we meet them,” Ronan added, tossing in some unnecessary detail.
“Scam call? Hahaha!” Maxim cracked up, doubling over. “Ronan, your imagination—hahaha!” He rocked back and forth, then—thunk—smacked his head against the hard headboard. Joy turned to pain as he clutched his skull, yelping like an overcooked lobster.
But mid-rub, out of nowhere, Maxim sprang up like a martial arts master. Head snapping up, he darted off in a blur—feet barely touching the ground—vanishing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him.
Ronan and Cliff exchanged a look, stunned. A beat later, Cliff caught up, shouting, “Maxim!”
Too late.
Maxim, the band’s resident prince with a stage-four vanity disorder, was obsessed with his image. He’d stop at anything reflective to check himself out, like Narcissus from Greek myth. And once he hit the bathroom? Forget it—he wouldn’t emerge for at least an hour.
The other three bandmates had no clue what he did in there. How he stretched an hour out of whatever routine he had was a mystery they’d griped about endlessly. Maxim didn’t care—he did his thing, and it remained one of the band’s great unsolved riddles.
Staring at the firmly shut bathroom door, Cliff let out a long, defeated sigh, running a hand over the wild beard swallowing half his face. Between tour rehearsals and Maxim hogging the bathroom, Cliff hadn’t had a chance to groom lately.
On stage, it didn’t matter—fans were too far to see his features. But their first magazine feature, and with Rolling Stone no less? Cliff didn’t want to drown in his own facial hair.
He glanced at Ronan, hesitating, words stuck in his throat.
Ronan took the lead. “You can use our bathroom. Ollie and I are in and out quick. Got your razor out here, though?”
Cliff borrowing Ronan and Ollie’s bathroom was a regular thing—they were used to it. Normally, he’d just ask outright, but today, Cliff was off, awkward.
It’d been like that earlier too.
Faced with Ronan’s bombshell news, Cliff—usually the first to speak up—stayed quiet. Maxim’s voice filled the void instead.
It was still about the agent thing. That night, when Cliff had flat-out lied to John-Mark and Allen Bay Shuck, claiming Alice was their manager, Ronan had confronted him back at the hotel after the concert.
No surprise, Cliff was still rattled from the Tristan mess. To him, Allen being so eager at their first meeting felt off. Sure, Allen was Bruno’s agent, but the band didn’t have a solid tie to Bruno. Cliff thought they should keep their guard up.
Ronan saw it differently. They could’ve handled it better—played it cool, kept the door open for working with Allen later, instead of Cliff bluntly shutting it by saying they already had a manager. John knew the band’s real situation. If he and Allen compared notes and didn’t like their vibe, it could flip a promising connection into a dead end.
Maxim and Ollie both agreed with Ronan.
What really ticked Ronan off, though, was Cliff throwing Alice under the bus without a heads-up or agreement. Forget the band stuff for a sec—Ronan didn’t like how Cliff treated her. Alice wasn’t hired help. For over three months, she’d been pitching in for free, and they owed her real gratitude, not assumptions.
That’s why Ronan had to speak up fast, making his stance clear. He didn’t want the band taking Alice for granted.
He’d pushed for an open talk, and that’s how it went down.
After hashing it out, Cliff saw he’d acted rashly, not thinking it through. He apologized to Alice formally. Between bandmates, though, apologies felt too stiff—some joking around smoothed it over.
Cliff didn’t say it, but he still felt bad. These past couple days, he’d been stiff around Ronan, holding back.
Now, Ronan broke the ice. Seeing Cliff’s awkward, sheepish look, he laughed. “That shy face really doesn’t suit your big beard. It’s like a princess growing whiskers.”
The quip made Cliff roll his eyes. “What kind of description is that? Watch your words, okay?”
“That’s more like you. No need to keep acting all weird. Come on, hit our bathroom and clean up—we’re short on time.” Ronan clapped Cliff’s shoulder, and they both laughed. The awkward air cleared, things flowing again.
Chapter 169: Restless Nerves
The hotel lobby was quiet yet spacious, buzzing with people coming and going—a lively, busy scene. Outside, thick clouds stacked up layer upon layer, casting a somber hush over the city. Washington’s upright, dignified vibe seemed baked into the land itself. It made you miss the grace of New Orleans or the glitz of Vegas, where vibrant colors burst out against the summer heat.
“Ronan, what if we’ve already missed the reporter? Did you not pin down an exact spot with him? Just ‘hotel lobby’?”
Cliff’s hushed voice couldn’t hide his nerves. His mouth was grilling Ronan, but his eyes were darting around, scanning every figure passing through, hunting for anyone who might look like a journalist. His body had twisted a full 72 degrees, practically turning into a human pretzel.
Ronan had to tell him—for the seventh time—“Yes.” But he skipped the rest of the explanation. Cliff didn’t really want an answer anyway; it was just a reflex, a way to ease the tension and jitters.
In Ronan’s opinion, it wasn’t working.
A quick glance at the lobby’s international clocks—showing times across different regions—caught his eye. North America was split into West, Central, and East. Right now, it was 3:02 p.m. Eastern, just two minutes past their phone-agreed interview time.
Ronan didn’t see it as late. This was a last-minute call to set up, so things were bound to be hectic. Toss in D.C. traffic, and a 15-minute buffer was totally reasonable.
“Ronan, turn around for a sec.”
Maxim’s voice came from behind. Ronan swiveled, puzzled, only to find Maxim staring at him… fixing his hair. Ronan’s head filled with question marks. “Uh?”
Maxim didn’t reply, just kept fussing with his locks. Upstairs, he’d already spent 30 minutes on his hair—Ollie had cracked that he’d used half a tub of wax, enough to withstand a typhoon. And now he was at it again?
“Wait, you’re not…” Ronan trailed off, hardly believing his guess.
“Don’t blink,” Maxim cut in. “Eyes wide—there, perfect.” He was using Ronan’s pupils as a mirror.
Slowly, very slowly, Ronan rolled his eyes upward, giving Maxim a dramatic white-eyed stare.
Maxim didn’t care. Satisfied, he patted Ronan’s shoulder. “Thanks.” Then he turned to rib Ollie. “You’re glued to that phone again. Sure the screen’s still intact? Your fiery gaze hasn’t cracked it yet?”
Ollie, totally lost in his game, didn’t even twitch.
“He’s here!”
Cliff’s taut voice hissed beside them, his hand smacking Ronan’s arm over and over. The slaps were light, like a feather-powered waterwheel—more annoying than forceful. “Is that him? It’s gotta be him! He looks like a reporter! Oh—he saw us!”
Before he could finish, Cliff realized he’d given them away. He spun around, pretending nothing happened, frantically winking at Ronan and Maxim. “Don’t look, don’t look, or we’re busted!”
Ronan just found it hilarious. He glanced over anyway, only to see Cliff’s “reporter” stroll right past the lobby toward the elevators. Cliff was still yanking his arm, silently begging him to look away with wild, exaggerated faces.
“He’s gone,” Ronan said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
Cliff didn’t get it. “Huh?”
“He’s gone,” Ronan repeated. Cliff whipped around, staring blankly as the guy vanished into the elevator. “This is D.C.—tons of reporters around. But even if he was one, doesn’t mean he’s here for us.”
Right then—
“Sorry I’m late. I hate D.C.—the traffic’s as bad as New York’s, absolute garbage.” The voice hit before the person appeared, not from where Ronan and Cliff were looking, but circling around from the other side, landing square in front of them.
The reporter… was pretty average. Ash-gray polo shirt, black cargo pants, a small black shoulder bag slung over his left side. In a crowd, he’d barely stand out. The only thing unusual was his face.
His skin was a patchwork of red and black, weathered from years under the sun, with faint white outlines around his eyes—probably from sunglasses. You could tell he spent a lot of time outdoors.
Wyatt caught the band’s stares, scanning each of the four before pulling a cardholder from his pocket. He handed out business cards one by one, then locked onto Ronan for a proper intro. “Wyatt Garcia, Rolling Stone reporter.”
He didn’t say more, but his eyes screamed it: I’m not a scammer.
Ronan, though, studied the card, rubbing it between his fingers, reading every word like it was a treasure map. His slow, deliberate vibe sent a clear message: Cards can be faked.
Wyatt nearly blew a gasket, a curse teetering on his tongue. But Ronan beat him to it. “Sorry for doubting you—forgive my rudeness. We’re just floored. We’ve never done a magazine interview, and our first one’s with Rolling Stone? It feels like a dream. Even now, we can’t believe it.”
An apology first, then a humble fanboy moment.
Wyatt’s temper fizzled out. Looking into Ronan’s bright eyes, he paused, then got it—Ronan was messing with him.
As a Rolling Stone reporter, Wyatt was used to breezing through chats with big shots like Bruno Mars, who treated him with respect. Getting questioned over the phone had thrown him off, and now this young band was poking fun at him.
Calming down, Wyatt sized Ronan up again, his gaze sharpening.
He’d only caught a fleeting glimpse at the Verizon Center last time—no real impression. But today, face-to-face, it all clicked. Twitter snippets, YouTube clips, scraps of sparse info—all those bits and pieces came together into the guy standing here. It felt like a first meeting, yet somehow like they’d known each other forever.
Chapter 170: Just Ordinary
"Sure enough!" Having regained his composure, Wyatt let out a meaningful sigh. He'd initially thought it would just be a regular interview, but now a genuine, albeit small, interest had sparked. "You really live up to the hype of being a genius band that could deliver such a fantastic performance for your debut in a massive venue."
Genius band?
Ronan almost burst out laughing. He held it in, but couldn't quite suppress the upward curve of his lips, and a smile completely filled his eyes. "That's gotta be sarcasm, right? We just got on stage and made a rookie mistake. We barely managed to pull it together at the end to avoid completely embarrassing ourselves and letting Bruno down. We're just a pretty ordinary indie band who are into music, that's all."
"Ordinary?" Wyatt raised an eyebrow slightly, then chuckled. "A band that makes it to the top of the Twitter global trending list after just two nights of opening acts and sparks a huge discussion on social media is 'ordinary'? If that's the case, I bet you're about to tell me you think you have an average American face."
Clearly, from Wyatt's perspective, Ronan had a unique and captivating charm that definitely made him stand out.
But Ronan had a different idea. "Isn't that true though? Maxim is the one in our band who's supposed to be the handsome one. Let's not get that wrong."
As he said this, Ronan gestured to introduce Maxim to Wyatt.
Maxim was completely bewildered: Was it really going to be this direct and blunt?
As soon as Wyatt started talking, he and Ronan immediately engaged in a back-and-forth, a subtle but sharp exchange that kept the other band members on their toes. Ollie, however, was still preoccupied with his game, his attention completely elsewhere as he sneakily tapped away at his phone screen.
In just a couple of exchanges, Maxim and Cliff hadn't even registered what was happening before the conversation unexpectedly shifted to Maxim?
Maxim was slightly taken aback, but then flashed Wyatt a charming smile. Without any exaggerated gestures, his handsome features still managed to radiate a captivating appeal.
Objectively speaking, among the four band members, Maxim's features were indeed classically handsome, like a figure from ancient Greek sculpture. His tall and well-built physique was an added bonus. Even though he was only 181 centimeters tall, shorter than Ronan and Ollie, his broad shoulders and narrow waist created an ideal V-shape that looked perfect in suits or shirts, giving off an immediate impression of a model's aura.
Wyatt was momentarily speechless.
Although Wyatt really wanted to argue against Ronan's subtle shift in the conversation, looking at Maxim standing before him, he swallowed his retort. He simply responded with a teasing remark, "Ordinary Ronan Cooper, I think I'll remember that." Then, without waiting for Ronan to reply, he smoothly continued, "This is Maxim, then. And this must be Cliff, and this is Ollie, right?"
Wait a minute.
The moment the words left his mouth, Wyatt immediately realized that the transition from "Wyatt versus Ronan" to introducing the band members had been so natural and seamless, without any awkwardness whatsoever. The confrontational tension had disappeared without a trace, and the focus had shifted to Maxim, simultaneously introducing the other band members. It was as if... it had all been prearranged.
Wyatt believed he was the one in control because all the reactions felt natural, like he was just going with the flow. But who had created that "flow" in the first place?
Wyatt's gaze couldn't help but fall back on Ronan.
Ronan gave Wyatt a bright smile, his clear eyes seeming to hold unspoken words, before proactively saying, "The journalist suddenly expressed interest in interviewing the band, and we were all a little flustered. We weren't sure what you'd want to know. It's an honor for us to be interviewed by 'Rolling Stone'."
His interest piqued a little more.
A hint of a smile also appeared in Wyatt's eyes. Thinking back to their first encounter at the Verizon Center, Wyatt suddenly realized he might have misjudged Ronan.
At this moment, Cliff finally found his voice. Although he was a bit nervous, social situations were his forte, and he quickly recovered. He gestured invitingly. "Why don't we all sit down to chat? Otherwise, we're going to become the center of attention for everyone here."
Wyatt nodded in agreement, placed his backpack down, opened it, and proceeded to take out a variety of equipment, including a voice recorder, a phone, and a camera, like a magical bag of tricks that broadened everyone's horizons.
He neatly arranged the equipment on the table, then picked up the voice recorder, pressed the start button, and spoke into the microphone, "August 26th, Wyatt, Hilton Hotel, Washington, interviewee, King for a Day." After saying this, he gestured to the members with the recorder before placing it in the center of the four of them.
"Is the band aware of the social media buzz on Twitter?"
For completely new interviewees like them, Wyatt needed an entry point. After considering his options, he chose the direct reason for this interview, which was also the topic readers were most concerned about: Who exactly is King for a Day? And how did they enter the public eye?
However, the band members exchanged confused glances, their eyes revealing their uncertainty. Finally, Cliff spoke.
"No, we... we're not really sure," Cliff said hesitantly, unsure if this was the right answer. "For the past week, we've been in intensive rehearsals, completely immersed in the world of the performance. It wasn't until after the tour ended that we finally had a chance to relax, so we haven't had time to think about anything else yet."
Wyatt slightly raised his chin, a little surprised but not exactly shocked. He looked at Ronan. "We're in the age of social media now, where everyone can express their opinions online. Isn't the band curious about the feedback after your performances? Isn't that a bit unusual?"
Ronan didn't answer immediately but glanced at Cliff, because he wasn't sure how band interviews were usually conducted—
Were they supposed to be interviewed individually, or as a group of four? If it was the latter, how should they divide the speaking time? They were complete novices and hadn't designated an "official spokesperson." So, Ronan wasn't sure if he should interrupt during what seemed like "Cliff's time."
But clearly, Cliff wasn't sure either. He gave Ronan an encouraging look, his eyes filled with trust. First, there was the Scooter incident, and then the John Marks and Bruno Mars situations. Now, the band members were increasingly trusting Ronan, believing he could handle tricky situations.
Like right now.
Ronan finally spoke, "I think, perhaps, we've consciously tried to forget about it."
"Because you're afraid of criticism?" Wyatt pressed.
(End of this chapter)
