belamy20
patreon
162-164
🕑 Added 2025-06-10 16:01:01 +0000 UTCChapter 162: Between Siblings
“Go! Go! Go! Bruno!”
“Go! Go! Go! Bruno!”
Watching Ronan leap around and cheer with unrestrained excitement, his boundless energy seemed to pour out endlessly. In an instant, the lounge transformed into the standing-room-only rock zone of a concert. Allen and John exchanged a glance and both broke into smiles.
Allen chuckled, “Looks like there’s still plenty of fuel left in the tank.”
John shook his head. “We underestimated them, huh? Even if they sang for another four hours, took a ten-minute break, downed a couple of burgers, they’d be ready for round two. That tank’s not emptying anytime soon.”
Allen’s jaw dropped in mock disbelief.
“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Maxim and Ollie’s voices chimed in from behind, joining Ronan in pumping up the energy. But their thick, nasal tones betrayed the embarrassment they were trying to hide. No matter how loud or wild their shouts got, they couldn’t quite erase the lingering traces in their voices.
Then Maxim bolted toward Cliff, shaking him relentlessly. Cliff, who’d been struggling to keep his emotions in check, was visibly annoyed but couldn’t fend off Maxim’s preemptive strike. With exaggerated, terrible acting, Maxim yelled, “Cliff! Cliff! This is Bruno’s concert! You ready? Come on, get hyped with us!”
Flustered, Cliff swatted Maxim’s arm away, but before he could shake him off completely, Ollie—who’d just finished tidying up—charged over, joining the chaos. He kept shouting “Cliff, Cliff!” in an ear-piercing chant that was impossible to ignore.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Cliff caught Ronan stepping forward. Alarm bells rang in his head. One versus three? He’d be toast. Forgetting his disheveled state, he shook off Maxim and Ollie before Ronan could close in, darting toward the door while muttering loudly, “The concert! The concert! Bruno’s concert! If we’re any slower, we’ll miss the opening! You don’t want to miss the opening, trust me!”
In a frantic blur, Cliff made his escape. Ollie and Maxim chased after him, relentless. Were they rushing to join the concert frenzy or just trying to shift attention and cover their own awkwardness? Either way, their figures vanished through the doorway, finally slipping out of the spotlight for a moment.
One by one, the others trickled out of the lounge too.
Ronan called out to stop Alice just as she was about to leave. His eyes still sparkled with excitement—clearly hyped for the concert—but his emotions settled a bit. With a glance, he signaled for her to turn off the camera. His expression turned slightly serious.
Alice didn’t get it but switched off the camera anyway.
“About that agent thing earlier…” Ronan barely started before Alice caught on. She shook her head to show she wasn’t bothered, but Ronan shook his head too. “Let me finish. I haven’t talked to Cliff yet, so I don’t know what’s up, but I think he might still be worried about the agent situation.”
Tristan’s agent contract had been officially terminated. Ronan’s brother, Max, had handled it all, ensuring every loose end was tied up. But the process hadn’t been smooth sailing.
If Max hadn’t stepped in to sever the partnership completely, Tristan could’ve left some messy threads behind—dodging the band’s claims for compensation while still demanding a cut of future tour profits. In short, Tristan was a leech.
Ronan had laid it all out for the band, downplaying it a little, but they’d all been shaken by it.
Tristan was just an average music agent, but tonight’s Allen was a big shot. Cliff couldn’t help but worry about history repeating itself. If Allen wanted to steamroll the band, it’d be as easy as crushing an ant.
Ronan figured that’s why Cliff had jumped in earlier, claiming they already had an agent.
To most people, catching the eye of a top-tier agent would be a golden opportunity—a chance to break through. A big name meant connections, and sharing an agent with Bruno came with credibility and trust. But after being burned once, Cliff was too scarred to take the risk.
Ronan didn’t feel it as deeply as Cliff did. To him, accepting Allen’s offer made sense. But he could understand where Cliff was coming from. So instead of confronting Cliff right away, Ronan decided to wait until after tonight, when they could talk it out properly.
Maybe he’d misread it, and Cliff had other reasons. Or maybe he was right, and Cliff was wary of Allen’s eagerness at their first meeting. Either way, Ronan was willing to cool off and not rush into anything impulsively.
But while he could empathize with Cliff as a bandmate, Alice didn’t have to.
That’s why Ronan wanted to explain it to her.
“Clearly, Cliff’s still got some hang-ups. Whatever his reasons, he shouldn’t have blurted out a lie to John like that without checking with you first,” Ronan said calmly, though his expression was earnest.
Alice listened quietly, then gave him a smile. “It’s fine. After the initial panic, I kind of got the gist of it. I get it.” Truthfully, she didn’t mind, but since Ronan was apologizing so seriously, she figured a serious acceptance was the right response.
Sure enough, the tension in Ronan’s brow eased a little. “So, what’s the plan? You sure about what’s next? When are you heading back to school?”
Originally, Alice was supposed to head back to L.A. with the band, then return to school to finish her senior year. But now, with the band crisscrossing North America from west to east again, and the schedule up in the air, Ronan had to ask.
Alice waved it off casually. “Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing pressing at school anyway. Since the tour’s still going, I’ll stick with you guys and keep playing the agent role!”
That made Ronan chuckle.
Alice rocked her head side to side smugly. “What? Got a problem with your agent?” Her squinted eyes glinted mischievously, like a little fox, hinting: Answer carefully.
“No, no, no! No complaints here!” Ronan threw up his hands in surrender.
Satisfied, Alice grinned. “Relax, I’ll figure out when I need to head back to school. You don’t need to stress about it.” Then she patted Ronan’s back. “Come on, let’s go! The concert’s waiting—you’ve been pumped for this forever!”
With that, Alice nudged Ronan along, and the two of them left the lounge, chattering excitedly as they headed toward the Verizon Center’s main floor.
“Ahhh! Ahhh!”
The wave of heat hit them like a wall, practically setting their skin on fire.
Chapter 163: Rising to Fame Overnight
Ring ring!
Ring ring!
The phone blared like a typhoon warning, rattling Wyatt Garcia’s ears so loudly it felt like the whole room was shaking. His head was pounding, and he was half-tempted to dunk the phone into a glass of water just to shut it up. But a shred of rationality stopped him.
He’d switched to this obnoxiously loud ringtone for a reason—to make sure he wouldn’t miss an urgent call, even after a night of wild partying, chugging whiskey, tequila, and vodka until his brain turned to mush. Even now, in this foggy, hungover state, the sound still cut through.
So, Wyatt did the only thing he could: he yanked the pillow over his head, trying to block out the noise with sheer physical force, desperate for a moment of peace.
From Friday to Saturday, Bruno Mars’ “Love Song Saga” world tour had wrapped up its Washington, D.C. stop with two back-to-back shows. Next up, Bruno was headed to Philadelphia and Boston for the final two legs, putting a cap on the long global journey.
Last night, Bruno had thrown a small after-party at his hotel. It wasn’t a big affair—just fifty or so people, including a handful of journalists like Wyatt. To snag some firsthand scoop, Wyatt had let loose, drinking like there was no tomorrow. How he’d even made it out of the Hilton was a total blank.
And now?
What time was it, and who was calling already?
Ring ring!
Ring ring!
The relentless ringing wouldn’t quit. Wyatt’s head felt like it was about to explode—he had to stop this noise.
Finally, he reached out from under the pillow with his right hand, fumbling across the nightstand for what felt like an eternity. Just as he was about to give up, his fingers brushed the phone. He jabbed the answer button and slowly brought it to his ear.
“Wyatt Garcia! Where’s your draft?”
On the other end was Rob Sheffield, the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone. The guy was well past fifty but still had a fiery passion for new music that kept him young at heart. His reporters had gotten used to his quirky, over-the-top style, and trading casual jabs with him had become second nature.
“Which one are you talking about?” Wyatt rasped back, his voice so hoarse it barely worked. He sounded shamelessly unbothered.
“All of them,” Rob shot back, his tone brimming with impatience. But then he realized that wasn’t getting him anywhere and zeroed in. “The Bruno piece.”
Wyatt’s throat felt like sandpaper, and his headache was brutal. He couldn’t take it anymore—tossing the pillow aside, he sat up, gasping for fresh air. “The Bruno piece isn’t urgent. Why the rush? I can send it this afternoon. It’s only…” He pulled the phone away to check the time. “It’s only eleven.”
A concert recap was basically half a press release anyway—no need to race the clock. He could bang it out in thirty minutes, no sweat.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I can tell you just woke up. You’ve got no clue what’s going on online, do you?” Rob said, dangling the bait but not spilling the details just yet.
That snapped Wyatt’s eyes open—his journalist instincts kicked in. “What’s up? Did something happen?”
Rob’s chuckle crackled through the line. “Nah, nothing crazy. If it was a real scoop, your turtle pace would’ve let TMZ snatch the headline by now. It’s about the concert—the warm-up act for the Washington shows. What’s the deal with them?”
“Didn’t I already tell you? Phiz threw a tantrum and got stuck in Brazil…” Wyatt rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess.
“No, no, I know that part,” Rob cut in. “I mean the replacement band that stepped in. What’s their story?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s their story’?” Wyatt’s brain was still half-asleep, throbbing like it might burst, and he couldn’t keep up.
Rob finally stopped beating around the bush. “This stand-in band apparently killed it. People are buzzing about them all over social media. Concertgoers keep bringing them up—they left a real impression. A bunch of folks are asking who they even are.”
“…What?” Wyatt blinked, slowly catching on. “You mean both nights?”
“Yup, both nights. The crowd’s been raving about them, and now the topic’s picking up steam,” Rob confirmed. “It’s not some massive headline, but it’s definitely hit Twitter’s global trends. They’re getting a ton of eyes on them—seems like they won over a lot of fans.”
Twitter’s global trends?
Wyatt was fully awake now. He scrambled for his laptop, wedging the phone against his shoulder as he flipped it open and pulled up Twitter.
“If that’s all it is, it’s just a 140-character blurb,” Rob went on, referring to the old Twitter limit—a quick post could cover it, no need for a full article.
“But I heard Aaron B. Shuck’s taken an interest in them, and John Mark can’t stop singing their praises. That’s worth digging into.” Rob dropped the bombshell. This was insider info, not public yet, and it hinted at a bigger wave of hype to come. That’s why Rolling Stone needed to get ahead of it.
“There’s barely anything out there about them right now. Didn’t you meet them? What’s your take—can you whip up a piece?”
There it was—Rob’s real goal.
But Wyatt didn’t have time to chat. “Got it. I’m on it now. Talk later.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
On his laptop screen, Twitter’s global trends list glowed. “Bruno’s Opening Act” sat proudly in the top ten. Clicking in revealed a flood of chatter.
“Live performance was unreal! All I know is they’re called One Day Kings—anyone know this band? #BrunoOpeningAct”
“Insane vocals, but their stage energy was the real killer. Thanks, Bruno, for unearthing this gem of a band! #BrunoOpeningAct”
“Obsessed with #BrunoOpeningAct’s opening song! Anyone know what it’s called? Can’t find it anywhere.”
“Infectious energy? Top-tier. Singing? Top-tier. Stage presence? Top-tier. Total concert surprise! #BrunoOpeningAct”
“Watched Bruno two nights in a row and ended up stanning the opening band. Night two was even better than night one—insane! Love them! One Day Kings, you’ve got a fan starting today! #BrunoOpeningAct”
Chapter 164: Online Buzz
A quick scroll revealed over 6,000 posts under the hashtag “Bruno’s Opening Act.” Compared to topics that rack up tens or hundreds of thousands of posts, 6,000 might seem modest—almost embarrassingly so. But this was hands-down the fastest-rising keyword in the last 24 hours.
And considering it’d only been 39 hours since One Day Kings made their official debut, performing two nights in a row for a total of 20,000 people, that number suddenly looked a lot more impressive.
Sure, there were bound to be plenty of repeat posts, plus folks who didn’t even attend Bruno’s concert but jumped in to join the hype. The figure was definitely inflated. Still, even with that in mind, you could feel the rocket-like surge of attention on One Day Kings. It left Wyatt dumbfounded.
“What’s going on?”
Wyatt hadn’t been at the concert himself. He’d seen so many shows he was sick of them—Bruno’s “Love Song Chronicles” tour alone, he’d caught three times. He had zero interest in dragging himself back to the venue. His job didn’t require him to be there in person anyway.
But now?
Wyatt realized he might’ve missed something big.
With that thought, he quickly pulled up Bruno Mars’ personal account. Sure enough, he found a post from right after last night’s show ended.
“Thanks, D.C.! Show’s in the books! Big shoutout to One Day Kings! Tonight was epic!”
A string of hashtags followed, none of them “Bruno’s Opening Act,” just the usual ones tied to Bruno’s tour. But clicking into the 3,000+ comments below, a quick scan showed mentions of “One Day Kings” and “opening act” popping up everywhere.
It was obvious: even without Bruno hyping them up full throttle, this band had left a mark on the crowd. For them to get name-dropped so often in Bruno’s own comment section—his turf—was no small feat. A little opening act winning over Bruno’s fans? That was rare.
Then there were the 6,000+ posts under “Bruno’s Opening Act.” With just a few strokes, you could sketch out the outline of an online buzz starting to brew.
No wonder the editor-in-chief was taking notice.
Still, Wyatt didn’t rush to conclusions. He knew how deceptive internet hype could be—all foam, no substance. He needed to cool off and dig into what was really behind it. After mulling it over, he grabbed his phone again and started making calls, diving deeper into the story.
Meanwhile.
Ronan was curled up on the balcony sofa. The table in front of him held the remnants of breakfast: an empty plate with two lonely carrot sticks, a glass of orange juice down to its last sip, and scattered breadcrumbs on the glass surface. A half-eaten block of butter was draped with a napkin, while a fruit platter—cantaloupe, watermelon, grapes—glistened temptingly under the blue sky and white clouds. Lazy sunlight bathed half the balcony, and it was clear Ronan had scrunched himself up to dodge the rays.
A gentle sea breeze drifted in.
The ash-gray curtains fluttered lightly. Inside, on the bed, Ollie was still out cold, sprawled in a deep sleep after pouring everything into rehearsals and two straight nights of blazing performances. He was tangled up with the blankets, inseparable.
In the quiet, only Ronan’s soft chatting broke the stillness. Far from disrupting it, his voice only deepened the room’s calm.
“Yeah… we’ve noticed it too… ugh…”
Ronan had the phone wedged against his shoulder, letting out a small sigh. He didn’t say much, but the person on the other end seemed to get it completely, chuckling lightly. “I know, I get it. Remember? We’re still in the same boat ourselves.”
That brought a smile to Ronan’s lips. “Oh, I remember. That’s why I called you today.”
On the other end was Jeremiah Forrest from Radiance Band. They’d kept in touch ever since meeting in New Orleans.
Radiance was also touring across the U.S. Their situation was a bit better than One Day Kings’. They could sell tickets at legit venues—small ones, 300 or 400 people, sometimes sharing the bill with other indie bands—but still, proper mini-concerts. Things were looking up for them.
Jeremiah called Ronan often. Wesley Schultz, another Radiance member, called even more, but Wesley was like Ollie and Maxim combined—a chatterbox who could overwhelm even Ronan. So when Ronan reached out, he usually dialed Jeremiah directly. Of course, even then, Wesley’s voice was never far off.
Like right now.
“Ronan…” Wesley’s voice boomed from a distance, so loud Ronan had to pull the phone away from his ear. That high-pitched energy cut through like a knife. “That new song? I love it, love it, love it! God, how did you write those lyrics? I’m obsessed with that bittersweet vibe—perfect for street gigs, especially in New York. You have to play it on New York streets!”
He rattled on, not waiting for a reply, just tossing out an “Love you!” before fading off.
Ronan and Jeremiah were used to it by now. “Tell him thanks for me. He’s always so supportive. You know most of my confidence comes from Wesley,” Ronan said, a grin creeping into his eyes. Annoying as it was, it felt warm and familiar.
“That’s ‘cause you deserve it. Try getting Wesley to praise someone else—he’d probably choke on his words for half a day,” Jeremiah said with a laugh. Then he pulled the phone away and shouted, “Ronan says he loves you too!” Faint cheers from Wesley echoed back before Jeremiah returned.
“If you’re ready to hit the studio, Philly’s a solid choice,” he said, steering back to the day’s main topic.
That’s why Ronan had called Jeremiah today—to talk about recording.
Allen’s advice made a lot of sense, but Ronan and the band were still fumbling in the dark, lacking clear direction. They needed some pro-level input:
Should they head into a studio for real? Especially with cash so tight—would it pay off? Or should they stick to touring, waiting for the right moment? Maybe bet big on Allen’s connections and hope a record label bites?
Radiance had been through it themselves, so Jeremiah’s take carried weight.
(End of chapter)
