Wait a sec! Things were starting to unravel—too many holes in the story to patch up. If she kept talking, her lie might fall apart right then and there.
Alice stuck out her tongue, silently hoping her luck would hold. Everyone was still caught up in shock and excitement—judging by Ollie and Maxim's eager faces, their focus was glued to the phone call. They probably wouldn't notice the cracks in her words. But then she turned and caught Ronan's knowing look. It startled her so much she bolted without even saying goodbye.
*Beep, beep, beep.*
Cliff had just hung up. Like Alice had said, the call was from the organizers of the Full Moon Party at Old Blacksmith Bar. They asked if One Day Kings were still nearby and could swing by to help shoot a short documentary about the event, including a quick on-camera interview.
But everyone knew the interview was just a cover. The real reason lurking underneath was Scooter.
Thing is, Scooter's name never came up once during the call. It felt more like the bar was putting together some kind of video project on their own. The whole thing was so last-minute—no prep, no planning, just bam, out of nowhere. Still, it wasn't *that* surprising. On the surface, it made sense, and even without Alice's heads-up, the band wouldn't have turned down an invite like this.
Ronan, though, was lost in thought. He had a hunch about what Alice might've pitched to convince Scooter—those shaky, contradiction-riddled excuses were starting to add up. But something still felt off. Alice's reaction didn't quite fit.
What was the missing piece? Maybe the key to this puzzle was the heart of a perfect lie: nine parts truth, one part fiction. So which part of Alice's story was the lie?
"Ronan?"
Snapping back to reality, he realized the band had already left the booth, buzzing with energy and ready to seize this golden opportunity. Meanwhile, Ronan was still parked at the table, fork and knife in hand, looking like he was gearing up for a food fight.
He'd just popped a bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as his mind churned. He hadn't even stood up yet when he felt the sharp stares of his bandmates. Their impatience clashed hilariously with his laid-back vibe—like a tortoise-and-hare race on steroids.
"You're not serious right now, are you?" Cliff rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible, his face screaming annoyance.
To Ronan, there was no rush. Since Scooter had reached out by phone—and it definitely wasn't just their band on the list—getting to the spot would take time anyway. A few minutes here or there wouldn't make or break it.
Wasting food, though? That was a terrible habit.
Still, under the weight of his teammates' death glares, Ronan didn't argue. He shoveled the rest of his plate into his mouth in two quick bites, cleared it in a flash, and stood up. With a wave, he signaled he was ready, and they could head out.
Cliff didn't budge, staring at Ronan's puffed-up cheeks in disbelief. Ronan, unfazed, met his gaze head-on and mumbled, "Let's go—aren't you worried about being late?" His round, stuffed cheeks looked like a squirrel hoarding pinecones.
Cliff held back a retort, turned, and stormed off toward Old Blacksmith Bar like a tornado on a mission.
By the time they got back to the bar, the Full Moon Party was over. The place was deserted—empty streets, empty bar, no sign of life. The scattered mess on the ground hinted at a lingering loneliness, the air stripped of its earlier noise and energy. A hollow feeling settled in, and a quiet sadness crept up uninvited.
Just as Ronan figured, they didn't get to see Scooter right away. They waited backstage at the bar for a while with no updates. Time dragged on, a slow drip of boredom and nerves that felt like torture. Emotions started bubbling up, impossible to keep down.
"…We did alright, didn't we?" Cliff's voice betrayed his anxiety, the words spilling out randomly before he rushed to clarify. "I mean, tonight's show—we gave it everything, right? Put our all out there, no holding back?"
The slight lift in his tone gave away his unease. This jittery version of Cliff was new to Ronan—
Not that it was shocking. Ronan had only been around for three days; there was plenty he hadn't seen yet.
Ollie nodded eagerly. "Oh, for sure! Tonight's performance was killer."
Maxim caught Ollie's glance and chimed in, "Yeah, hands down the best, most perfect show we've pulled off in years." He said it confidently, but then his eyes flicked to Ronan for a split second before he sank back into thought.
Maxim didn't even clock his own move. Back in the day, Ronan wasn't the leader type in the band. For everyday stuff, they'd go to Cliff; for technical things, it was Maxim or Ollie. Ronan was just the guy who focused on singing his heart out. So what was that glance just now?
He probably didn't realize it himself, but in just three days, something had shifted subtly.
"Born this way, can't give it up." Ronan's soft, a cappella voice floated through the air. He didn't speak, just hummed the chorus of "Born This Way." Without instruments, his singing was gentler, like a lullaby whispering secrets, tinged with exhaustion—but still holding on.
No words, but it said more than enough.
Maxim's restless energy settled down. He turned to Cliff, his tone steadier now. "We did our best. The crowd's reaction was proof—you're not telling me you've got goldfish memory and forgot what happened a few hours ago, are you?"
For once, Cliff didn't snap back at Maxim. He was lost in his own head, pacing like a caged animal, muttering stuff too quiet to catch.
Then Ollie spotted a figure at the end of the hall. "He's here!"
Cliff shot forward like a spooked deer. Maxim and Ollie trailed close behind, their steps quick and tight. Even Ronan, who'd been chill up to now, felt a spark of nerves. His heart thudded against his chest. He swallowed hard to ease his dry throat and followed after them.
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