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"
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