Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
In the blink of an eye, two hours slipped by. It was now just past 1 a.m. The motel buzzed with noise as always, but their moods had flipped upside down—from nervous anticipation to anxious doubt, then to a resigned calm, and now teetering on the edge of giving up entirely.
Because they might really be waiting for Godot—a figure who'd never show.
Ronan, though, stayed steady. Not because he wasn't hopeful, but because in his past life, he'd waited too often. Most of the time, it was just him in the dark, and if he let anxiety or fear take over, he'd have lost his mind.
He was nervous, sure, but he'd learned how to coexist with those negative feelings during the wait.
"Are we just going to keep waiting like this forever?" Cliff's voice carried a mix of unease and hesitation. It wasn't so much a question as a way to vent.
"Maybe, maybe not," Ronan replied with a Shakespearean flair, then chuckled. "Cliff, we should be glad. At least this wait has an end in sight. Maybe in another two hours, we'll call it quits. Compared to the future we can't see, this is way simpler."
"…" Cliff let out a long breath. True enough, this kind of waiting wasn't torture. There were only two outcomes—real or fake. But the band's future? That held too many possibilities, and that uncertainty was what really threw you off and left you lost.
That's why people say hope is precious but also a source of pain.
"Maybe it really is simpler this way…" Cliff sighed, but before he could finish, the payphone beside them erupted into a deafening ring.
Ring-ring-ring!
Ring-ring-ring!
It was one of those old-school '80s ringtones—loud enough to wake every animal within a kilometer. The kind you'd hear in a horror movie, signaling doom the moment it started, sending chills down your spine.
Cliff and Ronan jumped. Even Alice, standing a bit farther off, flinched. All eyes shot to the ringing phone.
Cliff sprang up, his face lighting up with excitement as he stared at the clanging device. But his feet stayed glued to the ground, too scared to move—
What if it was a scam? Or worse, what if it was real, but the memory of screwing up with Scooter came flooding back and he messed up again?
His muscles locked up, frozen in place.
"Cliff?" Ronan stood up a beat later, shooting him a questioning look.
Cliff glanced at Ronan. That calm, breezy expression with a faint smile showed he wasn't rattled. Making a snap decision, Cliff jerked his chin at Ronan. "You answer it."
Ronan's eyes widened. "You sure?"
Cliff didn't have time to second-guess. "Quick," he urged. What if the caller got impatient and hung up?
Ronan didn't argue. He stepped forward, grabbed the receiver, and answered, "Good evening, this is Ronan Cooper."
The second he said it, Cliff smacked his forehead in regret, hopping in place and mouthing "band, band, band" at Ronan. The caller wouldn't know Ronan's name!
But the voice on the other end sounded a little off. "Ronan… Cooper… uh, wait, you're the lead singer of King for a Day… uh, lead singer, right? Sorry, I'm a bit all over the place right now, forgive me. Anyway—Ronan Cooper, good evening. This is John Mark."
How to describe it?
The start of the call was loose, chaotic, and packed with random details. But to Ronan, it didn't feel much like a scam.
"I was waiting for your call, but instead I got a phone number. Don't you know that's pretty rude and could cost you this big opportunity?" The voice on the line suddenly turned stern—not thunderous, but close enough.
Ronan, though, stayed cool and replied earnestly, "Sorry about that. We thought it was a scam email. Honestly, my first instinct was to toss it in the trash."
"Haha." The serious vibe broke with a light laugh. "I don't like being doubted like that. You should know I'd never joke about work. But… I get it. You've got to understand my side too—I couldn't find your manager's contact info. If I'd gone through a manager, all this could've been sorted out easily."
A manager doesn't just handle communication—they can verify things through industry channels. Like whether Bruno Mars really needed an opening act last-minute, or if John Mark's identity checked out. Stuff like that.
"Totally get it!" Ronan said cheerfully. "So things got complicated, but now they're simple again."
The double meaning in his words made John chuckle. "True, it's a lot simpler now. Let's get down to business."
You could hear a faint rasp of exhaustion in John's voice. It was clear he was in the thick of some intense, busy work.
"Our tour hit a snag, and now we need an opening act. From what I know, King for a Day's doing street gigs in Las Vegas. Can you make it to Washington by tomorrow? We need to rehearse for this weekend's show. Time's tight."
This time, Ronan could feel even more certain this was legit—probably Bruno Mars's tour manager. It was all in the way he talked.
Even though he phrased it like a question, he'd already assumed the answer before asking.
He didn't think King for a Day would turn down an offer like this—it was basically an order. That top-down commanding tone came from years of being in charge and knowing his job inside out. It's not something a scammer could fake easily.
Right in front of him, Ronan could feel Cliff's suffocating tension. His gaze burned into Ronan's skin, sharp and hot, practically scorching. Those eyes held a flicker of unease, desperate for a solid answer. Under the streetlamp, buzzing mosquitoes added to the restless vibe.
But now wasn't the time to hash it out. Ronan still needed to talk this through. He shot Cliff a "hold on" look, then turned slightly to keep the conversation going.
"Mr. Mark…" Ronan started, but a laugh cut him off from the other end. "Mr. Mark's my dad. Just call me John."
That made Ronan chuckle too. But his reply didn't follow the usual script.