La Quinta Hotel. Three stars. Fourth floor. Tiny triple room. And the softest bed ever. Seriously, what more could I ask for?
We checked in just past midnight, and instead of collapsing after a brutal day, a whole crowd of freshly-minted "Rock Without Borders" contestants decided to go out and party. Nighttime L.A. was calling their names, neon lights and all.
But not mine.
I dragged myself straight to bed. Two sleepless nights in a row and I was basically a zombie. Tomorrow was technically a rest day before round two, but right now, my only plan was:
Sleep. Sleep. More sleep.
Only one of my new roommates went out for a walk around the city. I never found out her name. The second one was lying on the farthest bed, wearing headphones. I tried to get her attention, but there was no reaction. She didn't even twitch. So I decided not to bother her.
I propped my Gibson in the corner, dropped my bag, and collapsed onto the bed. No energy for a shower. No energy for pajamas. Even brushing my teeth didn't bother me at all. I was exhausted.
Right now, sleep came first! Because at least in my dream I won't have the annoyed blonde auditioners, the furious Grace glaring at me for not calling. And there won't be an idiot who ruined my only connection to civilization.…
Let's just postpone meeting that smug face for a week. I was pretty sure I wouldn't even make it to the next round anyway, so hey, maybe I'll corner Shane and demand a new phone as payback.
Yeah, right.
Okay, that's officially it—my common sense just tapped out for today.
I buried my face in the pillow.
And why are Fallen Bliss even judges, anyway?
Oh, right. TV ratings. "Rock Without Borders" is about to break the internet just from the judges alone. But since when are a bunch of twenty-year-old punks "rock gurus"?
I sat up, glaring daggers at the wooden door.
They're why luck keeps slipping out of my hands! How old are these guys—eighteen? Twenty? Twenty-three? What do they even know about music? How do they judge anyone? What are their "criteria"?
Crap. I needed Internet, fast.
How was I the only person in the world who'd never heard of the "biggest rock band of the year"? Says who? Where's it written? And what kind of watered-down radio pop do they even play?
Flopped back on the pillow.
Guess I was supposed to be sleeping, huh?
Tomorrow, first thing—I'm finding an internet café.
Find an Internet cafe for a newcomer to Los Angeles who has been unable to navigate space since birth? Almost impossible.
Of course, the hotel had Wi-Fi, but I couldn't admit at the front desk that I didn't have a single device that could connect to it. And I didn't bring my laptop with me—I would have to carry too many things with me.
Find a real, working internet cafe nowadays? Practically an urban legend is like discovering a bigfoot. But anyway, luck was on my side: I asked a couple of random passersby for directions and actually found one of them around the corner...
When I woke up at the hotel, it was already three o'clock in the afternoon, the room was empty, everyone had left. But by six o'clock we will all have to meet at an important meeting — the lucky ones who have passed the second round will receive new instructions there. A hundred more participants will arrive tonight, and the real qualifying round will begin in a couple of days. We'll be divided into groups, assigned different days, and I'll find out the rest at the meeting.
This is what I learned before leaving the hotel. Two things were very clear: come to the meeting at six, and there would be cameras everywhere.
And people in Hollywood call this a "day off"?
Grace was online. I hurried to type a quick apology about my phone—smashed in the airport by some psycho—and right away got two words: Already saw plus two attached photos.
In the first photo: I'm flattening the vocalist of the "hottest band of the year".
In the second photo: The same jerk throws my phone on the floor.
Grace:
Baby, you became famous even before the show started! On Twitter, their fans are calling you the devil!
Tate:
Grace, who is this maniac?!
Grace:
Hey, slow down. Take a quick look around. If any of the fans hear this, you're finished. Seriously.
Tate:
Damn, I actually just turned around.
Grace:
Tate, which cave did you crawl out of? This is "Fallen Bliss"! Everyone is obsessed with this musical group! Especially everyone loves Shane!
**Sh-a-a-ane…**
Even his name gave me chills.
Alright. No point hoping for Grace's wisdom. I shot her a quick update that I'd made it to the next round, promised to call her the moment I could, and logged off.
*Time for some quality Google therapy.*
---
*"Fallen Bliss is an international rock band formed in Seoul, South Korea, under the R.Q. Entertainment label. Even before launching, they'd racked up a fan army thanks to their not-so-Korean looks. Fallen Bliss is one of the first Asian groups with four out of five members from other countries: two Americans, an Aussie, and a German. All five speak Korean and English fluently.
Since debut, they've snagged major awards and earned critics' respect. Most of their hits were written by the members themselves. A year in, as the label planned, Fallen Bliss set out to conquer Europe—and did. At this point, the only people who haven't heard of these insanely talented guys are living under a rock, or know zilch about rock music, period. Word on the street? They were picked out of thousands of wannabes."*
---
*Goodbye, Wikipedia.*
I hit the little X and leaned back in my chair.
So, that's it. I'm officially the one living under a rock—clueless about the hottest thing in rock right now.
At least now I got why they made them judges. Fallen Bliss is signed to R.Q. Entertainment, who's now collaborating with our Victory Records.
Wonder what kind of group they're cooking up this time? Maybe a "girl version" of FB? Or a mixed one? There are plenty of guys who made it past the first round, too.
Guess I knew what I was signing up for—a full-on commercial project. And honestly, what did I expect? Money? Sure, that would help, but music's more important. And sometimes, maybe, the two aren't so far apart. Not that I have time to worry about it—I might not even make it to the finals.
Especially after I knocked one of the judges to the floor and called him a jerk! Yes... It was stupid.
---
At six p.m., all the contestants crammed into the hotel's main hall. Turns out, the first rounds had been happening not just in L.A., but all along the California coast for weeks. Total headcount: almost two hundred, plus another batch rolling in tonight from the last round. Wild.
Some people never even made it to the hall—recovering from last night's party, I guess. Pretty sure they don't even realize they've already been cut.
Exactly as I thought. First test: responsibility.
"Responsibility, responsibility, and more responsibility!" boomed the head organizer, Mr. Wong, from a little stage. Tall, skinny, perfect Elvis hair, shoes so shiny you could see your soul in them.
He grinned, flashed those dentist-commercial teeth, and announced that by the twentieth, at least half of us would be gone. If you want to survive, you'd better start working—on yourself and on the song you'll perform in front of the oh-so-revered Fallen Bliss.
At the mention of those "pretty boys," most of the girls in the room shrieked like the glitter brigade at the airport.
I stared at the floor, praying none of them were hardcore stalkers tracking every new photo of their idols online. Otherwise, I might not make it to round two—taken out by a rabid fangirl before my big break.
Once I was assigned to my group (Wednesday's the day, lucky me), I bolted for the exit—dodging the plump, red-haired hostess and her "let's do an interview!" grin.
Evening fell fast. My dark-skinned roommate went to bed the second the sun dipped. I didn't even try to chat—I'm not the pushy type, and I can't stand people who are. If she wants to ignore me, I'm cool with that. The third roommate? Still missing. Not sure she even exists.
I grabbed my guitar and flopped into the chair. My Gibson tingled under my fingertips—tomorrow the rehearsal room would finally open, but I couldn't resist playing a little before bed.
Softly, I strummed a couple songs, humming to myself.
Suddenly:
"Hey! I'm trying to sleep here!"
My roommate's shout ripped through the room as she hurled her blanket at the wall.
The shock made me yank the strings so hard one of them snapped clean in half.
"Shit!" I jumped up from the chair.
"What's your problem?" My roommate suddenly shot up, glaring at me like I'd just thrown something at her.
"It's nothing, okay? Just… my string snapped," I said, frantically searching my bag for a spare.
She eyed me suspiciously, then flopped her legs over the edge of the bed. "You always this dramatic?"
I let out a frustrated sigh. "Only when my luck's this bad."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, some of us are trying to get some sleep over here."
"Don't worry, I'm done making noise," I muttered. "Not like I have much choice."
Damn. No spare strings in my bag.
Today, L.A. felt even warmer. No real heat, just that mellow, golden kind of sun that soaks right into your skin. The thin red sweater with the giant reindeer sleigh across the front? Perfect choice—not that I had many options. Most of my stuff still back in New York.
Last night's conversation with my roommate ended in mutual exasperation, so her name remains a mystery. On the bright side, I spent half the evening counting my cash like maybe—just maybe—it would magically multiply. Why? Because a decent set of strings for my Gibson would cost a small fortune. And if I end up having to buy a ticket home on Wednesday (which is basically a given), that new phone I've been dreaming about will just have to wait. Not to mention, I still owe Grace, and rent's not going to pay itself. My paycheck for this month? Who knows if it's even coming. After all, my "two days off" are up, and I wouldn't be shocked if I came home to a pink slip.
The hotel front desk guy was nice enough to give me directions to the nearest music shop, so now here I am, standing right outside.
A few rows of tall shelves filled with CDs and vintage vinyl lined the right wall; the rest of the space was pure instrument heaven—guitars, amps, pedals, the works.
My eyes nearly popped out at the wall of electric guitars. My Gibson could hold its own against most of them. I could stay here for hours, especially when they let you pull guitars off the racks, try them out, even plug them into an amp.New York has tons of places like this.
Honestly? I could live in one. Forget eating or sleeping—I'd just play, non-stop…
But not today. Time is passing. I have to be in the rehearsal room by one o'clock, where the filming of the show will continue and where we will all have to choose a song for the second round.
The guy behind the counter looked like he belonged in a biker gang, not a music shop. Bald head, a jaw you could probably crack walnuts on, and a leather vest that was so tight it looked painted on. His arms? Covered in tattoos all the way up to the sleeves—serpents, skulls, guitar necks, you name it.
But instead of the expected gruff "what d'you want," he greeted me with a surprisingly warm nod and a, "Need strings for that beauty?" that actually sounded genuine.
He didn't just sell me the set—he picked out a pack he promised would make my Gibson "sing like she's brand new" and even offered to help me put them on. That should've been my cue to trust humanity for once, but... Sorry, no. Nobody touches my guitar but me. That's not negotiable.
Still, I flashed him my best "thanks, but no thanks" smile and, with his permission, slipped into the farthest corner of the shop, finding a little oasis among the rows of amps and half-forgotten gig posters.
If you ask me, restringing a guitar is as personal as writing in your journal.
So I got to work. My fingers moved on autopilot, quick but careful. In the background, "With or Without You" by U2 played low from the shop's speakers, the melody making the moment feel almost cinematic.
I caught myself softly humming along, half-smiling despite the ache in my wallet from the price tag.
Halfway through the last string, I felt it. That unmistakable tingle on the back of my neck, like static before a summer storm. Someone was watching me. Not just glancing—watching, with that intensity that sets off all your alarms. My heart gave a little jump.
I tried to shake it off. Maybe it was just the shop guy. But the sensation didn't go away. If anything, it sharpened, focused to a pinpoint, the kind of presence you can feel even with your eyes closed.
I finally turned around, trying to look bored instead of freaked out.A guy was looking at me. The first thing that caught my eye was a smile. Not just a smile, but a dazzling white smile from the cover of a magazine, in which perfect teeth sparkled and dimples appeared on her cheeks, which I swear I've seen before. But where?
The rest of his face was a mystery: huge black sunglasses covered half of his face, hiding his eyes and eyebrows. A gray knitted hat was pulled low, almost touching the temples of his glasses, and a hoodie hood was thrown over the hat, the shadows hiding the remains of his face. He looked like a poster warning of the dangers posed by strangers, or perhaps a celebrity in hiding.
I took in the ripped black jeans, chunky combat boots, and the hardcase slung carelessly over one shoulder—was that a sticker from last year's Warped Tour? Details blurred in a flash of recognition and suspicion.
Why was he standing there, still smiling, not saying a word?
I stood up, squaring my shoulders, letting him know that I was not here to be intimidated or, God forbid, flirted with by random weirdos in music stores.
And then I saw it: black flames, drawn in sharp lines on his neck, rising to his jaw. It looked wild, almost like it was alive, as if the tattoos wanted to jump off his skin.
Something about those tattoos, the way he carried himself—it all felt weirdly familiar and totally unsettling. Was he just another musician? Or someone who'd been at the audition?
Either way, he wasn't moving. And I wasn't about to be the first to break the silence.