134-135

Chapter 134: Two Reporters 

In the entire North American music scene, there’s probably only one person bold enough to throw tantrums and act like a diva for the wildest, most ridiculous reasons—and still not change a bit despite the endless backlash from media and fans: Mariah Carey.  

Honestly, it might even be true worldwide.  

Ditching a reporter because her pet isn’t feeling well, or pushing a pre-scheduled interview back two hours? That’s not even surprising. This superstar doesn’t care who you are—if she’s not vibing, she’ll clap back without hesitation.  

She’s had beef with Eminem, trading diss tracks back and forth. In an interview, she casually shaded Madonna, saying she’s past her prime. On a talk show, when asked to name three good things about Nicki Minaj, she fired back, “Can you?”  

Simply put, Mariah can start a feud with a breezy smile. Alongside supermodel Naomi Campbell—another legend in the art of throwing shade—they’re like the literary and martial pillars of drama.  

Of course, her most iconic moment came a decade ago at the turn of the century. When a reporter asked, “What do you think of Jennifer Lopez?” she dropped the now-legendary line: “I don’t know her.” Twenty years later, it’s still everywhere.  

The bad blood between Mariah and J.Lo goes way back to 1997. Mariah was splitting from her then-husband, Sony Music exec Tommy Mottola, who was pushing hard to make newbie Jennifer a star—putting her in direct competition with Mariah. The seeds were planted.  

In 1998, Sony took a demo Mariah was set to record and handed it to Jennifer. J.Lo recorded and released it first, and that song—“If You Had My Love”—became her first Billboard number-one hit. Mariah, who adored the track, scrambled to resample and rearrange it, releasing “Can’t Take That Away.” But it stalled at number two on the charts, unable to climb higher. That’s when the feud really locked in.  

Back then, Jennifer was on fire—singles, albums, movies, all hitting big. Meanwhile, Mariah hit her first career slump. Her album Rainbow tanked hard, and Sony cut ties with her, eating a $28 million loss.  

So, in that infamous interview, Mariah delivered her historic zinger: “I don’t know her.”  

Years later, they still hadn’t made up. At an awards show, while Mariah performed, the camera caught J.Lo scrolling on her phone. When reporters brought it up, Mariah doubled down with a fresh gem: “I still don’t know her.”  

When it comes to making enemies, Mariah fears no one.  

Even outsiders have heard the stories, so someone like Julio—an industry insider—knew them well. He patted the guy’s shoulder with a grin. “At least she didn’t cancel the interview outright and say she’ll never know you.”  

Wyatt Garcia choked a little, almost saying, “She wouldn’t dare.” After all, no singer in North America would risk blacklisting Rolling Stone magazine. But then he remembered who they were talking about—Mariah—and his confidence wobbled.  

Maybe it was because of Rolling Stone’s clout that she only delayed the interview by two hours instead of bailing. And yeah, it still went through.  

This time, Mariah was back in the spotlight. She’d signed on as a judge for American Idol’s twelfth season, set to share the panel with Nicki Minaj—already a tense combo. It was drawing tons of attention early on, and Wyatt had a feeling they’d be dealing with Mariah for a while.  

He sighed, annoyed, and muttered, “It’s our honor to get an audience with the Butterfly Queen.”  

Julio chuckled, letting it slide, then turned to the other reporter with a big smile. “What brings you two together?”  

“Just ran into each other at the door,” Buster Wayne said with a friendly nod, keeping a slight distance.  

They were both reporters, sure, but Buster knew they weren’t the same.  

Wyatt was with Rolling Stone, the top music mag in North America, respected worldwide. Buster? A freelance writer, blogging, tweeting, pitching to whatever mags or papers would take him. No big backing, just him.  

Same job title, different worlds—work style, pay, status, all of it. Mainstream journalists often scoffed at freelancers like him, born from the internet age, calling them unprofessional hacks. Only a few saw it as the natural evolution of the times.  

So Buster stayed polite but didn’t push to buddy up.  

Wyatt didn’t look down on him or anything—he just wasn’t in the mood. Mariah’s dawdling had thrown off his schedule, and now he had to hustle. Two deadlines loomed tonight, so he cut to the chase.  

“This the emergency fill-in band? Any resume or background?” Wyatt jerked his chin toward the stage.  

Bruno Mars’ world tour was winding down, and music journalists were already prepping wrap-up pieces. Then the Brazil snag hit, and the press jumped on it, tracking every move, hoping the tour would finish strong.  

Today, Wyatt and Buster were here at the official invite of Bruno’s manager. They were digging for material on the tour’s North American return, reassuring fans the shows would go on, no hiccups.  

Wyatt repped the pro music press; Buster, the online crowd. No need for a big splash—just two channels dropping the word was plenty.  

Julio shifted over, making room for Buster, who gave him a quick smile in return.  

“Indie band. No resume, no big background,” Julio explained. “You know Bruno—it’s all about the music. Their sound stood out, so he picked them. The rest? Doesn’t matter. That said, there’s still a lot up in the air. We’re cutting it close to the tour date, and we’re not even sure if rehearsals will wrap up smooth.”  

Chapter 135: A Fleeting Glimpse 

“…We can’t be sure yet if the rehearsal will go smoothly.” 

Julio’s words are carefully measured. 

“To Bruno, delivering a top-notch performance is always the priority, so we’ll need to see how the stage comes together over the next few days. We’re all looking forward to it.” Julio’s casual tone feels rehearsed, with traces of John-Mark’s influence woven in everywhere. 

He doesn’t mention that Bruno still needs to approve the band or hint at who recommended them. Instead, he brushes over it vaguely, leaving room for the PR narrative later—whether the performance shines or flops, or even if the band doesn’t make it to the stage. It ensures “Bruno’s never at fault,” “Bruno only gets the credit,” and “any mishaps are just that—mishaps, nothing to do with Bruno.” 

That’s the kind of protection they build around an artist: keep the spotlight on them, while managers and tour organizers shoulder any blame. Of course, if everything goes well, the glory’s all Bruno’s—naturally. 

Dig a little deeper, and you can catch the cleverness in Julio’s words. 

Wyatt and Buster both glance at Julio, but neither calls out his PR game. It’s not that they don’t see it—they just don’t see the point in nitpicking over something small. Anyway, no one knows the band rehearsing on stage. Everyone’s here for Bruno. 

“What’s the band called?” Wyatt asks, doing his due diligence. 

“King for a Day.” Julio claps and laughs. “Look at me, forgetting the most important part—sorry about that. Let me take you around and show you how we’re prepping for the tour. We’re taking the North American finale seriously, and Bruno’s pretty nervous…” 

With an inviting gesture, Julio leads the two journalists away from the stage area for a tour of the venue. 

Buster observes everything closely: what the standing pit looks like, the view from the second-floor seats, the sound quality onsite—stuff like that. He’s thinking from the audience’s perspective: 

What kind of concert experience will people get? That’s what online readers want to know. 

Wyatt, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the venue. His focus is all on Bruno: special arrangements for the North American finale, plans after the tour wraps, how Bruno’s performing this time around. He’s approaching it from a pro angle: 

How does this tour fit into Bruno’s career, and what’s the bigger story? That’s the deep dive print magazines crave. 

Of course, it’s not a hard divide. It depends more on the outlet and the reporter’s style. Buster and Wyatt both know exactly what they’re aiming for, so their questions hit the mark. The short chat flows easily. 

The interview lasts maybe fifteen minutes. For Wyatt and Buster, it’s just one piece of a bigger puzzle today. They’ve still got more angles to cover—different methods, different sources, including a sit-down with Bruno—before their stories come together. 

That’s why, after a quick loop around, the visit wraps up. It feels a bit rushed. 

“I’m heading out. You?” Wyatt asks Buster politely. 

Buster blinks, then smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’m done too.” 

Wyatt exchanges a few more pleasantries with Julio—something about grabbing a meal next time—while Buster’s gaze sweeps the room, landing on the stage. 

It’s King for a Day’s first rehearsal day, and it’s a mess—chaotic and tedious. A lot of it is technical grinding, so there’s no full performance to catch while they’re there. It’s more like a fractured nitpicking session. 

Plus, neither Buster nor Wyatt has much interest in an unknown band, so they haven’t paid much attention—until now. 

The band members are up there discussing something, but they’re too far to use mics, so Buster can’t hear a thing. Still, he lifts his camera and aims the lens at the stage. Might as well snap a shot of the band deep in rehearsal. 

Click. 

The shutter freezes time, locking the moment forever. Just as his finger eases off, Buster catches a glint of light: 

It’s probably the lighting tech tweaking positions, a stray halo brushing across one of the band member’s cheeks. Looks like the lead singer—no instruments, just a white T-shirt and jeans. Simple and natural, but it can’t hide the striking figure he cuts. 

The light skims his cheek, tracing faint shadows. From this distance, his expression’s a blur, but there’s a hint of focus and intensity in the slight furrow of his brow. He lifts his right hand, ruffling his messy hair in mild frustration. His face comes fully into view—clear eyes shining bright amid the play of light and shadow, instantly lighting up the frame. 

Click! 

Buster instinctively snaps another shot, capturing that heart-stopping flash. Only after the shutter releases does he realize his heartbeat froze too. It’s like he glimpsed time itself solidify—not just looks or build, not even just vibe, but a unique charm radiating from the inside out. 

He lowers the camera and looks at the stage with his naked eye, but the feeling’s gone. It’s just a bunch of ordinary young guys rehearsing—nothing special. Buster starts to wonder if he imagined it, if his eyes played a trick on him. 

It’s like a glitch in time—a half-real, dreamlike moment where he saw a mirage that wasn’t there. Blink again, and it’s gone, because it never was. 

“You okay?” Julio’s voice cuts through, pulling Buster back. 

Buster snaps out of it and clears his throat. “No, I’m fine.” But then he reconsiders. “That guy on stage, white T-shirt and jeans—who is he?” 

“Ronan Cooper, the band’s lead singer,” Julio answers quickly. He notices Buster mulling over the name and adds, “Want me to introduce you? He’s a talented kid. Maybe you should meet him.” 

Julio’s enthusiasm is unmistakable. 

(End of Chapter)