Chapter 19

Jules

The tour moves on like a freight train with no brakes. Night after night, Kill John takes the stage, and the crowds scream louder, sing along harder, and beg for more. The shows are electric, the energy palpable. From the outside, it would seem like everything is as it always was, that the machine is running perfectly. But it's not.

Not for Whip.

He does his best to keep the cracks hidden. He smiles for the fans, does his usual goofy backstage antics when there's a camera around, and makes the jokes that keep everyone laughing. But when the laughter fades and the cameras are off, so is he.

The press can't get enough of him right now. Clips of his EMA performance have gone viral, the headlines calling it "a masterclass in resilience" and "the show-stealing moment of the year." Fans are dissecting every second, from the stunned look on his face when the orchestra first started to the way he adjusted, took control, and delivered a performance that left the world breathless. His popularity is skyrocketing.

Social media is a constant stream of praise: Whip is a genius! That performance was EVERYTHING. He's the reason I believe in music again. The hashtags #Whip and #EMALegend have been trending for weeks.

But Whip doesn't care about any of it.

The buzz, the praise, the newfound spotlight—it all rolls off him like rain off a window. Because for Whip, it's not about what the world saw. It's about what they didn't see.

The betrayal. The humiliation. The way they took something deeply personal to him—his first solo, his music, his heart—and twisted it into a spectacle he barely recognized.

He hasn't said it outright, but I know he's still replaying it in his head. The moment the orchestra started, the sound of his song being ripped apart and rearranged without his permission, the weight of being blindsided in front of millions. It's eating at him, no matter how hard he tries to shove it down.

The others know it, too. It isn't often when someone mentions it in passing. Everyone knows better.

Still, it's the unspoken thing hanging in the air. It's in the way Killian watches him out of the corner of his eye during rehearsals, in Jax's sharp tone whenever someone even hints at the night of the performance, in the way Rye's been trying too hard to crack jokes, trying to bring the lightness back.

And then there are the private conversations, whispered when Whip's out of earshot. Like this one, right now.

We're in the lounge of the bus, parked somewhere between cities, the hum of the road a constant background noise. Rye's tossing Whip's drumstick in the air, catching it with a sharp snap every time. He's been at it for the past ten minutes, and I can tell from the way his jaw's set that he's itching to let loose.

"I don't get it," he says, breaking the silence. "Why isn't he talking to us? We're his brothers. We've been through worse shit than this."

Killian, perched on the armrest of a chair, rubs the back of his neck. "Because he doesn't know how to talk about it. That night wasn't just some bad gig. It was personal."

"It wasn't just personal," Jax interjects from his spot by the window, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. "It was humiliating. They hijacked his first solo gig. At a fucking global music awards show. Think about that. How do you even come back from that?"

Killian leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "He didn't fail though. That night? He turned an ambush into a standing ovation. I've seen seasoned performers crumble under less. But Whip? He fucking pulled it together, made it his own. People are still talking about it."

Jax exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "But even before the EMAs, people were giving Whip so much shit. So much hate. The worst I've ever seen directed at any of us." His voice tightens, frustration clear in every syllable. "And he just took it. Like it doesn't hurt him. Just lets them tear him apart."

Rye shakes his head, tapping his fingers restlessly against his knee. "Yeah, well, that's Whip. He takes the hit and keeps moving, like it's just part of the job." He exhales, his scowl softening, then tosses the drumstick onto the table with a loud clatter. "Now he's too stubborn to hear how good he is and he's shutting us out. But I'll remind him anyway. Even if I have to beat it into him. Gently."

"Rye," Brenna says softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor at his feet with her laptop open. "He's shutting you out because he's hurting, and he doesn't want to let you see it."

Stella nods from sitting beside Jax. "Whip's never been one to put his emotions on display. He buries them. You all know that."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't piss us off," Jax mutters as he puts his arm around Stella. "He should know he doesn't have to go through this alone."

"He does know," Brenna says firmly. "But this isn't about logic. It's about pride. He probably feels like he failed despite it all, and no amount of reassurance from you guys is going to change that until he believes it himself."

Killian exhales a long breath, his brow furrowed. "So what do we do? Just wait for him to implode?"

Stella tilts her head toward me, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "We let Jules handle it."

I blink, the attention suddenly turning to me. "Me?"

"You're the only one he doesn't try to brush off," Stella says simply. "You're the one he looks for when he's overwhelmed, even if he doesn't realize he's doing it."

"She's right," Brenna adds. "You're his anchor, Jules. He's been leaning on you since the EMAs."

I open my mouth to protest, to insist that I'm not some magical fix for Whip's emotional wounds, but the words die on my tongue. Because the truth is, they're right.

Whip has been leaning on me. In the quiet moments between shows, when we're sitting side by side in the lounge or backstage, he talks to me—not about the EMAs, but about everything else. Stupid memes he saw online, his favorite snacks at craft services, the dumb antics of the band's crew. But underneath it all, there's a fragility to him, like he's holding himself together with duct tape and willpower.

"I'll try," I say finally.

"Good," Rye says, giving me a small, grateful smile. "Because if anyone can get through to him, it's you."

I nod, but inside, I'm a mess of nerves. Because getting through to Whip? That's the easy part. Convincing him to let himself feel the weight of what happened and move past it? That's going to take everything I've got.

It's past midnight when I finally catch up to him. Whip's a fast walker for a guy who's six-four and all limbs. He moves with purpose, and trying to keep up is like chasing a golden retriever who's just spotted a squirrel.

We're in Spain—some city whose name I can't even pronounce properly because I've spent most of this leg of the tour holed up in venues, hotels, and buses. But tonight, I've traded the safety of those walls for the cobblestone streets, chasing after a man who's made a career out of running from his feelings.

Whip disappears around a corner, and I nearly slip on the slick stones in my effort to keep up. "For fuck's sake, Whip!" I yell, breathless and annoyed. "Stop being such a speedy bastard and slow down!"

He doesn't stop, of course. He never does.

When I round the corner, I see him up ahead, standing in the middle of a bridge that arches over a wide, dark river. The streetlights cast a golden glow, the water below shimmering like liquid gold. He's leaning on the railing, his back to me, and something about the way he's just standing there sends a bolt of panic straight through my chest.

"Oh, no. No, no, no," I mutter under my breath, picking up speed. "He's not—he wouldn't—"

But the image is already there, burned into my brain: Whip, overwhelmed and broken, deciding he's had enough. My heart hammers in my chest as I sprint toward him, my boots slapping against the stone.

"Whip!" I shout, my voice cracking with panic.

He startles, spinning around to face me, his eyes wide. "What the—Jules?"

I skid to a stop a few feet away, panting hard, my chest heaving. "What the hell are you doing?"

His brow furrows, his lips parting in confusion. "I'm... standing?"

"Don't lie to me," I snap, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I know what this is. You're upset, and now you're out here, and—God, Whip, were you going to jump?"

His jaw drops. "What? No!"

"Don't lie!" I shout again, my voice rising. "I've seen the movies! This is how it always starts—the tortured artist, the lonely bridge, the—"

"Jules," he cuts me off, his voice firm but laced with something suspiciously like amusement. "I wasn't going to jump."

I glare at him, my breathing still erratic. "Then what the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm... thinking," he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, you know—thinking. About life. About music. About how I'm going to survive Rye's latest prank. Just... thinking."

I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting. "You weren't going to jump?"

"No!" he exclaims, louder this time, and then, to my absolute horror, he starts laughing.

It's not just a chuckle, either. It's a full-on, head-thrown-back, body-shaking laugh, the kind that starts deep in his chest and spills out in waves, echoing off the buildings around us like music. Not just any music—his own rhythm, unmistakable and addicting, like a song you never want to end. His hand flies up to cover his face as if he's trying—and failing—to contain himself, but it only makes it worse. His shoulders shake, his perfect jawline tilting toward the night sky, and for a second, he looks so unguarded, so completely alive, that my breath catches.

I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh like this—if I've ever heard him laugh like this—and it's so contagious, so damn Whip, that I feel my own lips pulling into a smile despite the lingering embarrassment heating my cheeks. I miss seeing him like this.

And God, he's beautiful when he laughs. The sharp lines of his face soften, his eyes crinkling at the corners, that boyish charm breaking through the layers of polished rockstar. It's ridiculous how unfairly good he looks, like the universe decided, Yeah, let's just ruin someone's self-control today.

He glances at me, his grin impossibly wide, and there's something about the way the streetlights play over his features—golden skin, messy hair falling into his eyes—that sends a jolt straight to my chest.

"I thought—" I start, but I can't even finish the sentence because he's laughing so hard that tears are streaming down his face now.

"You thought I was going to jump," he says between gasps, his voice shaking. "Jules, come on. I'm dramatic, but I'm not that dramatic."

I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes at him. "Well, excuse me for being concerned. You've been acting like a damn ghost for weeks."

His laughter softens, the sound fading into the quiet night. "Sorry," he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"You're lucky I like you, Dexter. Otherwise, I'd toss you off this bridge myself."

The second the words leave my mouth, I freeze.

Shit.

His head snaps up, his eyes locking onto mine with a sharp intensity that sends a jolt straight through me. And then, slowly, that wicked smile unfurls across his face—the kind that could charm the devil himself, the kind that makes my stomach flip and my pulse trip over itself. "You like me?"

"No." The word flies out of my mouth, too fast, too defensive to be convincing. I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool, huffing like he's just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. "Don't flatter yourself."

But he doesn't back down. Oh no. His smile widens, slow and maddening, and he takes a step closer, closing the space between us. His eyes gleam, full of mischief, full of challenge. "You like me," he repeats, the words drawn out with a teasing lilt that makes my cheeks burn. "Jules likes me."

"God, you're insufferable," I mutter, turning on my heel to escape, to hide the heat climbing up my neck.

But I barely get two steps before his hand wraps around my wrist, firm but careful, spinning me back toward him. And just like that, he's there. Close. Too close. The air between us hums with tension, his warmth bleeding into me.

"Oh no, you don't," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his smile pure trouble. "You're not weaseling out of this one."

"I misspoke," I say, lifting my chin in a pathetic attempt at dignity, even as my heart pounds against my ribs like a drum.

His brows lift, his expression utterly delighted. "Misspoke?"

"Yes," I say firmly, though my voice wavers slightly, betraying me.

"Right," he drawls, the single word dripping with mockery, his gaze dropping ever so briefly to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. "Because people just accidentally admit they like someone all the time. Totally normal."

I'm vibrating, every nerve ending alive, every instinct screaming at me to retreat. But my feet are frozen. His voice drops a notch, softer now but no less smug. "You are so arrogant sometimes," I whisper, my breath catching.

"And you really like me," he counters, his voice like velvet, his grin devilishly satisfied.

The tension between us crackles like static, every inch of me hyperaware of the space—or lack of it—between us. I should shove him away, say something cutting to put him back in his place. But I don't. I can't.

Because the truth is, I do.

"Fine," I whisper, the word barely audible, my heart thudding in my chest. "Maybe I do."

His smile falters, melting into an expression I've never seen before, like he's just heard the most precious truth in the world. "Jules..."

The way he says my name, soft and reverent, like it's the only thing anchoring him, makes my knees go weak.

For a moment, we're suspended in that fragile, electric space, the air thick with unsaid things. But then, as if remembering where we are—standing in the middle of a bridge under the open sky with a few remaining pedestrians around—he takes a step back. His smile returns, warm and crooked, but there's a softness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"You just made my night," he says, his tone lighter now, playful but threaded with sincerity. "Hell, you probably made my year."

"Don't let it go to your head," I mutter, though my cheeks are burning so hot I might as well be glowing.

"Too late," he shoots back, laughter spilling out of him—light and unguarded, so damn infectious that my lips twitch in response.

And for a moment, standing there under the stars with him beaming like I just handed him the world, I think maybe I did. And just like that, the tension relaxes, the moment softening into something easier, something that feels like us.

We stand there in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city fading into the background. The river flows beneath us, its surface glittering in the moonlight, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Whip seems... still.

"Talk to me," I say finally, stepping closer. "I mean it, Whip. No more running, no more pretending. Just... talk to me."

He doesn't respond right away. His gaze is fixed on the water below, his hands gripping the railing like it's the only thing anchoring him. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and raw.

"Sometimes I wonder if this whole album thing was a mistake."

The admission is so quiet I almost don't hear it over the faint hum of the city, but when it sinks in, it feels like a punch to the chest.

"What?" I take a step closer, my voice sharper than I intended. "Why would you think that?"

His laugh is bitter, a sound that doesn't belong to Whip. "Why wouldn't I?" He glances at me, his expression guarded. "Have you seen the shit people are saying about me online?"

I wince. Of course, I've seen it. The endless stream of opinions—some glowing, others venomous—spilling across every platform. Whip's EMA performance might have set the world on fire, but the flames have scorched him too.

"It's not just the EMAs," he continues, turning back to the water. "It's everything. Tommy O'Donnell's talk show, the edited videos, the articles. They pick apart every note I sing, every word I say, like I'm some kind of science experiment. And the comments? Jesus, Jules, they make it sound like I don't deserve to be here. Like I should've just stayed in the background, banging on drums and keeping my mouth shut."

"Whip—"

"I'm serious," he cuts me off, his voice rising. "Do you know how exhausting it is? Everyone wants something from me—approval, entertainment, a damn soundbite. And yeah, it's great having Kill John backing me up. I couldn't do this without them. But the truth is, Jules, when this band ends—and it will, eventually—I'm going to be out here on my own."

His words hang heavy in the air, and I don't know what to say. He's right, in a way. Nothing lasts forever, not even Kill John. But the thought of Whip—sweet, goofy, endlessly talented Whip—standing alone in the harsh spotlight makes my stomach churn.

"I just..." He exhales shakily, his grip tightening on the railing as if it's the only thing holding him upright. "What if I'm not cut out for this? What if I can't handle it?"

"You can," I say, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. I step closer until our shoulders are nearly brushing. "You're one of the strongest people I know."

He lets out a bitter laugh, softer this time, almost defeated. "You say that now. But what about when you're not here? When it's really just me."

I blink, thrown by the sharp turn in his tone. "What are you talking about?"

"You're taking on new clients soon, right?" He doesn't meet my gaze, staring instead at the distant lights of the city. His voice is quiet, heavy. "You said something about going to America or whatever."

Ah. So that's what this is about.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, careful to keep my tone steady.

"You will eventually," he says, flat, resigned, the words like a quiet surrender. "And that's fine, Jules. I get it. You're talented. You're brilliant at what you do, and you deserve to go after everything you want. But when you do, it's just going to be me. And I don't know if I can... if I can keep this up without you."

The way he says it—it's not a plea, not even a question. It's an admission. A crack in the armor of the confident, easygoing Whip the world sees.

My heart twists at the raw honesty of it. "Whip," I say softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. He tenses at the contact, but I don't pull away. "Even if I wasn't here, you'd still be you. You'd still be incredible at what you do. You'd still make it. And you'd still succeed because that's who you are. With or without me."

He finally turns his head, his eyes locking onto mine. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's waiting for me to backtrack or soften the truth.

"You believe that?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

"I do," I say, my throat tightening. "But for the record, you're not going to have to do it without me. I'm not leaving yet. You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not."

His lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through. "You promise?"

"I promise," I whisper.

For a long moment, we just stand there, the noise of the city falling away until it's just us. Slowly, that small smile blooms into something real, something warm.

"You know," he says, the teasing lilt returning to his voice, "for someone who just admitted she likes me, you sure know how to keep me on edge."

My cheeks heat, but I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. "You're impossible."

"And you like me anyway," he counters, his grin widening, and damn it if it doesn't make my heart skip a beat.

I groan, rolling my eyes. "Are you seriously bringing that up again?"

"Of course I am," he says, his smile widening. "You like me, Jules. That's a big deal."

"It's not a big deal," I mutter, though my cheeks are flaming.

"Sure it is." He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Because I like you too."

My breath catches, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at him. He's watching me with that same intensity he had earlier, but this time, there's no tension, no bitterness—just warmth and something else I can't quite name.

And then, just as quickly, the moment is gone. Whip straightens, his nonchalance back in place. "Come on," he says, nudging me gently. "Let's get out of here before you start planning my intervention again."