Chapter 2

Jules

There's a buzz in the air whenever Kill John gets together for rehearsals. The space hums with energy, the kind that can only come from a band of talented, high-strung individuals who are more than just a group of musicians—they're a force. I've seen it before, but it never loses its impact.

I lean against the wall at the back of the room, my arms crossed as I take it all in. The vibe in the studio is electric, and as I watch the band settle into their usual positions, I can't help but be impressed by how effortlessly they fall into sync with one another. They're a well-oiled machine, each member contributing to the collective sound that makes Kill John what it is.

Killian's in the front, naturally. He always takes center stage, his presence undeniable. His guitar is slung low, his fingers effortlessly coaxing the opening chords of the song they're about to rehearse. He's the kind of guy who commands attention without trying. It's no surprise that he's the lead guitarist—the man practically exudes charisma.

Jax is next to him, towering with his lean frame and intense eyes. He has this almost predatory energy to him—like he's always on the hunt for something, whether it's inspiration, a good time, or someone to rile up. Today, he's wearing one of his black leather jackets, the sleeves pushed up to show off his arms. His voice is already low, warming up with a few bars of the song Killian just played. His laugh is deep and husky, and I know it's about to spill out in the usual banter that follows between him and the others.

Rye is fiddling with his bass, his hands moving in slow, deliberate motions as he tunes. He's the large one in the group, the one who speaks in a low, almost sarcastic drawl that's as smooth as honey, but you always know there's a sharpness to it beneath the surface. He's got a dry wit that often cuts through the noise of the other guys.

And then there's Whip, at the back of the room, quietly getting his drums ready. He's the enigma of the group—the one who has always been a bit of a mystery to me. He doesn't crave the limelight the way the others do, and yet he's just as talented, if not more so. His drumsticks tap lightly against the surface of his kit. There's something about him that's just so sweet and approachable. Whip brings something different. He's the one who never seems too serious, but his presence always balances out the intensity of the others. He's the kind of guy who can crack a joke, and the whole room laughs with him. And that's part of what makes him so easy to like.

I'd been working with these guys for years as Scottie's assistant. Then after Brenna taught me more skills, I've been taking on more responsibility in the band's day-to-day operations as their Senior Operations Director. Watching them rehearse is like watching a family, albeit a dysfunctional one. But that's what makes Kill John so captivating to me. The way they interact, the way they tease each other, the way they fit together—it's like watching an orchestra in full swing, and I'm lucky enough to be in the audience.

Whip finally picks up his sticks, tapping them lightly against his kit. It's a rhythm all his own, soft but steady. His eyes flick over the rest of the band, and when he looks over at Killian, he cracks a smile. "Alright, let's see if you're actually gonna let me play today," he teases, his voice light but full of mischief.

Killian looks over at him, smirking. "Only if you promise not to make us all wish we were deaf with your 'easy listening' beats, man."

Whip laughs, melodically especially for a drummer, tapping his sticks together like he's just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "I'll show you some damn rhythm, Kills. Prepare to be amazed."

Rye snorts, low and guttural. "If you're still waiting for that, you're gonna be waiting a long fucking time."

Jax laughs loudly, "Yeah, Whip, maybe you should just take a nap while we do the hard work."

Whip chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches his arms. "Man, fuck you guys. Give it a minute—I'm about to turn this shit into a panty-dropper."

The group laughs, and even Scottie, their manager standing nearby, smirks at the exchange. It's clear that while they all have their roles, Whip's ability to be lighthearted without missing a beat is something they all rely on. He may not be the lead, but his warmth is a welcoming presence, a balance to all the egos in the room.

As the song kicks into gear, the room fills with the familiar pulse of Kill John's sound. Killian leads with his guitar cutting through the air, but it's Whip's drums that anchor everything together. They have this bouncy quality to them, almost like he's playing with a certain joy that makes the others loosen up. It's impossible not to jam when you hear him hit those snare drums, the rhythm playful and precise. He's never too heavy-handed, always just enough to keep the track moving forward.

The dynamic of the band is so alive—there's this constant back-and-forth of teasing and jabs, but there's no mistaking the camaraderie. These guys, their music, their personalities—there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

I've learned so much from being around them. When I first started working for Scottie and Brenna, I didn't know much about music. But over the years, I've absorbed everything I could—watching how each member of Kill John contributes to the magic they create together. It's not just the technical stuff that fascinates me; it's how they've worked as a unit. They're not just bandmates—they're family, through all the tension and rivalry, the highs and lows.

For now, I'm content. I don't know when I'll start taking on clients of my own, whether it's more of Scottie's work or something else entirely, but for now, this feels right. Being with Kill John, seeing them evolve, watching them grow, it's fulfilling in ways I never expected. I'm happy in this moment, even if the future feels uncertain. The music, the laughter, the banter—it's enough for now.

The last notes of the song fade out, and the room falls into a comfortable silence. The tension that had once hummed in the air during rehearsal now gives way to a relaxed kind of energy. Kill John may be a whirlwind of egos and talent when they're on stage, but after hours of practice, the atmosphere shifts to something lighter. They've given it their all, and now it's time to unwind.

The rehearsal ends just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, the sounds of the band's instruments dying down and the familiar hum of the studio air hanging in the stillness. The guys begin to break off, gathering their things.

Jax is the first to head out, already texting—probably Stella—on his phone with one hand while shrugging back into his leather jacket with the other. "Alright, I'm out," he mutters, not even bothering to look up. "Got a date with a bottle of whiskey and a woman who's as mouthy as she is hot. Later, losers."

"Fuck off, Jax," Killian says with a snort, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. "Just make sure she doesn't break you this time. We don't have time to fix your ass before the tour."

Jax grins, throwing a lazy glance over his shoulder as he heads toward the door. "Please, Kills. You know I don't break easy. She's the one who's gonna need a recovery plan."

The sound of his and Killian's laughter trail behind them as the door swings shut.

Rye, of course, doesn't have time for any of this. He's already gone, his bass tucked under one arm as he heads straight for the parking lot. "I've got a dinner reservation with Brenna. You guys enjoy whatever mess you're planning next," he says, voice dry but teasing.

I roll my eyes, giving him a wave as he walks away, before I turn to Scottie. He's smirking, already getting his keys out, and as usual, he's got plans for the evening too. "You lot enjoy the night," he calls over his shoulder. He adds with a wink, making me snort in spite of myself.

And just like that, the usual chaos of post-rehearsal is over. I glance around the room. The studio is emptying out, and I can hear the buzz of the guys, off to their respective places—women to tend to, their lives to get lost in for the night.

That's when it hits me: it's just me and Whip now.

"Guess we're the leftovers," I say, trying to keep the mood light. It's not like I mind. Whip's always easy to hang with, especially after a long day of rehearsal. He's got this way of making everything feel less tense, even when there's nothing to do. He gives me a goofy look as he claps me on the back.

"Leftovers are the best part of the meal, Jules," he says with a wink, grabbing his drumsticks and spinning them in his hands. "We've got the best spot, really. Just you, me, and all the peace we can stand."

I can't help but laugh at that. It's not a joke, but it still hits the mark. The guys are gone, leaving behind the chaos, and now it's just us.

Whip stretches his arms, letting out a low groan. "So, what now? You going home to catch up on whatever you're avoiding, or you gonna hang with me for a bit?"

The question's casual, but I can tell he's not asking just to pass the time. He knows the drill by now—me, always running in circles, making sure the band's schedules are in line, running errands for Scottie. But tonight, with all the guys gone, I'm free to do whatever.

"I dunno," I admit, leaning back against the wall, crossing my arms. "Maybe I'll stick around. Not like I've got anyone waiting for me, right?"

Whip glances over at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So... pizza?" he asks, his voice light, as though he already knows what I'll say.

I raise an eyebrow. "Pizza? Depends. You're not talking about some greasy fast food joint?"

"Nope, I'm talking the real deal," Whip replies, lips stretching from ear to ear. "We're talking the kind of pizza you can't resist. Like, 'I'm starving, but I'm too proud to admit it' kind of pizza."

I can't help but laugh. "Alright, fine. I'm in. But I'm picking the toppings."

His grin widens, and he throws his hands up in mock surrender. "You pick the toppings, and I'll pick the place. Deal?"

"Deal," I say, feeling the tension of the day start to fade as we both head toward the door.

The walk to the pizza place is short, and the air has that crisp evening bite to it. We chat easily, slipping into that rhythm we've developed over the years of working together. Whip doesn't talk much when we're at rehearsal, but outside of it, he's a chatterbox. And honestly, it's refreshing. It's a nice change from the usual chaos of Kill John.

We get to the pizza place, a hole-in-the-wall joint that's known for its weird toppings and massive slices. It's the kind of place you find when you've been wandering the streets late at night, hungry, but also not giving a damn about the usual restaurant scene.

Whip immediately heads for the counter, like he's found treasure. "On second thought, I'm getting the works," he says, pointing to the menu behind the counter. "Trust me, you're gonna love it."

"Works?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like, everything but the kitchen sink?"

"Exactly," he says, giving me a playful side-eye. "You're not scared of a little cheese, are you?"

I roll my eyes. "You're lucky I'm not picky."

We order, and while we wait, we settle into a booth by the window, the kind of spot where you can watch the world go by. The place is mostly empty, save for a couple of people at the bar and a few scattered tables of late-night snackers.

"So," Whip says, looking at me with that easy smile of his, "how's life been? You know, when you're not keeping the band from falling apart?"

I lean back in the booth, my fingers tracing the rim of my soda glass. "I'm actually kinda excited about the tour," I admit, glancing over at Whip. "You guys have been practicing non-stop, and I can already feel the energy building. I think this one's going to be something special."

Whip glances up from his pizza, a boyish expression spreading across his face. "Oh, hell yeah. This tour's gonna be epic. The new tracks? They're fire. Straight up the best shit we've ever done. Even in rehearsals, they've been sounding insane." He leans back in his chair, tossing a crust into the box with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Honestly, I don't think the fans are ready for what's coming."

I laugh, shaking my head. "They better be ready. I think the crowd's gonna lose it when they hear those songs live."

Whip finishes his slices of pizza and leans back in the booth, a contented sigh escaping his lips. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, like he's lost in thought, before his gaze shifts back to me. There's something different in his expression—something more wistful, almost like he's reflecting on something deeper.

"You know," he says, his voice a little quieter than usual, "Sometimes I kinda wish things could always be like this."

I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. It's a weird thing to say, especially after all the joking around we've been doing. I glance at him, trying to figure out what he means, but his face is unreadable. "Like what?" I ask.

Whip shrugs, his mouth tugging into a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. It's like he's not really there anymore, not fully in the conversation, and it makes something twist in my chest. "Nothing lasts forever, Jules. You know that."

I stare at him, confused. "What? Kill John isn't going anywhere." I try to keep my voice light, but it doesn't come out that way.

But Whip doesn't look at me. His eyes are on my pizza in front of him, the pepperoni slightly curling at the edges. "Sooner or later, we all slow down. Start families. Libby and Killian already have their baby, and the rest of the guys... they'll get there too." He runs a hand through his hair, the usual carefree energy gone, replaced by a quiet resignation. "It's... it's gonna be different after this."

His words hang in the air between us like a weight, and I can't help but feel like the room has gotten a little smaller. I blink, trying to process. Trying to shake off the knot in my stomach. "Are you worried?"

Whip gives a little half-laugh, but it doesn't sound anything like his usual light-hearted chuckle. It's almost tired. "I would be lying if I say I didn't," he says softly, his voice a little rough around the edges. "This tour? It's probably gonna be our last for a while. Things change. Life changes. You can't keep running at full speed forever, you know?"

I stare at him, really looking at him this time. His usual goofball demeanor, the one that's always infectious, the one that makes people happy without even trying—it's gone. I can see the cracks in the facade now, and I don't like it.

I force myself to look away, focusing on my pizza, though I'm not really hungry anymore. The reality of what he's saying sinks in, slow and heavy. "I didn't realize you were thinking about it... like that."

Whip shrugs again, but this time, it's not a carefree gesture. It's almost like he's trying to dismiss it, like he doesn't want me to see how much it's affecting him. "Yeah, well... you don't think about it much until you do. And when you do, you realize that you can't keep the same pace forever." He looks up at me then, his eyes meeting mine, and it's so unlike the man I know. "I guess I'm just thinking about what's next. After everything's over."

He shakes his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips, but it's not his usual look. It's bittersweet. "But hey, you know... it doesn't matter. Not right now."

I nod, but there's a weight in my chest that won't go away. His words stick with me, though I try not to show it. "I hear you," I say, voice quieter now. "I'm gonna enjoy every minute of this one. We're not there yet."

Whip looks at me, his eyes softening a little, and for a brief moment, I feel like maybe he's not as sure about all of this as he's letting on. Maybe he's just trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

"Exactly," he says with a grin that doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's enough to make me feel a little better. "So let's make it count."

Once I finished off my pizza, we step out of the restaurant into the cool night air. The city hums around us, the quiet bustle of a Friday night filling the streets. It's not a huge crowd, just enough people milling about to give the city life, the sounds of distant conversations and the soft hum of traffic filling the space. The lights from the restaurants spill out onto the sidewalks, casting a warm glow, but the air is crisp, the faint smell of rain still lingering from earlier in the day.

I pull my jacket a little tighter around myself, not quite cold but wanting to keep the night at bay, as Whip and I wait for my taxi.

He stands a few paces away, looking out into the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets. For a guy who's always so lively and full of jokes, he's sometimes so quiet, his expression distant. I can't help but wonder what's going on in his head after everything we talked about.

"So," Whip says, breaking the silence. His voice is casual, but there's a little bit of something else in it, something almost hesitant. "What's next for you when all this... when Kill John is done?"

I glance at him, surprised by the question. It's not the kind of thing Whip usually asks, but then again, this whole night has been a bit different. He's different.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, because it's the truth. I've always been so focused on being the assistant, on making sure everything runs smoothly for Scottie and the guys. I've learned so much over the years, but I've never really thought about what comes after. "I guess I hope to get new clients of my own, branch out. Maybe start my own thing, but... I'm not sure yet."

Whip looks at me then, his gaze soft but reassuring. "You've got it, Jules. You've learned from the best, right?" He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's something in his voice that makes me believe him. It feels like more than just a compliment. It feels like he really believes in me.

I smile back, even though a part of me feels nervous. "Thanks, Whip. I hope so."

I'm not sure I believe it as much as he does, but it's nice to hear.

A taxi pulls up to the curb, and I glance over at Whip, taking in the way he stands there, looking so damn relaxed. "You heading home soon?" I ask, a small part of me hoping he'll say no, just so we can keep talking.

He nods, running a hand through his hair, his usual goofy personality creeping back onto his face. "Yeah, I'll head back soon. Even I need my beauty sleep... occasionally, if you know what I mean." He winks at me, but there's a little twinkle in his eye that makes me feel like he's being less than truthful.

The taxi driver rolls down the window, and I step forward, giving Whip one last look before I climb into the back seat. "Goodnight, Jules," he says with that soft tone, the kind he uses when he's being sincere. "Get some rest. You've got a busy day ahead of you."

I give him a polite smile. "Goodnight, Whip. Take care."

The taxi door shuts, and I give a small wave through the window as the driver pulls away. We start to roll down the street, the headlights illuminating the sidewalks as we move further into the city.

But then I glance back through the window, and I catch a glimpse of Whip still standing on the sidewalk, watching the cab drive off. He's got his hands in his pockets again, looking up at the sky, like he's not in any rush to go home. I watch for a moment longer, wondering what he's thinking, where he's going.

He turns and starts walking down the street, his gait slow and easy, like he's got all the time in the world.

And just like that, the night takes on a different kind of weight. I feel something tug in my chest, something I can't quite place, but it's there. I can't help but wonder where he's headed.

The cab rounds a corner, and Whip disappears from view, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the city. I settle back against the seat, my mind racing with unanswered questions.