Chapter 5

Jules

The crew's starting to pack up, the tension from the photoshoot slowly dissipating, and everyone's falling back into their usual rhythm. Sophie's beside me, leaning against the wall, chatting casually, while Scottie's making sure everything is set for the next step of the tour. But I still can't shake this feeling—this nagging sense that something's different with Whip.

When Whip speaks, it's with his usual bright smile, like he's fully in the moment, but there's something almost rehearsed about it. "So, what's next? More tour prep, right?" he asks, shifting from one foot to the other as if he's waiting for something. Maybe he's waiting for himself to feel like he's actually part of this again.

I force a smile, trying to keep things light. "Yeah, just making sure everything's in place for the first leg. We've got a lot of cities to hit, and Scottie's got everything lined up for us, but we need to go over details."

I watch him, a little too closely, maybe. There's something there, but I'm not sure I'm supposed to see it.

Scottie's eyes lock with Whip's, just for a beat too long, and something passes between them, unspoken. "Let's talk about the schedule, Whip. Got a few things I need you to cover."

Whip doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. He nods, all easy charm, his grin flashing again. "Yeah, sure. Got a few things I'm working on too, Scottie. I'll get it done."

He's been looking more tired than usual today. There's something behind his eyes, but it's hard to put my finger on it. Maybe it's because I've been paying more attention to him lately, maybe because he's been so off, but whatever it is, it's there.

Rye's voice pulls me from my thoughts, light and teasing as usual. "So, anyone up for hitting a club later? I think we deserve to loosen up after that."

I glance over at Whip, wondering if he'll bite, but he's already off in his own world. As usual, he hides it well. Too well.

Brenna stretches and laughs, her usual easygoing self. "I could definitely go for one. But I'd need a nap first."

I smile, though it doesn't quite reach my eyes. I can't shake this feeling that everyone's moving too fast, acting like everything's fine, but I know something's off with Whip. The way he's been even more detached lately or the way he slips into the background now, staying quiet and avoiding being the one at the center of it all.

Brenna looks at Whip too, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You good to go clubbing after this?" Her tone's light, like she's asking if he wants a soda, but I see the way her gaze flicks over him, like she's also trying to read something behind the smile he's throwing out.

Whip smirks, easy and careless, like the answer doesn't really matter. "Eh, let's just say, after the dive bar fiasco Rye roped me into, I can't help but be a little skeptical now." His tone is light, almost amused, but I picked up how it sounded a little too practiced just then.

I want to say something, ask him if he's really okay, but I don't. Instead, I just watch him, unsure if I should push or let it go.

The feeling sits in my stomach, twisting tighter as the hours pass. The tension with Whip hasn't faded. It's still there, hanging in the air, like a shadow trailing behind me. And the more I think about it, the more I can't let it go. It's like there's a part of him I'm missing, a piece he's been hiding from everyone, even from me.

I've spent too many years around him, seen too many of his moods, to ignore the signs. He's slipping away from everyone in ways I don't fully understand, and I don't know how to get him back. It's frustrating, but it's also a kind of ache in my chest that won't go away.

After the shoot wraps up, the everyone scatters. People head in different directions—some for meetings, others for food, and the rest to decompress from the long hours. I don't follow them, though. I can't. Not when I know something's off with him.

I keep my distance for a while, but my feet seem to move on their own, guiding me toward the exit. And then, there he is—Whip. He's not heading out with the rest of the band, not even with Rye. Instead, he's slipping away into the shadows, like he's intentionally trying to stay out of sight. He moves with purpose, but there's a quiet urgency to it that grabs my attention.

I tell myself it's just curiosity, but it feels like more than that. Something inside me whispers that I need to follow him, to figure out where he's going. So I do.

I hang back, making sure not to draw attention to myself, but keeping enough distance to stay in his line of sight. I can't help but notice how he keeps glancing around, checking if anyone's watching. There's something about the way he's walking—almost like he's trying to escape, or maybe just avoid something.

My heart pounds harder in my chest as I trail him, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm on the edge of discovering something I'm not supposed to know.

We head further into the city, where the streets feel more isolated, quieter. It's the kind of place that feels like it belongs to no one but the people who choose to hide here. I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but when Whip finally stops in front of a building, I freeze. It's an unassuming place, tucked away in a corner of the city, with no real signs to mark it. Just a nondescript entrance.

I watch as Whip swipes a badge, the door clicking open with a soft hiss. He slips inside without a glance back, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

For a second, I almost turn away. I tell myself I shouldn't follow him, that whatever he's doing here is his business and I have no right to intrude. But I can't stop myself. Curiosity claws at me, sharp and insistent. What's behind that door? What's he hiding?

I wait a beat before moving forward, my steps light and deliberate, until I reach the door. It clicks shut just as I arrive, locking me out. My pulse thrums in my ears as I press my hand to the handle, testing it. No luck. The door's badge-access only, and I have no way in. Through the narrow window, I catch a glimpse of Whip's retreating figure as he disappears deeper into the building.

Frustration flares in my chest, hot and sharp. I'm so close, but still shut out. The barrier between us feels both literal and metaphorical, and it stirs something raw inside me. I should leave. I know I should. My feet stay planted for a second, my hand hovering near the handle as if I can will the door to open. But I know it's pointless, so I make my way to leave.

Suddenly, I feel it—the unmistakable tingle of someone's gaze on me. My stomach twists as I slowly turn, just in time to hear the faint beep of a badge swipe.

The door behind me opens, and there he is. Whip. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I can't breathe. His expression is unreadable, casual on the surface but tense underneath, like he's waiting for me to explain myself.

"Jules," he says flatly, his voice devoid of its usual warmth.

I freeze, caught in the act. My mind scrambles for an excuse, but all I can manage is, "I... I wanted to see where you were going." My voice comes out quieter than I intended, and I hate how small it sounds.

Whip sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. The familiar, playful Whip I know isn't here right now. Instead, he's guarded, his walls up higher than ever. "You shouldn't have followed me."

There's a pause, charged. I swallow hard, trying to steady the words forming on my tongue. "You've been acting different," I say quietly, stepping closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

His eyes soften, just a flicker, before he glances away, down the hall behind him. It's like he's debating something, weighing whether to let me in—not just into the building, but into whatever part of himself he's been keeping hidden.

Finally, he exhales, the sound heavy with resignation. He steps aside, his hand resting on the doorframe as he looks at me again. "You've come this far," he says, his tone a mixture of frustration and something I can't quite place. "Might as well see the rest."

The words are casual, but they carry a weight that makes my chest tighten. As I step past him into the building, I realize this isn't just about where he's been going. It's about who he is when no one else is watching—and, for some reason, he's decided to let me see it.

The air here smells different—clean, yet earthy—and it's quiet in a way that makes me feel like we're not supposed to be here. As I walk behind Whip, I can't help but wonder what I've just stumbled into. What is this place? Why does he keep it so hidden from everyone else?

My heart races a little faster as we walk down the narrow hallway. The quiet of the place is unsettling, and the air feels too still, too contained. I didn't expect this. Seeing him here, in a space like this... it feels like I've stepped into a completely different world.

I try to calm my nerves, but my mind is off, filling with all sorts of questions and assumptions that I know are probably way off base. My eyes dart around, taking in the stark walls, the industrial lighting overhead. The soft hum of machines in the background makes the whole space feel like it's alive, like it's watching me. I can almost feel the weight of the silence pressing down on me, and I can't shake the thought that I'm not supposed to be here. That I'm trespassing into a part of Whip that no one's meant to see.

"What is this place?" I finally ask, my voice barely a whisper. It feels ridiculous to speak out loud in a space this quiet, like I'm breaking some unspoken rule by even asking. But I can't stop myself.

Whip doesn't answer right away. He just keeps walking ahead, his steps steady, but there's something in his posture—something I can't quite pinpoint—that tells me he's not at ease. I can feel the tension between us, this thin thread of something unspoken hanging in the air.

We turn down another hallway, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like a soundproof door. My stomach flips. My mind runs wild with possibilities.

What if there's a whole underground network he's been secretly a part of, some strange cult of rock stars who trade secrets and lies? My heart stutters at the thought. What if he's part of some twisted underworld, running from people who would destroy everything we know? What if he's doing something illegal? Something dangerous? Drugs? Money laundering? Smuggling?

As we approach another door, this one a little bulkier, more secure-looking, I feel my pulse quicken. My palms feel clammy, and I try to steady my breathing. I don't want to look too obvious, too out of place.

Whip stops in front of the door and looks back at me, almost like he's waiting for me to say something.

As he presses a code into the lock, the door clicks open with a soft, reassuring sound. My breath catches in my throat as he steps aside, motioning for me to enter first. The cool, dim light inside catches me off guard. It's not what I was expecting at all. The space is small but peaceful, humble—nothing like the grandiose places I've seen for Kill John. There's no flashy décor, no gaudy memorabilia. Just a cozy, minimalist room with large windows that offer a stunning view of the skyline. The city stretches out beneath us, its lights twinkling like stars in the night.

I step further into the room, taking in the details. There's a worn leather chair in the corner, a couple of instruments scattered around—guitars, drums, a keyboard, a few mics, and other things I don't recognize. The walls are lined with sound equipment and recording gear, but it's all neat and organized, almost... personal. Not like it's for show, but more like it's for him. It's intimate.

Whip leans against the closed door, watching me closely, his expression unreadable. "I guess I should explain," he starts, breaking the silence.

I turn to face him, still processing the space. "This is your... studio?" The question comes out quieter than I mean for it to, a little unsure.

"Yeah," he nods, pushing off from the door and stepping inside. He runs a hand through his hair, like he's trying to figure out how to say what's next. "I've been coming here for a while now. Just... creating." His voice drops, almost like he's embarrassed. "It's not much, though. I haven't told the guys about it."

My brow furrows. "Wait—what? They don't know about this?"

He shakes his head, looking down for a moment. "No. I didn't mean for it to become a secret. It just... ended up that way. I like having a space where I can just... be. Without the pressure, without the noise. Where I don't have to be Whip from Kill John."

"Why didn't you tell them?" I ask, curiosity bubbling up inside me.

Whip looks up at me then, his gaze steady. "It's easier this way," he admits. "I didn't want it to turn into something that would complicate things. I need this space to escape it all. And sometimes, I think... It's better if it stays between me and you."

I'm processing what he's said. It makes sense in a way. Everyone knows Whip as the drummer from Kill John, the guy who's always surrounded by people, always in the spotlight. I can understand why he'd want to keep this room private.

I give him a nod, unsure of how to move forward. But then, my eyes fall on the instruments, on the piles of notes and random scribbles that cover the desk. "So, what kind of stuff have you created in here?" I ask, unable to contain my nosiness.

Whip hesitates, shifting on his feet. He looks like he's about to pull back, to change the subject, but then he exhales and walks toward a nearby shelf. "It's... not what you think," he warns, almost apologetic. "It's nothing like Kill John. It's... kind of random. It's still a work in progress. But if you're willing to listen, I can show you."

I watch him carefully, my interest piqued. "Of course," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I want to hear it."

He walks over to a nearby table and grabs a pair of headphones, holding them out to me. "Here," he says quietly, "You'll need these."

I take the headphones from him, a little hesitant, but eager all the same. I put them on, and as soon as the music begins, I'm struck. The instrumental is... nothing like I expected. There are no heavy beats, no explosive drum solos, no loud, anthemic guitars. Instead, it's soft, haunting, almost fragile in its simplicity. The melodies feel intimate, like I'm hearing a piece of him that's been tucked away for so long.

It's beautiful, in a way that I can't quite put into words. The sound is subtle, raw, and vulnerable, with layers of texture I've never heard from him before. It feels like I'm hearing his soul laid bare, and I realize that I've never heard anything like this.

I close my eyes as I listen, letting the music wash over me. It's quiet, introspective, almost like it's trying to make sense of something too big to say out loud.

I sit back in the chair, still processing the first song, when I catch myself itching to hear more. The music, this raw, beautiful side of Whip, pulls at something inside me. It feels like each sound is speaking directly to me, telling a story I didn't expect to hear from him. The softness of it is unexpected, but the way it resonates is undeniable. My interest grows, and I can't help but ask.

"Is it okay if I listen to more?" My voice is tentative, unsure of whether I'm pushing a boundary, but Whip simply nods, almost relieved.

"Yeah. Go ahead," he says, with a slight smile that almost feels shy. "I don't mind."

I put the headphones back on, the soft click of them settling over my ears almost like a signal to dive deeper. The next track starts, and I'm immediately hit by something unexpected.

The first thing I notice is the distortion, almost like the sound is being warped. It's unsettling at first—like the music is trying to fight its way through something, pushing against an invisible barrier. There's an eerie quality to it, almost as if the song is being played through a broken speaker, with layers of fuzz blurring everything together. It's not a clean, polished sound. It's rough around the edges, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin.

The track doesn't rely on any traditional instruments—there's no clear guitar solo, no drum beat driving the rhythm. Instead, it's a series of distorted, unfamiliar noises—clicks, static, a faint ringing in the background. It feels like the music is fragmented, almost like a broken memory piecing itself together. It's eclectic, unsettling, and at times, it feels like it's not even music at all—just sound.

But then, there's Whip's voice. It hits me, suddenly, that I've never actually heard Whip sing before. I've heard Killian, Jax, even Rye more times than I can count. But Whip? He never volunteers. Never steps into the spotlight like this.

His sound cuts through the chaos with such clarity. It's soft, almost whispery, but there's an underlying tension in it that keeps me hooked. The melody is drowned out by all the distortion, but his voice still stands tall, guiding me through the haze. The way he delivers the lyrics, his breathy tone and the subtle shifts in his pitch, makes the song feel like it's alive, moving, shifting. It's like he's playing with the very fabric of sound, warping it, bending it to his will.

There's a moment of silence before the beat kicks in—if you can even call it a beat. It's not steady. It's not predictable. It's a rhythm that seems to exist on its own, out of sync with anything else I've heard. It's unsettling but addictive, like it pulls you deeper into the track, forcing you to follow it even though it's hard to understand.

Each song I play is a new experience, but all of them feel like a glimpse into something private, something Whip has been hiding, not just from the world, but from himself too. The production is so intricate, so deliberate. The sounds in the background—faint hums, eerie echoes, whispered voices—create this haunting atmosphere. It's not a song you can always sing along to. Instead, it's this slow, creeping experience, like it's wrapping around you, pushing you into a space that's both familiar and completely foreign.

As the collection continues to play, I discover that this is his entire discography—no two tracks are alike, and yet they all have this one thing in common: they refuse to conform. At the same time, they all pair so well together. There are no traditional structures, no catchy hooks to grab onto. Some tracks are soft, melancholy ballads that make my heart ache, the lyrics full of longing, of regret. Others are more playful, even absurd, with bizarre, offbeat rhythms that almost make me laugh despite myself. There's one track, near the middle, that's got this insanely catchy beat, so unexpected after everything else. It's simple, almost childlike, but it pulls me in—something in the rhythm makes me want to move, to dance. It's the kind of song you can't help but tap your feet to, even though it's so unlike anything I expected from him.

I pull the headphones off, trying to wrap my head around it. It's truly unlike anything I've ever heard before. But what I do know is that it feels personal, like Whip's been pulling sounds from places nobody else has thought to look.

He's watching me closely, waiting for my reaction.

"Whip..." I start, my voice thick with emotion. "This... this is incredible. It's so different from what you do with Kill John. I didn't expect this."

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his hands. "Yeah. It's not for everyone...anyone really. It's just... what I've been working on, what feels right to me. It's not the Kill John experience. It's not supposed to be."

I let the meaning of his words sink in, nodding slowly. "I get it. You needed an outlet for this. To just... be yourself."

"Exactly," he says, his voice soft. "It's easier this way. To keep it... just mine."

I can see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he's waiting for me to judge him. But all I feel is awe. This—this side of him, this music—is so much more real than anything he's done before. It's raw, it's honest, and it's all him.

"I'm glad you showed me this," I tell him, my voice soft. "It's... it's really awesome, Whip."

Whip lets out a small, almost self-conscious laugh as he shifts his posture, his shoulders relaxing. The tension that had been in his posture seems to evaporate, replaced by something lighter, almost playful.

"Well, it's been a while since I've shown my own work to anyone," he admits, glancing at me with a look that's equal parts relief and a little nervousness. "Guess I'm not so great at sharing. Usually, I just keep it all in here"—he taps his chest lightly—"but... it's kind of nice to not feel like I'm hiding it anymore."

I can tell he's letting his guard down, just a bit. It's subtle, but it's there—a disturbance in the air as if the space between us has loosened, allowing him to breathe a little easier.

I pause, thinking for a moment. "Is it really okay for me to be here? I mean, in your space..."

Whip looks at me, and for the first time, I see something defenseless in his eyes. "Yeah. But, again, it stays between us, alright?"

I nod, my heart pounding a little faster. "Of course."

"Do you want to hear something else I've been working on?" His voice is light but with an edge, like he's testing the waters, gauging my reaction.

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Sure, hit me."

The moment he presses play, I feel like I've entered another dimension. The track opens with an overblown, distorted fart noise that cuts through the silence with the subtlety of a jackhammer. I jerk, unsure of whether I'm supposed to laugh or cringe. Then, as if the universe is trying to outdo itself, a deep, exaggerated grunt follows, like someone trying to lift a weight they clearly can't handle.

And just when I think it can't get any worse—or better, depending on how you look at it—a high-pitched squeal comes next. A weird sound, like someone trying to say "banana" through a kazoo while underwater. I don't even know how to describe it, except that it sounds like it should never, ever be on a track.

But it doesn't stop there. Oh no, no, no. The sound design is like someone threw random effects into a blender, added a dash of chaos, and hit blend on full speed. There's a sound that could be a malfunctioning toaster, followed by the unsettling beep of what I swear is a microwave timer going off in the background. I can practically feel the beep reverberating through my chest.

Then the beat drops, but instead of anything remotely smooth or cool, it's a heavy, almost obnoxious bass that feels like it's trying to crush my ribcage. It's got a rhythm, sure, but it's a mess—like the bass guitar got trapped in an industrial washing machine. Each hit feels like it's stomping in my face, jarring and disorienting. But for some reason, it's not completely unlistenable. It's like... a train wreck I can't look away from.

I whip my head toward him, wide-eyed, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Whip, what in the world am I listening to? This... this can't be real."

He watches me, not a flicker of hesitation in his expression. "Yeah, I come here to do stuff like this too. Sometimes it's just fun to make hot shit, y'know?"

I'm clutching my stomach, tears welling up in my eyes from how hard I'm laughing. I can't breathe, every time I think it's over, another ridiculous sound comes in. There's a belch. Then a low, throat-clearing noise that sounds suspiciously like someone pretending to be an elephant. I swear, if I hear another fart, I'll lose it.

"No offense, but... that is the dumbest shit I've ever heard in my life," I gasp between laughs, barely able to speak. I wipe my eyes, completely doubled over.

Whip just shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair. "I'll take that as a compliment," he says with a grin that stretches a little wider than usual, like he's totally in on the joke.

"I don't even know what to think right now," I wheeze, still laughing uncontrollably. "Like, what is this? Is this your new single?"

He nods, still grinning. "It's a work in progress. Every great artist has to start somewhere." His tone is utterly serious, and it just makes me laugh even harder. "You gotta embrace all sounds."

I wipe my eyes again, wiping the tears away, still in disbelief. "I think you're officially insane," I tell him, unable to keep the smile off my face.

"I'll take that as a compliment too," he says, the grin turning into a wide, authentic smile.

But then, as the laughter dies down, I notice something: Whip looks almost relieved. There's something freeing about how he's letting himself be utterly ridiculous without caring if anyone thinks he's nuts. It's the first time today that he seems completely himself—not the rock star, not the quiet, enigmatic guy who keeps everything to himself, but just... Whip. A silly, creative mess.

My mind circles back to the songs I listened to earlier, the ones that made my chest feel tight, that pulled me in deeper with every note. I look at him, and the words come out before I can stop them.

"Will you ever release your songs?" I ask, my voice more serious now. "The serious ones, I mean. Because... they're really good. People should hear them."

Whip's face softens, like he's not sure how to respond. He shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the question. I can tell he's thought about it before—maybe even wrestled with it for a while.

"I mean..." he admits quietly, his eyes flicking away for a second. "I don't know. Who's gonna listen to this?" His voice holds self-doubt, the one that clings to him like a shadow. "It's not Kill John, you know? It's not... what people expect. Or want."

I frown, my heart tugging in my chest as I look at him. "But that's exactly why they should hear it. Because it's you—it's real. It's not some manufactured version of what people think you should be. This stuff... it's raw. It's vulnerable. It's better than anything I've heard in a long time. People want to hear that."

Whip shakes his head slightly, his lips pressed tight together. "I don't know, Jules."

He leans back in his chair, eyes distant again as his fingers trace the edge of the desk. His words linger between us, a pressure I can feel in my chest. He doesn't meet my gaze for a moment, like he's working through the thought in his head.

"Kill John... it's my life," he says quietly, his voice tight with a tension I know all too well now. "Everything I have, everything I've built, it's all because of them. Because of this band. I owe it all to them. Without Kill John, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have the platform to do anything. They gave me everything. My brothers. I can't just walk away from that."

His words feel heavy, and I can hear the struggle in his voice. It's the kind of loyalty that's admirable, but I also hear the burden it places on him, like he's carrying baggage that no one else sees.

"I can't risk it," he continues, his eyes finally meeting mine, and I see the flicker of something—fear, maybe. Or guilt. "I've been in this band for more than fifteen years. Since I was basically a kid. Long years of hard work, sacrifices, blood, sweat, and tears. I can't just throw it all away for something that might not even work. What if it ruins what we've built? I don't want to do that to them. To Killian. Rye. Or Jax. Or Scottie. Or even you."

The words come out in a rush, like he's trying to explain something that's been eating at him for far too long. I understand, I do. But part of me wants to shake him and tell him he deserves more. He deserves to be more than just a cog in the machine, to chase what makes him happy, even if it means taking a risk.

"I get it," I say quietly, leaning forward a little. "I do. But you can't live your life for them, Whip. You can't just keep burying yourself for the sake of the band. You're allowed to have something of your own. You're allowed to be more than just Whip from Kill John. You have your own voice, your own sound. Don't you want to see where it could go?"

His eyes flicker with a mix of conflict and hesitation, and I can see it all—the battle between loyalty and the desire to be his own person, to step out of the shadow of Kill John and do something just for him. But I know, deep down, that part of him is scared. Scared of what might happen if he goes rogue. Scared of what it might cost him.

"I just... I don't want to risk it," he says again, softer this time, like the weight of his decision is crushing him. "I can't risk everything we've worked for. I can't do that to the guys. I owe them everything."

I stay silent, letting the words sink in. It's clear to me now—he's not just scared of failure. He's scared of what his success might cost him.