Chapter 6

Jules

Whip is a puzzle I can't stop trying to piece together. At work, he's magnetic—laughing, cracking jokes, effortlessly charming everyone around him. He moves through the world like it's just another gig, like he's already seen the punchline and doesn't mind letting the rest of us catch up. He makes it look so easy, like nothing ever sticks, like there's no weight pressing down on him.

For most people, that version of him would be enough. But it's not enough for me—not anymore.

Now I know there's another Whip. The one who sits in a dimly lit room, his head tilted just slightly, listening intently as if the world is speaking to him in frequencies only he can hear. The one whose fingers hover over a mixing board like he's afraid the wrong touch will shatter the fragile web of sound he's weaving. The Whip who doesn't crack a joke to diffuse the moment but sits with it, holds it in his hands like it's something sacred.

That's the Whip I can't stop thinking about. The one I want to see again.

But work doesn't stop just because my brain has decided to hyperfixate on a certain drummer. Scottie is relentless, and he makes sure I am, too.

I spend the afternoon shadowing him, learning what it really means to manage a band like Kill John—not just keep them afloat but make them a force. Scottie's a machine, precise and ruthlessly efficient, but he's not heartless. There's a sharp edge to him, yes, but there's also this deep understanding of the world he works in. Like he knows exactly how brutal it can be and respects the hell out of anyone who dares to survive in it.

"Here's the thing about this industry," Scottie says, gesturing sharply with a pen as he reviews a list of upcoming promo campaigns. His tone is clipped, but his focus is absolute. "It's not just about talent. Plenty of people can sing, or play a guitar, or write a half-decent song. It's about standing out. Making them remember you."

I nod, scribbling down notes as fast as I can. "So how do you do that? Make someone stand out?"

He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing like he's sizing me up. "You find what's unique about them. Their edge. The thing that makes them unforgettable. And then you polish it until it's a bloody diamond."

The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, like it's easy. But I know it's not. Nothing about this world is easy. Still, there's something about the way he talks, this unshakable confidence, that makes me believe him.

It's classic Scottie—cold, pragmatic, but annoyingly brilliant. I know he sees potential in me, even if he's too British to outright admit it.

"Recognizing talent isn't hard," he continues, his focus already shifting back to the email on his screen. "But cultivating it? That's where the real work is. You need to know when to push and when to step back. Otherwise, you'll crush the very thing that makes them special."

I glance at him, wondering—not for the first time—how much of that advice comes from personal experience. "You've worked with Kill John for years. Was it always this easy?"

Scottie snorts, his lips curving into a wry smile. "You think managing that lot is easy? You've met Rye, haven't you?"

I laugh despite myself, but the thought lingers. Talent, polish, pressure. It's not just about the music; it's about the person behind it.

And what about Whip? He's already a star in his own right, but what about his diamond edge? The part of him that's hidden?

Later that night, I catch him just as he's about to hop into a taxi. The streetlights throw long shadows across the pavement, and the air bites, sharp and cold. Whip stands there with his shoulders hunched against the chill, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. For a moment, he doesn't notice me, his head down like he's lost in his own thoughts.

"Going somewhere?" I call out, the sound of my voice breaking through the quiet.

He turns, startled, but when he sees me, his face lights up with that easy, crooked smile that always seems to catch me off guard. "Hey, Jules. You need a ride?"

"No," I say quickly, the words slipping out before I can think them through. "I want to come with you."

Whip blinks, his surprise obvious, but he doesn't hesitate for long. "Uh... okay. Sure."

It's almost comical how casual he tries to sound, like this is no big deal, like it's totally normal for me to invite myself along on whatever mysterious nighttime outing he had planned. But the slight flush in his cheeks, just visible under the streetlights, tells another story.

The cab ride is quiet, but not awkward. Whip doesn't push, doesn't ask what I'm doing or why I suddenly decided to tag along. He just sits beside me, his body angled slightly my way, watching me out of the corner of his eye like he's trying to figure me out.

The city rushes past in a blur of lights and shadows, and I find myself hyperaware of the space between us—small, but charged with something unspoken. I don't know if it's curiosity, anticipation, or something else entirely, but it hums quietly in the air, crackling around the edges.

When we pull up to his studio buildng, he's the first to step out, holding the door open for me like some kind of gentleman out of a period drama. It's a small thing, but it makes me smile. Whip is full of little contradictions like that—wild and untamed one moment, polite and unexpectedly thoughtful the next.

"Back for more?" he teases as I step inside, his tone light, playful, but his eyes are sharp, watching me closely.

I shrug, trying to match his nonchalance even though my pulse has picked up. "Only if you've got something worth hearing."

His grin spreads, slow and wicked, his confidence clicking into place. "Always."

The studio feels smaller tonight, cozier somehow, like it's been waiting for us to fill it with something alive. Whip sheds his jacket, tossing it onto a chair in the corner, and moves toward his setup with a kind of ease that makes it clear how much this place means to him.

I hover near the door for a moment, unsure if I should sit or just keep standing. But Whip glances back at me, his expression softening. "Relax, Jules. You're not a guest here anymore."

Something about the way he says it—low and unassuming—makes me feel like I've been invited into a part of his world that no one else gets to be in.

"So," he says, flipping a few switches and adjusting a dial on the mixer, his fingers moving with practiced ease. "You want to hear more of what I've been working on?"

I nod, keeping my expression neutral, but my excitement flares. There's something about the way he stands, the way his eyes flick between the controls and me, that makes the air feel charged.

"Alright," he says, stepping back and gesturing toward the speakers with an almost theatrical flourish. "Here goes nothing."

The first note hits—a bass line so low and steady it feels like a pulse under my feet. The rhythm starts off simple, deceptively so, but then the layers begin to build. A faint synth hum slides in, skittering like static electricity across my skin. Then comes the snap of another beat on a foreign sound, sharp and deliberate, followed by a cascade of distorted vocal samples. It's diverse, strange, and somehow hypnotic.

By the time the melody threads through—warped and just off-kilter enough to make it interesting—I'm already nodding along, my body responding before my brain can catch up.

"Not bad," I say, aiming for casual, but the corner of Whip's mouth curves like he knows better.

"Not bad?" he echoes, his voice full of mock disbelief. "Jules, that's practically a standing ovation coming from you."

I roll my eyes, but I can't hide my smirk. "Don't push it, Dexter."

His laugh is soft, the kind of sound that makes me want to laugh too, just because it's so damn infectious. I've never realized how much I like the sound of his laughter.

Then the beat ignites, sharp and unexpected, pulling my focus entirely. It's like the song takes on a life of its own—deep, vibrating bass drops that ripple through the room, paired with crisp, unpredictable bursts of percussion. The rhythm dares you to move, to let it take over, and I can feel my feet itching to follow.

"Come on," Whip says, stepping into the open space in the middle of the room. He moves easily, fluid and loose, his body swaying to the beat like he's done this a thousand times before. "Don't just stand there."

I hesitate, my arms crossing instinctively. "I don't dance."

Whip smirks, tilting his head as if to say prove it. "You don't have to know how to dance. Just feel it."

It's ridiculous. The kind of thing someone says in movies before breaking out into a perfectly choreographed number. But the music won't let me stay still. The beat tugs at me, insistent, until I take a tentative step, then another.

"There you go," Whip says, his tone encouraging but light, like he's not taking this too seriously. "See? You've got it!"

I glare at him, but the rhythm has me now. My movements are awkward at first, stiff and self-conscious, but Whip doesn't seem to care. He just keeps moving, his grin widening as he watches me loosen up.

By the time the song swells, the bassline roaring to life, I'm gone. My arms are up, my body swaying, and for once, I'm not thinking about how I look or if I'm doing it right.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Whip says, his voice rising over the music. He spins on the balls of his feet, arms flung wide, and I smile despite myself.

"You're ridiculous!" I say, but I'm grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

"Ridiculously talented," he quips, and I roll my eyes but don't stop moving.

And then, as the track reaches its peak, he does something completely unexpected. He pulls a microphone stand on wheels toward the center of the room, adjusts the height, and grabs the mic.

"What are you doing?" I ask, but my words are drowned out as he starts singing—low, breathy, and full of attitude.

The lyrics hit like a punchline you didn't see coming. They're clever, a little absurd in the best way, and I can't stop the laugh that bubbles up. Whip doesn't miss a beat, his voice sliding over the words with an ease that's almost infuriating.

Said you wanted danger, now you call it tragic

But you built the villain, yeah, ain't that classic?

Press my buttons, I'll be catastrophic

Play me like a toy, but I'm far from robotic.

"Wait—did you really just rhyme 'catastrophic' with 'robotic'?" I shout over the music, half in disbelief.

Whip grins, unapologetic. "Damn right I did."

And then he's singing again, his voice full of swagger, his body moving like he's performing for an invisible crowd. The energy is infectious, and before I know it, we're both caught up in the moment, dancing like idiots under the dim studio lights.

"You've been sitting on this?" I ask, incredulous, as the song ends. He shrugs, unapologetic.

The music still hums faintly in the background, the last track Whip played looping in an endless, hypnotic rhythm. He leans back against the mixing console, legs stretched out, his foot tapping in time with the beat. But there's tension in his posture, the kind that says his mind is miles away. I'm sprawled on the couch across from him, my head resting against the armrest, a thousand thoughts swirling in my mind, most of them circling back to one thing.

"You know," I say, breaking the silence, "you could just... release it. Your music, I mean."

His foot stills mid-tap, the rhythm breaking. "Release it?"

I nod, sitting up and tucking my legs beneath me. "Yeah. Just put it out there. No fanfare, no expectations. Let it find its own way."

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That's not how it works, Jules. You've been around Scottie long enough to know that."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it," I counter, leaning forward. "Scottie's brilliant, sure, but his world is about crafting perfection, selling a narrative, making people remember you. This isn't about that."

His brow furrows, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "So what is it about, then?"

I search for the words, my hands gesturing aimlessly. "It's about... letting your music exist. Letting it reach someone—anyone—who needs to hear it. Not because it's polished or marketed or part of a plan, but because it's real. You've already made something incredible. Why not give it a chance to live outside of this studio?"

He stares at me, his gaze heavy with doubt. "Jules, no one's going to want to listen to this. It's weird and niche and not what people expect from someone like me."

"That's the point," I interrupt, cutting off his self-doubt before it can spiral further. "The people who find it won't expect it. They won't even know it's you. And that's what makes it special. It's not about reaching millions of people. It's about reaching the right ones."

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "Even if I did this, it could still blow back on Kill John. The guys don't need that kind of attention."

"Whip," I say firmly, coming forward, "Nobody will know it's you if you don't say it. You're overthinking this."

"Am I?" he snaps, his voice low but sharp. "I'm part of the biggest rock band in the world. I can't just 'throw something on the internet' and pretend it won't have consequences."

I pause, his words hang in the air for a moment. His fear is palpable, but so is the frustration simmering beneath it. He's not just afraid of the consequences—he's afraid of being seen.

"Look," I say gently, softening my tone. "I get it. You've spent years being Whip—the guy who drums, jokes, and keeps things light. This is different. But that doesn't mean it's a bad idea. Sometimes the scariest things are the ones worth doing."

He exhales a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "And what if nobody listens? What if it just sits there, untouched?"

"Then it sits there," I say with a shrug. "And maybe someday, someone stumbles across it and loves it. Or maybe they don't. But at least you'll know you put it out there. At least it'll be real."

He's quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the floor. The beat in the background seems louder in the silence, a reminder of everything he's been holding back. Finally, he looks up, his expression unreadable.

"Okay," he says slowly. "Let's say I do this. What name would I even use?"

I blink, caught off guard by the shift. "Well... I thought you didn't want people to know it's you?"

"I don't," he says, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "They don't know me as William."

"William?" I echo, confused.

"Yeah," he says, leaning back in his chair. "When I'm out alone—grabbing coffee or whatever—I use my real name. It's so boring and common, no one even blinks. Whip gets attention. William? He's invisible."

I tilt my head, considering it. "William," I say, testing the name. It's unassuming, but somehow fitting.

He watches me carefully, a flicker of nervous energy in his eyes. "Does that work for you, Jules?"

"It works," I say, a smile creeping across my face.

The tension between us eases as the decision solidifies. Whip—or rather, William—releases a shaky breath, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. "Alright. Fine. Let's do it." He pauses, then lets out a dry laugh. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen? I single-handedly tank the music industry? Eh, could be fun."

The next few hours pass in a blur of discovery and creation, like stepping into Whip's private world for the first time. He dives into his archives with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, pulling up track after track. Some are perfected, others are unfinished thoughts left to gather digital dust.

"This one," he says, hesitating as he clicks on a file labeled Untitled12. "I almost deleted it once. Thought it was too weird."

The song crackles to life through the speakers. A melody winds its way through layered, ethereal vocals, underscored by a steady, heartbeat-like rhythm. It feels like walking through a foggy memory, both familiar and otherworldly.

I sit up straighter, caught in its grip. "Definitely keeping that," I say immediately, the conviction in my voice leaving no room for debate.

He laughs, a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah? I don't know. It's—"

"It's brilliant," I interrupt. "And it's going on the list."

He doesn't argue, but there's a flicker of pride in his expression, quickly masked by a nonchalant shrug.

We sift through the rest of his collection, each track a window into another side of him. Some are delicate, almost fragile—quiet guitar riffs paired with whispered lyrics that feel like confessions. Others are bold, chaotic explosions of sound that demand attention.

"This one," I say, pointing at a track that he's just skipped over.

He raises an eyebrow. "That's not finished."

"Doesn't matter," I insist. "It's perfect the way it is. Not everything needs to be polished."

He nods slowly, replaying the track, and I can tell he's starting to see it the way I do.

The hours stretch on as we go back and forth, listening, debating, and piecing together a narrative from these disparate sounds. It's like unearthing a treasure chest, each discovery bringing a flicker of excitement or hesitation to Whip's face. By the time we're done, we have a cohesive collection—a makeshift album that feels honest and unfiltered, like a glimpse into his soul.

I sink back into the couch, my mind spinning with the sheer variety of the music as Whip puts the finishing touches. "So," he says, stretching out his legs, "what are we calling it?"

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees as I stare at the screen. The cursor blinks in the empty title field, mocking us. I think back to everything I've heard tonight—the strange, eclectic energy of the songs, the way they make you feel like you're wandering through someone's mind, stumbling upon thoughts and feelings they didn't mean to share. But nothing comes to my head.

"I don't know," I admit. "I've never been good with titles."

"What about something like... when no one's listening?"

I tilt my head, considering it. "Why?"

"Because that's what this is," Whip says, motioning toward the screen. "Music made when no one was listening. Music that wasn't meant for anyone to hear at all."

I'm quiet for a moment, my gaze fixed on the screen. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across my face—a real, unguarded smile. "I like it."

We finalize the album, its cover a simple black square with the title in plain white text in Times: when no one's listening. The minimalism feels fitting, like it's daring the listener to look past the surface.

When it's time to upload, Whip hesitates. His hand hovers over the mouse, his entire body tense. His eyes are locked on the screen, but there's something flickering behind them—an emotion I haven't seen before. A storm of nerves, of doubt, of fear. The confident, charismatic Whip I know so well is nowhere to be found in this moment. Instead, I see a person standing on the edge of something, unsure if he's ready to leap.

I try to ignore the way my heart is pounding in my chest, the anxiety twisting in my stomach. This is his moment. His decision. But even still, I can't help but feel the weight of it. This isn't just about the music. It's about his identity, his future, everything he's built and everything he's kept hidden.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice steady even as my heart thunders in my ears.

Whip's fingers twitch, hovering over the mouse, as though he's testing whether he can actually do this. He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling sharply. He looks over at me, his gaze searching for something—maybe reassurance, maybe courage.

"Yeah," he says, finally, his voice low, a little shaky. "Let's do it."

I count down. "Three... two... one."

The click is so small, so insignificant. But it feels monumental in the stillness of the room. The screen doesn't change at first. The album is there, sitting quietly on a streaming platform, just another file among thousands. It doesn't explode into a surge of attention, not like a Kill John album. It doesn't go viral. It's just there. And for some reason, that feels both underwhelming and perfect.

"Now what?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Now we wait," I say, my words steady even though I feel a little breathless. "And see if the universe does its thing."

He nods, but I can see the doubt still hanging on him, like an invisible weight pressing down on his shoulders. I know this isn't over for him. He's released a part of himself into the world, but the fear of rejection, the uncertainty of the future, all of that is still in him.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of what we've just done hangs in the air, but it doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a beginning, a leap into the unknown.

But when I glance at Whip again, I can see it—his hand, still hovering, is shaking slightly. It's uncharacteristic, a vulnerability that's foreign to him. His body is still tense, his eyes distant, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Without thinking, I move closer to him, my hand reaching out. I don't say anything, just lay my palm gently on top of his. The contact is simple, but it feels like an anchor for both of us.

Whip looks down at our hands, his fingers stilling for a brief moment. His gaze flickers to mine, and I see something in his eyes—gratefulness, susceptibility, maybe even relief. He lets out a shaky breath, a little sound escaping him that's almost a laugh.

"You're really something, Jules," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion I can't quite place.

"You, too," I reply softly, my fingers tightening around his for just a moment, offering him the comfort I know he needs.

The music continues to hum softly in the background, the final track still playing on loop. The moment feels infinite, like we've both stepped out of time. The world outside is still there—waiting, spinning, moving—but here, it's just us. Just the quiet, the anticipation, and the weight of something new beginning.

I can see it in Whip's face now. The storm of emotions has settled, replaced with something softer, a little less sure but more genuine. He's made the leap. And while the outcome is still unknown, the act of it feels like freedom, like letting go of a weight he's carried for too long.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is just the beginning. This is only the first step into a world where he doesn't have to hide. Where he doesn't have to be the persona, the image everyone knows. He can just be William. And maybe, just maybe, that's all he ever needed.

The music sits there, unnoticed, waiting for someone to stumble upon it. No marketing, no PR blitz. Just Whip—no, William—letting his songs exist in the world. And somehow, that feels more powerful than anything else.