Chapter 7

William

The opening of the tour's a few days away, and London's wrapped around us like an old friend, its cold, gray arms a little too familiar but always welcoming. The city's alive, a pulse under the heavy clouds, streets flooded with people all wrapped up in their own rhythm. The skyline's a mix of old and new, a reminder that, even in the middle of this rich history, we're still making our mark.

Kill John's holed up practicing just outside the heart of the city, where the sound of our music bleeds through the walls, thick with the tension of what's to come. A few days. That's all we have before we're onstage, facing crowds that'll roar their approval. But for now, it's all about the grind—jam sessions, tweaking the songs, making sure everything clicks. The guys are lost in it all, speaking in the language of music, and it's the only one that matters. Every riff, every chord is like a lifeline, pulling us closer to that first show.

But me? I'm a little off-center. I'm not immune to the buzz, but there's something inside me that feels disconnected from it all. My mind keeps drifting back to that secret album, the one I released in the dark. Maybe thirty people heard it. Maybe. But the point wasn't how many. The point was that it existed. It was out there. And that, in itself, made it feel real.

I lean against the glass wall, watching the band from a distance like I'm part of a dream. Sophie's joined us today. She's in the corner, camera in hand, capturing the chaos as usual. Scottie's furiously scribbling notes, keeping track of every move, every riff. But this rehearsal—it's different. It's not just the usual pre-tour grind. The tension's thicker in the air, like everything's teetering on the edge of something bigger.

London's just the beginning. I've watched this city's streets blur into memories, heard the crowds scream our name. But tonight, it feels different. It's not just the tour looming ahead. It's something inside me that's changed, and it's hard to ignore. The more I watch the band get lost in their practice, the more I realize I've been lost too. In the business. In the chaos.

Music's not just about the audience or the paycheck. It's about fun. Expression. That unfiltered joy of creating something that means something to you, even if no one else cares.

"Hey, you gonna join us or what?" Rye's voice breaks through my thoughts, and I shoot him a quick grin before shaking my head.

"In a minute. Just warming up," I call back, grabbing my sticks.

I make my way to the soundproof booth where Jules is, as usual, tucked away like a quiet observer. But this time—it's different. Now that we share this little secret of mine, everything feels easier. There's something comforting about being around her, something simple. She's no longer just Kill John's assistant, just a friend. She's the one person who knows more than anyone. She's not just seeing the carefree guy everyone else does. She's seeing the real me—the me that's hidden behind all the noise.

The guys can be a whirlwind, but with Jules? I can just... be. No walls. No expectations. Just a guy messing around with a keyboard, making stupid music because he can.

"You ever want to make shit just 'cause you're bored?" I ask, glancing up at her.

She tilts her head, intrigued. "What kind of 'bored' are we talking about here?"

I laugh, knowing this is about to get ridiculous. "This kind," I say, pulling up a track I made during a late-night session when sleep had been a stranger.

I hit play, and for a second, the track sounds like something straight off a Led Zeppelin album—dark, brooding, intense. But then—then the hair dryers kick in. The track morphs into an absurd mess of shrieking hair dryers, like nails on a chalkboard.

Jules's laughter explodes like a pop bottle uncorked, sharp and uncontrollable. I can't help but stare at her—her whole face lights up, her eyes squint with joy, her head thrown back as she gasps for air. It's so pure, so unfiltered. And damn, it's captivating. Her laugh has this effortless quality to it. She's not trying to be funny. She just is, and it pulls me in. I find myself enjoying it more than I expect, something warm blooming in my chest.

Her laughter bounces off the walls, and without thinking, my hands grab my sticks and start tapping them on the table. It's almost like I'm keeping time with her laugh. Not exactly, but I'm feeling it. It's like her laugh has its own rhythm, and I can't ignore it. I tap along with the ridiculousness of the moment, trying to keep a steady beat while dying of laughter at the same time. My body's shaking, my stomach aching from the effort of trying to maintain the rhythm while cracking up.

Jules gasps between her laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. "Dude," she says, barely able to speak. "What the hell is this?"

I can barely answer, my words coming out in fits of giggles. "It's art. Pure genius. Who else can say they've used hair dryers as vocals?"

Her laugh only gets louder, and I can't stop myself from grinning like a maniac. I keep tapping, now fully invested in the absurdity of the track. My drumming's falling apart as the rhythm gets faster and more chaotic, matching the madness of the hair-dryer symphony. It doesn't matter. The laughter, the music—it's all just a perfect storm of joy.

Jules's face is flushed, and she's clutching her stomach as she laughs, gasping for breath. "I can't—this is too much," she says, wiping at her eyes again.

I'm no better off. My chest hurts from laughing, but I can't stop tapping along. I'm lost in it now, and I'm loving every second of it.

The door swings open, and Killian's head pokes inside. I immediately stop drumming, slamming the button to turn off the track, but it's too late.

"What's going on in here?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I throw him my most innocent look, trying to play it cool. "Just showing Jules something I made," I say, my voice barely holding back another round of giggles.

Before Killian can respond, Rye and Jax walk in, looking like they've stumbled into something they shouldn't have. Jules shoots me a look, like we've been caught red-handed, but I just shrug. My face gives nothing away.

"Wanna hear it?" I ask, nonchalantly.

Rye raises an eyebrow, glancing between me and Jules before looking back at me. "You made something? Man, I gotta hear this."

I grin, hit play again, and the track starts up just like before. The heavy, brooding intro, and then the hair dryers kick in with their obnoxious screeching. The guys freeze, staring.

I lean back in my chair, drumming on the table, trying to keep my straight face as I let the absurd track play out.

Jules's giggles bubbles up again, and I can't help but join her. Rye and Jax are laughing too, their faces turning red. Even Killian's holding back a grin.

Jax looks confused. "Uh... what the hell is that?" he asks, his voice full of disbelief.

But Rye? Rye's losing it. His face is red with laughter. "I don't know, man, but I think he's onto something."

Jules can't contain herself anymore. She lets out a loud bark of laughter, and I'm right there with her, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

"Alright," Killian says, wiping tears from his eyes. "I take it back. You're not completely crazy."

I shrug, drumming lightly on the table. "Glad you're finally getting on my level."

Rye slaps me on the back, still chuckling. "Just... please tell me you're not gonna release this track anywhere."

"Who says I won't?" I shoot back with a wink, though deep down I know that one's probably best left in the archives.

As the guys leave, I catch Jules's eye. For a second, something passes between us. It's not obvious, but it's there. It's more than just sharing a stupid track. She's not here for the show or the fame. It feels like she's here for me.

And for the first time in a long while, that feels right.

On the night of our first concert of the tour, the red carpet's got that electric buzz to it, the flashing cameras blinding me with every step I take. The usual scene—paps snapping photos, fans lining the barriers, all shouting for attention, trying to grab a glimpse of the chaos that is Kill John. The usual charade, really. I've learned to tune out the loudness over the years, but it doesn't make it any less annoying. It's always the same—pose here, stand there, look that way—all with a photogenic smolder. So fucking rehearsed.

I can feel Killian's liveliness just ahead of me, Rye messing with Jax as they move down the carpet. I'm still caught up in the hum of the show, the fakeness of it all. But then, just as I'm about to fall back into that rhythm, I hear it—shouted from behind me, cutting through the sea of yelling and flashing bulbs.

"Killian! Yo, Jax!" A group of teens, barely more than kids, but there's desperation in the way they're calling out. The sound of their calls stands out, even above the rest.

I keep walking for a second, pretending I didn't hear them. Killian, Rye, and Jax don't seem to catch it, so they keep moving, no hesitation. But it's pulling at me, a thread that won't let me keep walking.

I glance back. The group's causing a stir with the paps, trying to get their attention, maybe hoping for a moment, a chance to get noticed. Their excitement's real, it's palpable, and I feel it. I'm used to the usual fan stuff, the people begging for a photo or autograph, but this? This feels different. These kids don't look like they want anything but validation. A shot at their dreams.

With a heavy sigh, I break from the rhythm. I'm already pushing the envelope by being a step behind the band, and I know it. Security's on edge as I step toward the kids. They're still shouting, hands waving in the air like they've just seen a ghost. I hold up a hand, signaling to the guards to give them space. They hesitate, but I shake my head, gesturing them to let them through.

One of the boys, tall with messy hair and eyes full of too much hope for his age, rushes up to me, holding a set of headphones out. "Whip, we're trying to get our stuff out there, we want to know what you think. What if Kill John could—"

I cut him off with a quick wave, grabbing the headphones from his hands. I put them on, immediately pressing play, and it hits me. The sound. It's amateur, but there's something to it. Gritty. There's a darkness in the rhythm, like it's been ripped out of someone's chest. It's rough around the edges, the kind of thing that makes you want to move, even if you're not sure why. There's a thump that hits harder than most tracks I've heard in a while. It's got that trouble-making vibe, the kind of sound that just grabs you, and doesn't let go.

I start to bounce a little. My shoulders twitch, my foot taps in time, and before I realize it, I'm full-on grooving. I can't help it. The beat's got me. I let out a whoop, something like a cheer and a laugh, and I just start moving to the groove, where I'm standing, in front of the cameras, in front of everyone. The paps? They've got no idea what's happening, but they're eating this shit up, hoping to collect a juicy headline. To them, I'm just another celebrity on the carpet acting out of the ordinary.

The kids start hyping up with me, watching my reaction, their eyes getting bigger with every beat that passes. Their smiles get wider, like they can't believe it's really happening. There's a authentic energy between us, a connection that's deeper than anything the cameras could catch. They're just trying to get their shot, but for me, it's more than that. This is music. This is talent.

I pull the headphones off when the track fades, handing them back to the kid who looks like he's going to explode. "That was amazing," I say, grinning at them. "I can't wait to see more of your work."

The kid stares at me, eyes wide. "Wait, you're serious?"

I nod, feeling that familiar buzz of excitement that's never left me, even after all these years. "Yeah. Keep it up. You're on to something."

I give them a quick clap on the shoulder and turn back toward the carpet, heading to catch up with the band. As I walk back, the paps are all over me, their cameras flashing like mad. I shrug it off, pretending nothing's changed.

When I round the corner to rejoin the guys, I see Scottie standing by, arms crossed, eyes already narrowing as he takes in the scene. His glare's enough to make anyone nervous, but I've learned to take it in stride.

"William," he says, voice sharp.

I throw up a hand, waving him off with a grin. "Yeah, yeah. Relax, Scottie-boy."

Jules is standing beside him, arms crossed too, but her eyes... I can't quite read them. They're subtle, but I catch that look, that knowing look she always gives me. I can't help but wink at her. She just raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

I finally make it back to the group, where Killian, Jax, and Rye are already bouncing, their energy contagious as we head toward the entrance. The paps are still shouting, still snapping photos, and I can feel the adrenaline buzzing through me. The crowd's growing, the volume louder, but for a second, everything feels... quieter.

And when we step onto that stage, the cheer is nothing but a blur. The lights flood the room, and I'm right where I need to be.

The crowd roars, a rising tide of sound that shakes the walls. It's deafening, relentless, the kind of tumult that gets in your chest and lives there. The lights hit me, blinding hot, and for a second, I just stand there, soaking it in. The Devil. That's what I call it—this wild, unpredictable thing that waits for us out there, hungry and impatient. And tonight, it's screaming for Kill John.

Here I am, standing in the middle of the chaos, leaning into it. Because every now and then, you have to. Every now and then, you let the Devil take you, let it love you, hate you, own you for a little while. Anything to get Kill John up there where we belong—with the legends.

The crowd is a wall of sound now, surging toward us. I can feel their passion crackling in the air, charging the space around us like a storm about to break. It's alive, and it wants us. Wants me.

I settle behind my kit, the familiar weight of the drumsticks grounding me. My heart is racing, but my hands are steady. Killian steps up to the mic, his voice cutting through the madness. "Hello London! Are you ready?"

The answering scream is so loud it feels like it could crack the sky. My pulse thrums in time with it, the anticipation coiling tight in my chest.

Killian nods back at us, and I give him a quick salute with one drumstick before raising it high in the air. The band's signal. My signal.

The first beat comes down hard, a crack of thunder that rips through the screams. The Devil roars, and I drive it higher, faster, until it's clawing at the edges of the stage. Killian's voice cuts through like a blade, sharp and commanding, while Jax's and Rye's riffs weave together, snarling and snapping like they've got a life of their own.

I'm in the middle of it all, my drumsticks flying, the rhythm pouring out of me like it's got a mind of its own. Each beat lands with precision, the kind of power that makes the crowd move as one. I'm not leading them—I'm pulling them into the storm with me.

And the Devil? It loves us tonight. Loves me. I can feel it in the way the crowd swells, their energy feeding into ours until it's impossible to tell where we end, and they begin.

For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the rhythm take over. The chaos fades, and it's just me and the drums, the steady pulse of the beat anchoring me to the stage. It's quiet in my head, even with the world screaming around me.

But then I open my eyes, and I see them—the faces, the arms raised, the connection. I lean back into the madness, let it swallow me whole, because tonight, the Devil loves us. And there's nothing else like it.

Killian's voice soars, the music igniting the air, and I'm right there with him, driving the beat harder, faster, until the whole room is vibrating with sound. For this moment, I am endless. We are endless.

And as the final notes crash down like a wave, I lean back, breathing hard, my hands still gripping the sticks. The crowd's roar hits again, and I let it roll over me, a wild, untamable thing.

The Devil roars its love, and I grin, because tonight, we've danced with it once again, and won.