Chapter 13

William

The greenroom is buzzing with energy. It's always like this before a show, but there's an edge to it tonight. Or maybe it's just me.

Soft, low conversations hum around the space, mingling with the distant thrum of footsteps in the corridor. The faint scent of coffee and something fried lingers in the air, the kind of snack they keep stocked for staff but never expect anyone important to touch. The Kill John crew is scattered, each doing their thing. There's laughter, easy and familiar, a balm to the nerves that twist low in my gut.

And then there's Jules.

Jules is sitting at a worn leather couch, her legs crossed, phone in hand. She's scrolling, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip like she's debating something heavy. But it's not the uncertainty that grabs me—it's her. The way her skirt rides up just enough to show a teasing hint of thigh. The way the light glints off her hair, begging for my hands to dive in and mess it up. She's utterly oblivious, and I'm pinned to the spot like a damn lovesick idiot.

It's not just her looks—though, goddamn, she's gorgeous. Always has been. But it's the way she is, like every move she makes is somehow intentional, designed to tie me up in knots without even trying.

I know I should stop staring, give her some space, but I can't. My feet stay planted, my body rooted like a fool drawn to the fire.

"Jules." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, but I don't care.

Her head snaps up, and when our eyes meet, it's like the rest of the room fades out. The way she looks at me—soft, a little curious, like she's still figuring me out but isn't scared of what she'll find—punches me square in the gut.

"Whip," she says, her voice light but with a hitch that makes me want to close the distance between us.

I push off the doorframe and move toward her, slow and steady. Each step feels weighted, deliberate, like my body knows this moment matters. Jules watches me, her phone forgotten, her hands still like she doesn't know what to do with them.

When I stop in front of her, I brace one hand on the couch, leaning down just enough to catch her scent—something soft, a little sweet, and wholly her. My other hand slides into my pocket to keep from touching her because once I start, I won't stop.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice just for her. "Didn't get a chance to check in earlier. How're you feeling?"

Jules tilts her head, eyes flickering with something warm, something knowing. Her lips curve into a slow, secret smile that sends a jolt straight through me. "Never better," she says, voice teasing but soft. Then she nods toward the others. "How'd the talk with the guys go?"

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. "Went well. Had a bit of a heart-to-heart. You know, men to men." I throw in a dramatic nod, like I'm sealing some ancient, unspoken brotherhood code.

Jules hums, her smile widening just a fraction. "Riiight," she drawls, the skepticism clear in her voice. "But truly, I'm glad things went well with you all."

I meet her gaze, and something in my chest eases, like the weight I hadn't realized I was carrying suddenly isn't so heavy. "Me too."

A quiet laugh escapes me, and my eyes flicker down to her mouth before I can stop myself. "After last night..." Her cheeks flush, her lips parting slightly as she sucks in a soft breath. I know she's thinking about it too— how every kiss, every touch felt like more than just heat.

Here's the thing: it's been a while since I've let myself get tangled up with anyone. The random hookups? They got old fast. What's the point when it's empty, when you're just going through the motions? There's no connection, no real pull. Sex for the sake of sex used to be enough, but not anymore.

But with Jules? Fuck, with her, it's something else entirely. It's not just about the physical—though, yeah, she's got me on fire with just one look. It's the way she sees me, the way she looks past the surface and makes me want to be better, stronger, more.

"You're impossible," she whispers, but there's no heat in it. Her hands twitch, like she wants to push me away but can't bring herself to follow through.

"Maybe," I admit, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "But you like it."

She rolls her eyes, but her blush deepens, and I can't help but chuckle.

"Jules," I say, my voice dipping lower. "You wrecked me last night, you know that? I don't think I've ever felt like this before."

Her lips part, her breath catching, and damn if I don't want to haul her against me right now. But instead, I lower my hand, brushing my knuckles along her jaw, letting myself have just a taste of the softness there.

"There's no one else, Jules," I tell her quietly, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "Not for me. Not anymore. Just you."

Her eyes soften, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache. "Same," she whispers, and it's the kind of thing that lodges itself deep, refusing to let go.

I want to say more, want to tell her how long it's been since anyone made me feel this alive, this real. But she's already leaning into my touch, her hand curling into the fabric of my shirt, and I know she feels it too.

She gives me a small smile, one that's a little shaky but full of promise. "By the way," she says softly, "Villain's number one. Kingdom Come, Tombstone, Curtain Call, and Figment are climbing fast. Just thought you'd want to know in case the host brings it up tonight."

I huff a laugh, warmth spreading through my chest. "Thanks for the heads-up. Guess I owe you one."

Her brow lifts. "Another what?"

"You'll see." I wink, leaning down to press a quick, teasing kiss to her lips, savoring the way she melts just a little.

"Good luck," she murmurs, her voice so quiet now, her cheeks flushed.

I grin, heading for the door. "Don't need it. I've got you."

The stage lights hit my skin, warm and blinding. As we step out, the crowd's cheers swell, but they're muffled, distant—just a blur behind Tommy O'Donnell's enthusiastic voice. He's grinning at us like we're his long-lost friends, but I don't miss the way his gaze sharpens when it lands on me. It's like he's already got a question lined up for me, one that's been burning in his mind since I dropped the album.

The vibe on stage is familiar. The guys are already easing into it. Killian, ever the charmer, draws the first laugh with a joke about our latest tour mishap. Jax has got that signature grin of his as he throws in a one-liner, his easy confidence lighting up the room. Rye stands a little off to the side, not quite part of the banter but present in a way that makes the whole thing seem effortless.

And then, Tommy's eyes flicker to me again. The look is subtle, but it's there.

"Whip," he says, leaning forward, his voice suddenly more serious, more interested. "This week's been a big one for you, hasn't it? Releasing that solo album, going viral—how's it feel to have the world talking about you?"

The words hit me like a jolt of electricity. It's surreal, really. I lean back in my seat, the weight of the spotlight settling on me. Everyone's looking at me now. We're not talking about Kill John anymore. It's me. Just me. And I can't help but feel the flutter of nerves that I've almost forgotten how to deal with.

"It's been... surreal," I say, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse is a little too quick, too loud. "But the support's been incredible. I couldn't have done it without the support of these guys."

I pause, then flash a grin. "Not that I'd ever admit that to their faces. Their egos are already a problem."

"Proud of you, man," Killian says, shaking his head with a smirk.

"Hell yeah, we've always had your back," Rye adds, his grin wide and easy.

I press a hand to my chest, mock wiping away a tear. "Look at us, having a moment. Someone get a camera before Rye ruins it."

The crowd responds, a wave of laughs and an applause breaking through the tension. But I can feel it shift, that pressure hanging in the air, coiling tighter as Tommy shifts his attention back to me.

The guy's got a talent for drawing out the story, pulling you in deeper with every word. I can feel the tension building, waiting for the impact of his next question.

"Your album's been described as unique, atmospheric, haunting," Tommy says, voice sharp, probing. "A far cry from Kill John's usual sound. Now that you're a soloist, do you think Whip will always be inside you?"

For a second, there's a collective pause—everyone in the room goes dead silent. Rye cracks out laughing first, then the rest of the guys follow, their chuckles quickly turning into full-blown laughter. Even the crowd joins in, the whole room buzzing with amusement. I just stare at Tommy, my expression deadpan, watching as he slowly realizes what he just said. The laughter only grows louder.

Tommy's face turns a shade of crimson, his hands waving in the air like he's trying to put out a fire. "No, no! What I meant—"

I lean in, letting the sarcasm drip from every word. "Well, Tommy, I don't swing that way," I say, pausing just long enough to let him squirm. "But I would imagine I'd feel quite lonely if Whip were to... exit out of me." I wink, and the guys lose it again.

The room howls with laughter, even louder than before. Tommy nods, letting out a laugh so fake it might as well be pre-recorded. The audience, on the other hand, seems genuinely entertained, satisfied for the moment. I start to think the worst of it is over, until I catch the glint in his eye, a flicker of mischief as he sneaks a glance at the crowd.

"Alright, let's take a question or two from the crowd! You, in the red."

A woman stands up from the audience, her expression seemingly uncertain but determined. She hesitates for just a moment before her voice cuts through the air.

"Whip," she starts, a little too much emphasis on my name. "Your album's beautiful, yes, but the consensus seems to be that it's, well, not singing in the traditional sense. Some fans even say it's more of a whisper. Do you think your sound is strong enough to hold its own, especially when compared to the powerful voices of Killian or Jax? Wouldn't you consider taking lessons to... toughen it up?"

There it is. The question that stings. The words land, thick and heavy in the air. That kind of loaded, backhanded compliment that people throw at you when they're looking for a crack to dig into. The audience lets out an "ooooh," like they think they've caught me off guard, like it's some kind of burn.

She's not just asking about my album; she's trying to undermine me, turn my sound into something weak. Killian's jaw tightens immediately. Rye mutters something under his breath, and Jax's eyes narrow slightly—his posture adjusts just a little.

I can feel the thrum of my pulse in my throat, but I don't let it show. I keep my face neutral, my eyes steady, not giving an inch. The guys are already in defense mode, but I can handle this.

"I'm not here to be Killian, or anyone else. I'm here to be me. And if 'whispering' my words is what gets through to people, then that's what I'm going to keep doing."

The crowd responds, some of them nodding, murmuring their agreement. The host looks impressed, like maybe he underestimated me. But just as I'm about to put the whole thing behind me, the woman opens her mouth again. She isn't done. Of course she isn't. She can't help herself.

"You know," she starts, leaning forward with a scoff, "I get that you want to stay true to yourself, but don't you think maybe you're just hiding behind this... whispery vibe, instead of really challenging yourself? Isn't it kind of a cop-out? You could've pushed harder, gotten better—if you really wanted to make it."

The audience explodes. The sound of their reaction is deafening, a mix of shocked gasps. It's like they've been waiting for someone to take a jab at me and for me to give them the show they were looking for.

Tommy lets out a quick, nervous laugh and holds up his hands, trying to calm the chaos. "Alright, alright," he says, grinning, but I can see the way his eyes flick between me and the crowd, like he's not sure whether to be happy or worried.

My guys beside me—they're squirming in their seats, clearly ready to back me up and argue for me. I can see it in their eyes, that flicker of protectiveness. They're itching for the fight, and honestly, part of me's grateful for it. But I don't need them to step in for me. Them being here for me is all the strength I need to finish this.

I let her words hang in the air for a second as the audience quiets down again, watching the way she thinks she's got me cornered. Her smirk is almost too much to bear, but I don't react. Instead, I try to look more relaxed than I feel.

​​"Right," I say, voice light, almost thoughtful, like I'm considering it. "I totally get what you're saying."

I don't look at her directly—just at the space around her, like I'm really just mulling it over.

"I think, though... if I tried harder to sound like someone else... it wouldn't be me anymore," I add quietly, letting the words drift between us. "Wouldn't be honest. And that? That would be the real cop-out."

There's a shift, something almost imperceptible in her eyes, and that's when I let myself smile, just a little. Not a challenge, just a truth.

"Besides," I continue, my tone icy, "Why make music that no one can sing to? If you think my songs are too easy, fine. That means anyone can pick it up and sing it. Isn't that the point of music?"

I give her a little smirk, wink, and let it linger like I've just dropped the mic. "But thanks for the feedback, honey. I'll definitely take it into consideration... or not."

The audience erupts. It's like a wave crashing through the room, loud and relentless. People are on their feet, clapping, whooping, some even cheering me on. I can feel the heat of their approval, but it's the woman's face that catches my eye—red as a tomato, shoulders stiff with the sting of it all. She's been burned, and I'm not sorry.

Tommy flounders a bit, scrambling to regain control, his hands moving in exaggerated motions. "Alright, alright," he says quickly, trying to calm the room, "We're going to take a quick break. When we come back, we've got a sneak peek of our next guest..."

I don't need to hear more. I'm already out of my seat, the tension in my back easing as I push through the crowd, headed for the exit. My skin's buzzing, adrenaline running high. I'm itching to get out of there, to shed this suit and the spotlight, to breathe for a second.

The others follow, Rye grinning like a madman, Jax grumbling under his breath, Killian rolling his eyes at the host's botched recovery. But we move like a well-oiled machine, already knowing the drill.

Jules finds her way to me, slipping quietly beside me with that look in her eyes. It's a mix of pride and concern—pride for the way I held my ground, concern for what's to come. Her hand brushes against my arm, a silent reassurance. I don't need to hear her say it. I feel it.

"You good?" she asks, her voice low but firm.

I glance at her, giving her a crooked smile. "I'm better than good," I reply, the words sliding out without thought.

Back in the car, the air feels dense, crackling with the kind of tension you can't shake off. Nobody speaks at first, the silence heavy, as if we're all chewing on what just went down. Rye's the one to break it, his voice slicing through the quiet, low and rough. "What the hell was her problem?"

"Some people like to hear themselves talk," Jax mutters, his arms crossed as he glares out the window.

Killian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "People are entitled to their opinions," he says evenly, but there's an edge to his tone, tight and controlled. "Doesn't mean we have to like it."

"That wasn't an opinion," Rye snaps. "That was a goddamn attack."

I sit back, my phone in my hand, scrolling through the aftermath. It's always the same. A flood of support, words of love and admiration. People praising the of the album. They're into it. They feel it. For the most part.

But then there's the other side:

Whispering isn't singing. He's not Killian, and he never will be.

Trash

Stick to drums, Whip. That's where your talent ends.

It's not rock, it's not even music. It's just noise.

He sounds like he's dying.

Let's be honest, the only reason this is getting attention is because he's in Kill John.

Nobody cares!!!!

This just proves he's the weak link in the band. Always has been.

Whip's trying too hard to be deep, and it's cringe.

The comments bleed into each other, sharp and relentless. The hate goes on and on and on. I'm no stranger to it—Kill John's been taking hits from day one. When you're the biggest band in the world, you're everyone's target. But it's always been Killian and Jax at the front, taking the brunt. They're the faces, the voices, the ones people obsess over, love, and hate in equal measure.

But this? This feels different. It's personal. And there's so damn much of it, more than I've ever seen directed at Killian or Jax.

Kill John fans are fiercely loyal, and that loyalty comes with its own set of rules. They don't want us to change. They don't want anything that feels like a threat to the band, to the sound they've decided defines us. And I get it. I do. My solo stuff probably feels like a betrayal to some of them. Maybe even a challenge.

But they should know better. I'm not trying to change Kill John. I'm not out here to be the Villain in their story. Pun not intended.

Still, the weight of their words sinks in, hitting harder than I want to admit.

I lock the phone and shove it back into my pocket, the metal edge scraping against my palm. My voice might not be what they want, might not have the power or the grit they're used to, but it's mine. It's what I have, and it's what I'll give. It's enough. It has to be.

Killian straightens up, his gaze catching mine. "Don't let it get in your head," he says quietly, his tone carrying more weight than usual. "They don't know shit."

I nod, giving him a tight smile, but I don't say anything. The city lights blur past, streaks of gold and white that feel too bright, too fast. The guys are still talking, complaining about the show, the host, the woman in the audience, but their voices fade into the background.

The weight of the night presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting. I glance out the window, my hand tightening into a fist against my thigh. We've got a show to do, and there's no way I'm letting this shit storm ruin it.

Dublin hasn't seen the best of us yet, but they will tonight.