Chapter 15

Jules

The day of the show in Korea hits like a live wire, all heat and chaos, crackling with an urgency that makes my pulse race. We've barely landed, and already it's a full-blown storm—people shouting orders, equipment flying past, the air electric with the kind of tension that could either fuel brilliance or burn everything to the ground. It's intoxicating, that razor's edge where disaster and triumph dance together, daring us to keep up.

Brenna, Scottie, and I are running around, back and forth, checking everything from the sound system to the lighting setup. The guys are no better off—Jax is sorting through cables, Killian's pacing, Rye's locked in a tense conversation with the tech crew, and Whip... Well, Whip's not here yet.

Stella is doing what she can, helping out wherever she's needed. It's all hands on deck. This show, these changes—they're going to make or break Kill John's presence in Asia. A lot is riding on it, and in a weird way, I feel the weight of it on my shoulders.

When I first came up with this idea, I wasn't thinking about how much pressure it would put on Whip. I didn't mean to put so much on him, but when I talked to him about it this morning, he didn't hesitate. He said, "I'll do anything for the band." And that was it. Now here we are, hours before the show, everyone on edge.

But I'm watching Whip, and I know him well enough to see through his cool exterior. Years of practice, of perfecting the art of covering up nerves, have made him a pro at hiding it. But I see it. The way his hands are a little shaky, the tightness in his jaw. Whip's nervous.

It reminds me of when he first released his album—the same fear behind the sharp confidence.

I make my way to him backstage, moving past the chaos of crew members and last-minute checks. Whip is standing in front of the mirror, adjusting his all-black outfit. He looks like he just stepped out of a dream—everything about him screams raw, untamed sex appeal. The black jacket, the dark jeans, and those boots that I swear must have been custom-made for him. He's effortlessly hot, and I can't help but let my gaze linger for a second too long.

He catches me staring and smirks, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Hey," he says, voice low, warm.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, unable to hide the worry in my voice.

He gives a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair, looking every bit the rock star he is. But there's a nervous edge in his gaze. "I feel like I'm gonna have a panic attack."

My stomach drops. I can see it now—the way his chest rises and falls a little too quickly, the tightness around his eyes. He's masking it, but I know him too well.

Without thinking, I step closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "Whip..." My voice is soft, reassuring, and as my fingers brush over his skin, he pulls me to him until our bodies are almost flush against each other.

My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. His eyes lock with mine, searching. But before I can say anything else, before my brain has a chance to catch up with my heart, his lips are on mine.

His kiss is hungry, ​​all heat—his lips claiming mine in a way that sends a shock through my entire body. His tongue brushes against mine, and it's like he's pouring every ounce of the tension he's been holding inside, all the nerves, the fear, the doubt. It's all gone in an instant, melted away with every movement of his lips, every slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue. He releases a soft groan into my mouth.

And I give it back to him. I meet his kiss with equal force, my hands sliding up to his neck, tugging him closer. His kiss grows more desperate, and I can feel the urge in him. I feel the panic leave him in waves, his breath hot against my lips, replaced by something much more electric, a current that surges between us. It's wild. It's free. And it's all-consuming. He presses his body harder into mine, and I swear I can feel every inch of him—the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex under my touch, the way his heartbeat has sped up, mirroring mine.

His hands slide under my top, directly to my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, like he's trying to melt into me, become one with me. I gasp, the sound slipping from my mouth before I can stop it, and that's all it takes. He growls, the sound low and dark, as his lips slide across my jaw, down my neck, sending shivers all the way to my core.

I pull back, just enough to look at him, my chest heaving. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. The look he gives me takes my breath away. My hands are still resting on his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. "All better?" I tease.

Whip grins despite his eyes being dark, pupils blown wide. A small but genuine smile lighting up his face. "Yeah. Much better."

"You're going to do amazing," I say, my voice more certain now, pulling him closer with a soft pull on his shirt. "You hear me?" My hands sliding up his chest now, palms pressed against the steady beat of his heart. "You're going to blow them away. Not because you have to prove anything, but because you're made for this, Whip. And you're ready."

Before he can reply, we're interrupted by a sudden appearance from Scottie, his voice cutting through the moment. "It's almost showtime. Time to get your game faces on."

As Scottie walks away just as quickly as he came, Whip's hand slides into mine. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his gaze flicking down to where my hands rest against him before meeting my eyes again. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but the way his hand rises to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing against my cheek, tells me everything. His touch is soft, reverent, but there's a fire beneath it, a need to hold on to something steady in the chaos.

"You really think I can do this?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper.

I don't hesitate. "I know you can."

His eyes close briefly, like he's letting the words sink in, and when he opens them again, there's a quiet determination there, a spark that wasn't there before. He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine, and the closeness makes my heart stutter. "You always know how to get through to me," he says, his voice laced with tenderness. "Thank you, Jules. For this. For everything. I never thought I'd see the day I'd be performing these songs. Even if it's the only time... I'm happy. And it's all because of you."

My heart swells, my chest tight. There's so much I want to say, but no words seem to do it justice. Instead, I pull him into another kiss, this one slow and soft, the kind that speaks louder than anything else.

When we finally break apart, I can't help but smile. "We're doing this," I say, the certainty in my voice ringing true.

He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "Let's go."

We head to the stage, the rest of the band already gathered, their figures carved out in the sharp backstage glow. The air is charged, buzzing with the kind of restless anticipation that has a life of its own. Voices overlap in a tangle of last-minute adjustments, instruments being tuned, and someone muttering a prayer under their breath. It's chaos and calm all at once—our storm before the storm.

The band moves into a huddle, the ritual we've all come to rely on. It's empowering, this press of bodies, shoulders bumping and voices low, a tether to remind them who they are, why they're here. Killian leads the chant, his voice strong and sure, a battle cry wrapped in camaraderie.

"Let's make this the best fucking show yet!" Killian says, and the words reverberate through them, met with murmured agreement, cocky grins, and a clap on the back for good measure.

The group breaks apart, the guys moving to their marks, but my eyes are locked on Whip. He's a study in contrast—shoulders squared like he's ready to take on the world, but there's a tightness to his jaw, a flicker of something in his eyes that only I seem to notice.

Before I can stop myself, I call out to him. "Whip!"

He pauses, his head turning toward me, the stage lights catching the angles of his face. For a second, the noise around us fades, and it's just him and me in this cocoon of urgency and something I can't quite name.

I move before I can think better of it, crossing the distance and reaching for him. My fingers skim his arm as I rise on my toes, pulling him into a kiss. It's brief, almost chaste, but it lands like a spark in dry tinder. His lips are warm, soft, and for a heartbeat, I think I feel him sway closer.

When I pull back, his eyes are locked on mine, dark and searing, the kind of look that leaves you breathless.

"Go kill it out there," I whisper, my voice steadier than I feel, my hand lingering against his arm.

He doesn't say anything at first, just stares at me, and then—slow as sin—his lips curve into that crooked, devastating grin of his. It's a promise and a thank-you all in one, and it hits me somewhere low and deep.

He nods once, sharp and sure, before turning to head toward the wings. I watch him go, the way he seems taller now, lighter somehow. The nerves haven't disappeared, but they're woven into his determination, no longer something weighing him down.

From my peripheral, I catch movement. Rye, leaning against a speaker, his grin wide and sly. He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Well, damn. If that doesn't give the guy a second wind, I don't know what will."

My cheeks heat, but I roll my eyes, brushing past him to join the others. My heart's racing in a way I don't think has much to do with the impending show.

I find Scottie tucked away in a prime spot near the sound engineers' booth, where the view of the stage is perfect, and the chaos is muted just enough to make sense of it all. He stands there like he belongs to this world more than anyone else, arms crossed, clipboard resting against his chest, his sharp gaze locked on the stage as the crew scurries to finalize everything.

He glances at me when I approach, his expression unreadable at first. Then, to my utter disbelief, his lips quirk into a barely-there smile.

"You've got guts, Jules," he says without preamble, his voice cutting through the hum of pre-show chatter.

I blink. "What?"

"That idea of yours," he continues, jerking his chin toward the stage. "Getting Whip to step up, pushing for something this different—it's a hell of a risk."

"Uh, thanks?" I say, not entirely sure if it's a compliment.

Scottie exhales, his focus briefly shifting back to the stage. "Don't get me wrong; I've been in this game long enough to know risks don't always pay off. But this? If it lands, you're not just saving this leg of the tour—you're making history."

The words hit me like a weight I wasn't ready for. "I didn't do it alone," I say quickly, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "Everyone's been working nonstop—"

He cuts me off with a look. "Don't downplay it. You saw the potential, you fought for it, and you got Whip to trust you. That's no small thing."

My throat tightens, and I glance away, feeling a strange mix of pride and vulnerability under his sharp praise.

"You've got good instincts," he says, his tone softer now, like he's letting me in on a secret. "That's why I put in a word for you."

I'm caught off guard. "A word? For what?"

"There's a girl group back in the States—fresh talent, on the verge of breaking big. They need a manager who can steer them right, someone steady, sharp." He looks at me pointedly. "It's the kind of opportunity that doesn't come around twice."

My heart stutters in my chest. A girl group? The words feel too big, too surreal.

"I... I don't know what to say," I stammer.

"Don't say anything yet. Just think about it," Scottie replies, his focus snapping back to the stage as the lights dim, the crowd's roar climbing in intensity.

The show is starting. The thrum of the bass hums through the floor, vibrating up into my bones.

Scottie turns to leave but stops just long enough to glance back at me. "Whatever happens out there, Jules, you've already proved you're more than just an assistant."

And then he's gone, disappearing into the sea of crew and techs, leaving me standing there with his words sinking deep into my chest.

The lights flash on the stage, and the crowd erupts. I tear my gaze away from the empty space Scottie left and focus on the stage, where the guys are stepping into the spotlight. Whip's figure emerges last, his head slightly bowed, his posture radiating that electric mix of nerves and confidence only he can pull off.

"Here we go," I whisper to myself, finding a spot near the others to watch. Whatever happens next, I know this moment will change everything.