Chapter 27

William

I find her in a sleek conference room, the walls lined with glass, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space like it's meant to swallow all the sound. She's hunched over a laptop, clicking away, probably more focused on it than I'm comfortable with.

The door isn't locked, so I step in without hesitation, leaning against the frame.

She doesn't even look up at first, and for a moment, I'm caught off guard. This isn't the Jules I know—the one who usually greets me with a smile or at least some sarcastic comment. This one is all business, no warmth, no spark.

Finally, her head jerks up. "How did you find me?" Her voice is sharp, like I've interrupted something important, and I know it's not just because I walked in. It's because she's hiding something, and I'm damn sure it has nothing to do with the work she's pretending to be focused on.

I grin, stepping further inside. "You think you can hide from me, Jules?" I give her a pointed look. "I'm like a bad penny. You can't get rid of me."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't smile, just looks me over with that quiet intensity that's so familiar, yet not quite the same. It's like she's trying to keep her distance, trying to pretend everything's fine when I can see it in her eyes that it isn't.

"You're relentless," she mutters, shaking her head, pushing her chair back to stand.

I cross my arms, studying her. She looks... different. Not in a bad way, but there's something there. She's still got that edge, that fire, but it's dimmed. Her face is thinner, more drawn. The kind of tired that doesn't get fixed by sleep, no matter how much you try.

"You look tired," I say before I can stop myself. "You getting enough rest?"

She shrugs, quick and tight, not meeting my eyes. "It's fine."

I don't buy it. I know better. "No, it's not."

She huffs out a breath, like she's annoyed at me for even pointing it out. "I've got things to do, Whip. You don't need to check on me."

"Maybe not. But I want to," I reply, stepping closer, just enough to close the distance without crowding her. I'm not pushing. But it's hard to ignore the way she's pulling away, like there's an invisible wall between us.

And I know it's not just work. It's not just the late nights or the stress. There's something else.

Before I can say anything else, her phone rings, sharp and sudden, cutting through the tension like a knife. She picks it up, says a quick, "I'll be there in ten," and then starts packing up without even looking at me.

I watch her for a moment. My eyes catch her hand shaking just a little when she sets the phone down temporarily. It's not much, but it's enough to make my stomach tighten. I'm not an idiot. I know something's going on. Something she's not telling me.

"You busy later?" I ask casually, trying to keep things light. "You know, I thought I might hang around, maybe take you out for a drink after?"

She freezes. It's brief, just a flicker, but I see it. And I know she's not just saying no because she's working. It's because she's trying to keep me at arm's length. Again.

"I've got plans after," she says, a little too quickly, grabbing her things and moving toward the door. "I'm okay."

I want to say something. I want to tell her that I'm not going anywhere, that I'm not leaving until she talks to me. But I don't. Not yet.

I trail her to the door, but just as I'm about to step out, I hear it—a muffled voice coming from her phone, now pressed back to her ear. It's too faint to make out the words, but then her response cuts through the quiet, low and urgent.

"I'll handle it," she says, her tone clipped and final. "Thanks. I'll make sure."

A chill runs through me, her words settling like a weight in the air. She's not talking to a friend. That much is obvious. And whatever she's involved in? It's bigger than she's letting on.

I hesitate. I don't confront her. Instead, I give her a small nod, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself, Jules."

She doesn't look back, just keeps walking, her shoulders stiff, her head held high like she's got it all figured out. But I know better. I watch her, my gaze trailing lower before I can stop myself. The sway of her hips in those tailored black pants is hypnotic, and damn if it doesn't remind me of how she used to walk away from me on tour—always leaving me wanting, always in control.

Except this time, it's different. She's thinner now, like she's been running on fumes. And those heels she's wearing? They don't even make a sound on the polished floors, but the way she moves, with that determined stride, it's like she's trying to outrun something. Maybe me. Maybe whatever it is she's tangled up in.

My jaw tightens, and I force myself to look away, to shake off the pull she has on me. But as I step out of the room and into the hallway, the gnawing feeling in my gut doesn't go away. It grows, settling heavy in my chest, sinking deeper with every step I take.

Something's not right, and I don't know what it is yet, but I'm not letting this go.

I don't go straight home after leaving Jules' office. I can't. My head's too full of questions, her face burned into my mind. The way her eyes barely met mine, the tension riding her frame, like she was bracing for impact. Something's off. I know it.

So I call Scottie.

Meeting with him is a calculated risk. Scottie doesn't give out information unless he thinks it's worth it, and he's not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. But if anyone knows what Jules is dealing with, it's him.

We meet at a café that Scottie insists on—some quiet, upscale place where the staff doesn't even flinch at his brusque manner. He's already sitting when I walk in, his suit as sharp as a blade, a cup of tea steaming in front of him. Because of course it's tea.

He raises a brow when he sees me. "You're early. I'm impressed."

"Don't get used to it," I mutter, waving down a server. Coffee. Black. I need all the caffeine if I'm going to deal with this conversation.

The server, a young woman with wide eyes and a shaky smile, freezes when she reaches me. Her gaze darts to Scottie briefly before landing back on me like she's just realized she's stumbled into something big.

"Oh my God," she breathes, clutching her notepad like it might keep her upright. "You're Whip Dexter."

I force a small, polite smile, the kind I've perfected over the years. "That's me."

Her face lights up, her nerves melting into excitement. "I love Curtain Call! It's my favorite song. I played it on repeat for weeks. My roommate was ready to murder me."

Despite the knot of tension in my chest, I chuckle softly. "Glad you liked it."

"Liked it? I'm obsessed. It's, like, the anthem of my life right now." She pulls out her phone, her fingers trembling as she opens the camera app. "Would it be okay if we—?"

"Yeah, sure," I cut in, already standing. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that saying no only makes things more awkward.

She holds up the phone, her grin so wide it looks like it might split her face. I lean in, giving the camera a faint smile as she snaps the picture.

"Thank you so much!" she gushes, practically bouncing on her toes. Then, remembering herself, she pulls out a receipt and a pen. "Could you—?"

"Of course." I take the pen, scrawling my name across the back of the receipt.

"Seriously, you've made my day," she says as I hand it back.

"No problem," I reply with a practiced smile.

She hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting between me and Scottie, before finally retreating to the counter.

I sit back down, running a hand over my face as Scottie smirks at me from across the table. "You handled that admirably," he says dryly.

"Shut up," I mutter, slouching in my seat. Luckily, the place is mostly empty, save for a few older patrons scattered around, none of whom seem to care about the guy from Kill John. Or the viral soloist.

Scottie gives me one of those flat, assessing looks that makes me feel like I'm under a microscope. "What's on your mind, Whip?"

I tap my fingers against the table, debating how to start. Subtlety isn't exactly my strong suit, but if I barrel in like usual, Scottie will shut me down faster than I can say fuck it.

"Jules," I say, and his head tilts slightly, just enough to tell me he's paying attention. "Have you talked to her?"

"I see her," he says smoothly. "Why?"

"Because she's been..." I pause, searching for the right words. "You know. Different. Distracted. Like she's carrying the weight of the fucking world, and I don't know why."

Scottie doesn't move, but something shifts in his expression. It's subtle, a flicker of recognition that he quickly hides behind a bland mask. "Jules has always been focused. Driven. If she seems distracted, it's likely work-related."

"For God's fucking sake," I say flatly, leaning forward. "She's always been busy, but this is different. She's shutting me out. Not answering texts, ducking calls. Hell, I had to track her down to her office today just to see her."

Scottie raises a brow, unimpressed. "And this concerns you because...?"

I glare at him. "Because I fucking care, Scottie. Jesus."

He makes a low sound, almost a hum, as if weighing my words. "If Jules is shutting you out, there's a reason. She's not one to make impulsive decisions."

"No shit," I snap, my frustration bubbling over. "But she's not okay. She's lost weight, she looks like she hasn't slept in a week, and she's acting like she's got the FBI after her."

At that, Scottie's gaze sharpens, his posture going rigid. "What exactly are you asking?"

I lean back, scrubbing a hand through my hair. "I don't know. I just—does she ever talk to you about...problems? People?"

His silence stretches, heavy and telling.

"Scottie," I press, my tone hardening.

Finally, he sighs, a long, exasperated sound. "There's been some...chatter in the industry," he admits, choosing his words carefully. "Nothing definitive, but enough to raise a few eyebrows. Jules mentioned she was handling a 'complication.' She didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask."

"A complication," I echo, my gut twisting.

Scottie meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. "She's capable, Whip. If she needs help, she'll ask for it."

I bark out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, right. Jules asking for help? I'd have a better chance of finding Bigfoot."

Scottie regards me with an arched brow, his lips twitching in what might be amusement—or condescension. Hard to tell with him.

"You're not going to like this," he starts, steepling his fingers as he leans back in his chair.

"Already don't," I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. "Just say it."

He eyes me for a moment before speaking. "There's someone poking around in venues. Nothing concrete yet, but it's... not good."

My spine stiffens. "What kind of 'not good' are we talking about?"

Scottie's gaze narrows. "Rumors. Unsubstantiated claims. A few murmurs of blackmail, though nothing I can confirm. What I can tell you is that they are deliberately targeting the Kill John orbit. Small clubs, up-and-coming acts that look up to you."

My stomach sinks, but I force myself to stay steady. "Why the hell would they do that?"

Scottie tilts his head. "You tell me. You've always been the sunshine of the group. The golden boy. Maybe someone wants to dim your light."

I bark out a laugh, though it's humorless. "Thanks for the Hallmark moment, Scottie."

He doesn't smile. "This isn't a joke, William. Whoever this is, their dangerous. Subtle, but dangerous."

I sit back, crossing my arms as I process the information. "So what do I do?"

"Keep your head down. And your eyes open." He takes another measured sip of tea before adding, "And, for God's sake, stay out of trouble."

"Trouble finds me," I mutter.

Scottie snorts. "Yes, I'm aware." He fixes me with that all-seeing stare of his. "You're chasing something, Whip. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I don't," I admit without hesitation, my tone dry. "But I'm doing it anyway."

Scottie shakes his head like he's already washing his hands of me. "Of course you are."

So now I know something's going on. But there's still a lot left to uncover. And I can't shake the feeling Scottie isn't telling me everything. He's always been the one to protect us—relentlessly, almost obsessively—but I wonder if that same instinct is keeping him from letting me in on something bigger.

I eye him. "That it? Anything else I should know?"

A beat of silence. Scottie watches me, assessing, then finally says, "That's all."

"You'll let me know if there's anything else." Not a question.

Scottie meets my gaze, unreadable. And then, after another beat—"Yes."

I don't press him further. No point.

As I rise from the table, the weight of uncertainty still lingers, but at least now, I have clarity—a direction to follow. Scottie didn't hand me a smoking gun, but he gave me enough to start piecing things together. And that's all I need for now. This isn't over—not by a long shot.