Chapter 19 Darian
darian
. . .
The knock comes at nine in the morning. I’m three cups of coffee deep and finally getting somewhere with this melody that’s been dodging me for days. I set my guitar down and head to the door. Through the peephole: a suit. Leather briefcase, slicked hair, the works.
“Darian Mercer?” He extends his hand before I’m fully through the door. “Mitchell Brennan, A&R for Apex Records.”
Apex. Not Bishop’s label. One of the majors.
“Come in.” I shake his hand, already wary. When majors show up at your door unannounced, they want something specific.
Mitchell follows me inside. “Nice setup,” he says, settling onto my couch without invitation. “Very authentic. Though I imagine you miss LA. The heat, the sun, endless women knocking on your door.”
Definitely not.
“Not really.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “I’ll get right to it. Apex wants to offer you a solo deal. Three albums, complete creative control, distribution that Bishop Entertainment can’t match. We’re talking real money, real promotion, real comeback.”
“I’m already working with Bishop.”
“No contracts signed though, right? Just informal studio time?” He opens his briefcase, pulls out a folder thick with papers. “We’ve done our homework. You’re recording demos, playing local venues, collaborating with that bar owner. All very quaint, but it’s not a career strategy.”
“It’s working for me.”
“Is it? Because from where I sit, you’re wasting your talent on Nashville’s bar circuit when you should be headlining festivals.”
I lean back in my chair. “What do you actually want, Mitchell?”
“You. Solo. We’ve heard the tracks you’ve been working on with Bishop. Strong material, but it needs professional polish. Our writers could elevate those songs.”
“I have a writing partner.”
“Rye Hayes.” He says her name like it tastes bitter. “Manages The Songbird, writes on the side. We know all about her.”
“Then you know she’s talented.”
“She’s a distraction. Look, I’ll be frank - Apex has no interest in unknown songwriters from failing venues. We want Darian Mercer, former Reverend Sister guitarist, not some package deal with a nobody who got lucky enough to catch your attention.”
The word ‘nobody’ hits different when it’s aimed at someone specific. Someone whose melodies have been keeping me up at night for all the right reasons. Someone who was treated like their voice didn’t matter before. I promised I wouldn’t be that person.
“She’s not a nobody.”
“In this industry? She absolutely is. No publishing deals, no cuts, no presence beyond one tiny venue. You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment.”
“I’m being selective about who I work with.”
Mitchell leans forward. “Here’s what I think.
You’re in Nashville licking wounds from the band breakup.
You meet a pretty face who writes decent hooks, and suddenly you think you’ve found artistic integrity.
But what happens in six months when the novelty wears off?
When you remember what real success feels like? ”
“This is real success.”
“Playing to fifty people a night? Recording in Bishop’s B-room? That’s not success, that’s hiding.”
“It’s building something authentic.”
“Authentic doesn’t sell records. You know what does? Professional songs written by people who understand the market. Not heartfelt ballads about daddy issues from someone who couldn’t make it past bar management.”
I stand up. “We’re done here.”
“Sit down. You haven’t heard the number yet.”
I laugh. They’re all the same, only carrying about how much they offer. Thinking it's the six or seven figures they can throw around to entice artists.“I don’t care about the number.”
Mitchell pulls out a single sheet of paper, slides it across the coffee table. The figure at the bottom has more zeros than I’ve seen in years. “That’s just the signing bonus. First album budget is triple that.”
“Not interested.”
“Because of her? You’re turning down generational wealth for someone who’ll be managing that same bar in ten years?”
“Because I’ve already done the major label thing. I know what those contracts really mean. You’ll own everything I create, tell me who to write with, what to record, how to sound. I’ll end up making music that means nothing to anyone, including me.”
Mitchell starts packing his briefcase. “Bishop can’t offer you what we can. He’s indie, with limited resources, regional distribution at best.”
“Bishop respects what I’m building with Rye.”
“Bishop’s being polite. You think he doesn’t know she’s holding you back? He’s just too professional to say it.”
“Get out.”
“Think about this rationally—”
“I am thinking rationally. I’m thinking I don’t want to work with people who see authentic songwriting as a weakness.”
Mitchell heads for the door, then pauses. “When you’re ready to stop playing house with the bar owner, Apex will still be interested. But the offer won’t be as generous.”
“Then I guess I’ll never be ready.”
“You’ll change your mind. They always do when the money runs out and reality sets in.”
He leaves, and I stand there processing what just happened. Not the offer—I’ve had plenty of those. But the casual dismissal of Rye, like she’s some groupie I picked up instead of the most talented songwriter I’ve met in years.
My phone rings. Bishop.
“Heard you had a visitor,” he says without preamble.
“Word travels fast.”
“Mitchell called to gloat about poaching you. Seemed pretty confident.”
“He was wrong.”
“Good. But Darian, you know this is just the beginning, right? Now that you’re releasing your own music, every label in town is going to come calling. They’ll all try to separate you from Rye.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s unknown. She’s a risk. Labels don’t like risks.”
“She’s brilliant.”
“I know that. You know that. But they see numbers, demographics, social media presence. She has none of those things.”
“She has talent.”
“In this industry, talent is maybe twenty percent of the equation.”
“Then the industry is seriously more fucked up then I thought.”
Bishop laughs. “Now you’re catching on. Look, I’m calling to say I support whatever you decide. If you want to work with Rye, we’ll make it work. But be prepared for more Mitchells. They’ll all offer you the moon to leave her behind.”
“Let them try.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. See you in the studio Thursday?”
“We’ll be there.”
I hang up and grab my keys. Rye needs to know about Mitchell, not because I want credit for turning him down, but because she should know what we’re up against.
The Songbird is quiet when I arrive, afternoon lull before the evening crowd. Rye’s at the bar, working on the books, ledger spread out in front of her.
“Hey,” she says without looking up. “If you’re here for the open mic list, it’s already full.”
“Not here for that.”
She glances up, notices something in my expression. “What happened?”
“Apex Records just tried to poach me from Bishop.”
“That’s good, right? Bidding war means leverage.”
“They made it clear the offer was for me solo. They called you—” I pause, not wanting to repeat it but needing her to understand. “They said you were a nobody holding me back.”
She sets down her pen carefully. “They’re not wrong about the nobody part.”
“Stop saying that.”
“It’s literally true. I have no industry presence.”
“You have The Songbird. You have your songs. You have—”
“A ten-year-old daughter and a business that barely breaks even and a bar owner who threatens to shut us down every month. I know what I have, Darian. And I know what I don’t have.”
“You have me. As a writing partner, I mean. If you want that.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Even when labels are offering you stupid money to work with their approved writers?”
“Especially then.”
“You saw the number, didn’t you? The offer?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still said no?”
“Without hesitation.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Probably.”
She comes around the bar, stops just close enough that I have to look down to meet her eyes. “They’re going to keep coming. Other labels, other offers. They’ll all want you without me.”
“Then they don’t get me at all.”
“You say that now—”
“I’ll say it every time. We’re creating something real together. That’s worth more than any advance check.”
“Is it though? Can you pay rent with artistic integrity?”
“I’ve paid rent with a lot less. At least this way, I can sleep at night. I’d rather have my integrity than a record deal. I’d rather be someone people can count on, then on a world tour with sell-out crowds.”
She reaches up, touches my face briefly, then pulls back like she’s surprised by her own action. “Thank you. For choosing the music over the money.”
“I’m choosing you. The music is just an excuse.”
“Darian—”
“As a writing partner. Collaborator. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Right. Collaborator.” But she’s smiling now. “You really told Mitchell from Apex to fuck off?”
“More or less.”
“Because he called me a nobody?”
“Because he doesn’t understand what we’re building. And because anyone who can’t hear what you bring to the music is tone deaf.”
She goes back behind the bar, pulls out the good whiskey. “You know Bishop’s right. This is just the beginning. The offers are going to get bigger, the pressure worse.”
“Let them come.”
“Easy to say now—”
“Easy to say, period. I’ve had the big contracts, the approved writers, the whole machine. It nearly killed me. What we’re doing here, at The Songbird, in Bishop’s studio—this is real. This matters.”
She pours two glasses, slides one to me. “To bad business decisions.”
“To good musical ones.”
We drink, and I watch her process everything. She’s scared—I can see it in the way she grips her glass, the tension in her shoulders. Not scared of me, but of what this means. Of being visible to an industry that’s already dismissing her.
“Play me something,” I say.
“What?”
“That new thing you’ve been working on. I heard you humming it yesterday.”
“It’s not ready.”
“Play it anyway.”
She moves to the piano, sits at the bench. Her fingers find the keys, tentative at first, then stronger. The melody is haunting, complex in ways that would never work on pop radio but perfect for what it is—honest, vulnerable, real.
When she finishes, I’m quiet for a moment. “That’s what Mitchell and his approved writers could never create. That’s why we’re going to keep doing this, no matter how many suits show up at my door.”
“You really believe that?”
“I know it.”
“Even when the money runs out?”
“Money always runs out eventually, but I invested well. I’m not afraid. But songs like that? They last forever.”
She closes the piano, comes back to the bar. “Bishop’s expecting us Thursday?”
“Thursday and Friday. Full studio time.”
“Both of us?”
“Both of us. Together. Just like before. Like it should be.”
The door opens and regulars start filtering in for happy hour. Our moment breaks, but the understanding remains. We’re in this together now, for better or worse, nobody and somebody making music that matters.
As the bar fills up and she moves into manager mode, I think about Mitchell’s certainty that I’d change my mind. That reality would set in and I’d choose success over authenticity.
He doesn’t understand that this is success. This bar, these songs, this partnership with someone who writes from her bones instead of from a formula.
Let them all come with their offers and their contracts. We’ll be here, making music that actually means something, even if we’re the only ones who understand its value.
That’s enough. More than enough.
It’s everything.