My hands shake as I grip the case handle tighter. “Terrified. I’ve been on world tours, with the biggest crowds but this shit terrifies me. New crowd. New sound. I don’t have my sister or band to fall back on if shit doesn’t go right.”
“Good. Terror means you give a damn. This is how you’ll find your groove. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” His words follow me onto the street, where my legs carry me toward The Songbird. I put my ear buds in and listen to the recordings I made. I have five blocks to figure this out, without second-guessing every lyric I’ve ever written. One saving grace is I’m not the only one. I look like a dime a dozen rockerson the street right now. Each of us is trying to forge a path in an industry that doesn’t give a shit about you.
By the time I reach the venue, my palms are sweating around the handle of my guitar case. It doesn’t matter how many times I switch hands I can’t get them dry. I pause outside The Songbird and look through the windows, catching a glimpse of the purple-haired waitress and Rye . . . the one, who without a doubt, runs this place.
“You Darian?”
I turn at the sound of my name. The bouncer from last week stands there, his staff shirt stretched across his expansive chest.
“Yeah.”
“Gus,” he says as we shake hands. “Follow me. All the talent enters through the alley.”
Talent? Laughable.
Gus holds a metal door, and I step through, with him behind me. I follow him down the hall. He points to the bathroom and a make-shift green room. “Some of the artists sit back here until it’s their turn, but most sit in the audience because they’re all friends.”
Great, I’m an outsider.
Gus pushes through the last door and we’re in the venue. Staff move around, setting up. There are two other artists, turning their guitars in the corner, and then there’s me—standing in the way of staff as they go through the doorway behind me—opening my mouth like I’m gasping for air.
“That’s the boss,” Gus says as he points to Rye.
I knew it.
“You must be Darian.” Rye comes toward me with her hand extended. It’s small, soft, and too delicate to run a place like this. “I’m Rye. Thanks for signing up.”
Up close, she’s smaller than she appeared during Thursday’s songwriter round. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, fadedjeans and a black tank top. But it’s her eyes that stop my breath—sharp intelligence mixed with careful assessment, like she’s cataloguing everything about me in the space between heartbeats.
“Looking forward to it.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Our eyes meet and hold for a beat longer than necessary. Something passes between us—recognition, maybe, or curiosity. She bites her lower lip and then blushes before turning away. After two steps, she turns back. “Sit wherever.” Then she turns back to her work, and I force myself to move.
The other artists look up and nod, I return the gesture and sit at the same table I had last week.
By eight o’clock, the venue is full. Conversations layer over the clink of beer bottles and music playing through the speakers. The energy I had last week from sitting here is back, but tenfold. It feels like needles are trying to push through my skin because now my name appears on the chalkboard:Darian Mercer - 3rd slot.
The bartender with purple streaks in her hair approaches my table. “Last week you had beer,” she says as she put my water down. “I’m taking a chance.”
“It’s perfect, thanks.”
She glances at the guitar cases by the stage. “You’re performing tonight, right?”
I nod. “Third slot.”
She grins. “You’ll do fine. This crowd actually listens.” She moves toward the next table, leaving me alone with my nerves and the water I’m too anxious to drink.
The music overhead softens as Rye appears center stage, adjusting the microphone stand. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Thursday’s songwriter round. We’ve got four incredible writers sharing original music tonight.” Her voicecarries easily through the room, commanding attention without effort. “Please give them your ears and your respect.”
The first songwriter takes the stage—a young man with a twelve-string guitar who plays Celtic-influenced folk songs with intricate fingerpicking. His voice carries a slight accent that might be Irish or might be a carefully cultivated Nashville mystique. Either way, the room pays attention.
I watch Rye during the performance, noting how she moves through her tasks while keeping one ear tuned to the stage. When someone at a back table starts talking during the quiet bridge, she appears beside them without seeming to hurry, her presence alone enough to restore attention to the music.
The second performer follows—a woman in her thirties with a resonator guitar who plays slide blues with precise technique. Her original compositions blend traditional delta styles with contemporary themes, creating something both familiar and fresh.
Then Rye’s calling my name.
