“No! I don’t.” I pick his notebook up from my desk and show it to her. “He stole my song.”
“I’m sure Darian Mercer didn’t steal your song. He doesn’t need to,” Jovie says. “Have you Googled him?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Right, you should. First, the man is F. I. N. E. fine. He did a photoshoot for some charity calendar a few years back, and whoa.” She fans herself. “I think I saved every picture I could find. Second, he’s an award-winning songwriter, Rye. This man shits number one hits. He doesn’t need to steal your song.”
Jovie takes Darian’s notebook from my hand before I can stop her. She flips through the pages, reads, and then looks at me. “You wrote this?”
I nod. “Half of it,” I tell her. “He added some.”
“Shit, Rye. This is really good.” She hands the book back to me. “Before you go at him with guns blazing, just stop and think. Darian could walk into any venue, but he chose The Songbird.”
“He’s going through some stuff,” I say, before shutting my mouth. It’s really not my business to tell Jovie what’s going on with him.
“Yeah, I know. It’s all over the web.” Jovie sighs and picks up the box of glasses. “Maybe call him instead of showing up wherever he lives like?—”
“Like what?”
“Like someone hunting for a fight.”
Jovie speaks the truth and that hurts. My fight or flight is always to fight, damn the consequences. I’m angry, not because of what he created, but because he did so without asking. And honestly, it frustrates me that he understood something about my music that I couldn’t and still can’t articulate myself.
“I’m not looking for a fight,” I finally admit.
“Then what do you want?”
An explanation. An apology. Some reason to stop thinking about the way his voice sounded when he played that harmony.
“I don’t know,” I tell her because this is easier than admitting I want to see him again, but away from the prying eyes of employees.
Jovie studies my face, then sighs. “He lives above Rattlesnake Guitars on Fifth.”
After she leaves, I lock up and walk the six blocks to Fifth Street. Morning air carries coffee shop aromas and self-guiding tourists looking on every street corner for Blake Shelton or Gretchen Wilson.
Rattlesnake Guitars sits at the corner of Fifth Street, with a used bookstore on one side and a bakery that already smells like fresh bread on the other. For years, Benny, the owner, hashoused wayward musicians until they can get on their feet, so it doesn’t make a ton of sense to me that Darian is living here.
Unless he’s hiding who he truly is from Benny.
The thing is, I don’t think Darian has a bad bone in his body, but then again, I’ve known enough musicians in my life to know they’re also liars.
I go through the non-descript door next to the main entrance of Rattlesnake Guitars and climb the stairs to the first apartment, assuming Benny still lives upstairs at the end of the hall. I’ve been here before, about ten years ago to visit a friend, who was trying to make it big in the industry. It’s almost as if the hallway smells like songwriters, of eagerness, and desperation. If someone could bottle the hopes and dreams of a musician and sell it on the street corner, they’d make millions.
I knock harder than necessary.
Footsteps approach, then the door opens to reveal Darian in jeans and . . . abs that go places my mind hasn’t gone to in years. Not since the night before Jason left me. Darian’s hair sticks up like he’s been running fingers through it, he looks like he’s been awake for hours.
“Rye.” Surprise flickers across his expression, followed by something resembling guilt. “Hi.” He steps forward and looks down the stairs. “Uh, how did you know where I live?”
“Jovie knew, somehow,” I say.
“Jovie? The purple-haired waitress?”
I nod. “You left this at the venue.” I hold up the notebook, watching recognition dawn in his eyes.
“Fuck. I searched everywhere for that.” He reaches for it, but I pull back.
“I bet you did.”
