“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.”
