Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“You need help.”
“I need a miracle.” Another chunk of drywall hits the floor. “But help works too.”
I take off my sweatshirt. “Tools?”
“Toolbox behind the bar. Fair warning though—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“Good thing I do.” I grab a hammer and utility knife from the toolbox. “My dad was a contractor. I spent summers swinging hammers instead of playing Little League.”
Jovie climbs down from the ladder, wiping sweat from her forehead. “You sure? This is messy work.”
“I’m sure.”
Two hours disappear into demolition and repair. We strip out the damaged drywall, inspect the framing underneath, and measure for new sections. Jovie proves to be a quick learner with good instincts, and we fall into an easy working partnership.
It feels good to use my hands for something concrete. Something that produces visible results. There’s satisfaction in tearing out the broken parts and building something solid to replace them.
Jovie hands me screws when I need them and holds pieces steady while I attach them to the studs. By the time we finish the first section, my shoulders ache in a way that feels earned. Physical work has always been good therapy for emotional confusion. There’s something about measuring twice and cutting once that puts the rest of life in perspective.
“You’re pretty handy for a musician,” Jovie observes, mixing joint compound in a bucket.
“Most musicians are handy. You have to be when you can’t afford to pay other people to fix your shit.”
“Good point.” She starts spreading the compound over the seams.
Footsteps echo from the staircase, followed by Rye’s voice calling down. “Jovie, the plumber wants to know if I want him to check the connections behind the bar while he’s here.”
“Tell him yes,” Jovie calls back. “And tell him we’ve got the wall situation handled.”
“What do you mean?” The footsteps get closer. “I thought you said—”
Rye appears at the bottom of the stairs and stops dead when she sees me. She’s wearing old jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Even covered in dust and looking frazzled, she’s beautiful.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Helping,” I say.
Her gaze moves from me to the half-repaired wall, then to Jovie, who suddenly becomes very interested in smoothing the joint compound. “I didn’t ask for help.”
“Your venue needed it. I was available.”
“That’s not—” She stops, running a hand through her hair. “You can’t just show up and fix things.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how this works.”
“How what works?”
Rye’s brows furrows. She opens her mouth to say something but then closes it quickly. Her expression changes from confusion to anger.
Jovie clears her throat. “I’m going to check on the plumber,” she announces, making herself scarce before either of us can protest.
Rye and I stare at each other across the construction debris. She looks tired in a way that goes deeper than one sleepless night, and I wonder how much of that is the water damage and how much is me.
Ego much, Mercer?
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says finally.
“I know.”
“I can handle my own problems.”
“I know that too, at least I’m assuming you can.”
“Then why—”
“What happened between us doesn’t go hand-in-hand, Rye? I stopped by to see you and found this.” I spread my arm out, pointing to the mess. “I have the skills to help, and me helping now means you can open tonight instead of waiting for a contractor to come in. This way, The Songbird makes money, and the performers don’t lose a gig. And because I needed to do something that mattered. I’m a little lost here in Nashville,” I ramble longer than I intended.
She stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression. Not acceptance, exactly, but maybe understanding.
“The wall looks good,” she says quietly.
“It’ll be better when it’s painted.”
“I was going to do that myself.”
“I figured.”
She moves closer, running her hand along the smooth joint compound. Her fingers are careful, testing the repair. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But this doesn’t change anything.”
“I’m not doing this to change anything, Rye.”
She nods and heads back upstairs without another word, leaving me alone with the sound of Jovie and the plumber debating pipe pressure somewhere overhead.
I spend another hour finishing the drywall work, then clean up the tools and sweep construction dust into neat piles. The repair will need to dry overnight before it can be painted, but the structure is solid. It’ll hold.
My phone rings as I’m washing drywall dust off my hands in the venue’s tiny bathroom. Unknown Nashville number.
“Darian Mercer.”
“Darian, this is Bishop Hart. I produce here in town—worked with some folks you might know. Levi Austin, Sarah McKinnon, that new kid everyone’s talking about, Cole something.”
I recognize the name. Bishop’s got a reputation for finding artists before they blow up, for having an ear that can spot potential three albums out. “What can I do for you, Bishop?”