Chapter 5
Once she feels she's ready, Abigail checks herself in the room’s mirror one last time.
She’s put on a simple but elegant dress that hugs her figure without being too showy—or so she hopes.
What is showy is the hickey on her neck.
The mark stands out starkly against her pale skin, like a piece of strawberry on a mound of whipped cream.
Abigail tried to cover it with makeup, but her skin is so fair it only made things worse, so the mark will be there, visible on her neck and part of her cleavage—at least a third of it is covered by the dress.
Without thinking, she runs her fingers over the hickey, feeling a mix of arousal and irritation as she remembers.
It bothers her that that waitress was bold enough to mark her like that, as if Abigail were her territory, and it bothers her even more that she gets turned on every time she thinks about it.
It’s a disconcerting sensation that doesn’t fit with her usual self-control.
She checks the time on her wristwatch and leaves the room, determined to find out once and for all whether Jimmy Walt is right or she’s wasted the weekend coming to this out-of-the-way town for a mediocre singer.
She descends the stairs with her usual poise, as if the whole space belonged to her without her even realizing it, and finds Harold at the front desk, whose eyes nearly pop when he sees her.
"Mrs. Stone," he greets her with a huge smile. "Are you heading out?"
"I'm afraid so," she replies curtly. "Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for a bar with live music tonight."
"Ah, Rusty's," he says immediately.
"Is it far?" Abigail asks.
"Not at all—you can walk if you like. It’s a couple of blocks from here, down the main avenue. You can’t miss it; it’s the only place on that street with a neon sign."
"Do you know what time they start?" Abigail inquires.
"Singing? Around nine or nine-thirty—it should be about to start," Harold explains.
"Perfect. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Abigail steps out of the building and walks through the streets of Smithville in silence.
The temperature has dropped a little, but it’s still pleasant, and the night breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass—something she hasn’t smelled in a long time.
She takes it all in with curiosity: houses with white wooden porches, well-kept lawns, and lights glowing through the windows.
Everything radiates a calm that feels very far from her.
She wonders what someone with real talent can do in a place like this, where ambition seems to stop at a neatly mown lawn and knowing every neighbor.
The idea that a diamond in the rough could exist in such a peaceful setting seems less and less likely.
In her view, great talent is born of need, of hunger for something more.
What hunger can someone raised in this bubble of tranquility feel?
And yet here she is, taking Jimmy at his drunken word—at least the afternoon she spent with the waitress has definitely made the trip worth it, regardless of what she finds inside Rusty’s.
The sign is exactly as Harold described it—the only one with neon lights on the whole street.
When Abigail pushes the door open and steps in, the vibe is warm and noisy.
The place is bigger than it looked from the outside; at least twenty tables fill the room, and a long bar runs along the left wall.
At the back, a small raised stage looks ready for the show.
Abigail heads for the bar and chooses an empty stool at the end, near the door. It gives her a clear view of the stage while keeping her in the shadows—exactly where she wants to be. The bartender, a middle-aged man with a very thick gray beard, approaches as soon as he sees her sit down.
"What can I get you?"
"Whiskey on the rocks, please," she orders, not bothering to ask about any of their cocktails.
While she waits for her drink, she scans the room, taking in the atmosphere.
The clientele is mixed, from young couples to groups of middle-aged friends where everyone seems to know everyone.
It’s exactly the kind of bar she usually avoids, though she has to admit there’s something pleasant about the mood.
"Here you go," the bartender says.
Abigail’s eyes fix on the glass; the rim is worn, cloudy, and for a moment she considers asking him to change it, but decides not to be fussy.
She just needs the show to start; a song or two will be enough to tell her whether the girl has potential.
With any luck, this will be her only drink.
She takes a sip and is surprised by the quality, almost moaning with pleasure as it slides down her throat, leaving that slight burn she only allows herself when she and Liam celebrate something in her office.
She sees movement onstage and looks up. A dark-haired guy is tuning an electric guitar.
He seems familiar, but she can’t place him, and she doesn’t get the chance because her attention shifts when a woman crosses in front of the stage with an acoustic guitar in hand.
She recognizes her instantly. Taylor, the waitress who branded her like cattle.
A stab of desire slices through Abigail’s belly, and her mind reels as she wonders if Taylor is dating someone in the band—if the guy with the electric guitar is her boyfriend or something.
The mere thought annoys her, and she huffs before bringing the glass to her lips. She focuses on Taylor again.
The girl is wearing fitted jeans and a black T-shirt that clings to her body, and Abigail remembers perfectly what’s underneath.
Her wavy hair falls over her shoulders, and Taylor moves with the same confidence she had at the restaurant—and in Abigail’s room.
Then something happens that takes Abigail a few seconds to process.
Taylor steps onto the stage and positions herself behind the microphone.
She isn’t here as a spectator, nor is she helping anyone in the band.
Taylor is the singer Abigail came all this way to see.
Her body goes rigid, and every sense sharpens at once. Abigail has never slept with anyone she had to evaluate afterward, and the situation throws her for a few seconds—until she remembers she’s Abigail Stone, and nothing gets to her.
The guy with the electric guitar—whom she now recognizes immediately as the other waiter who served her at the restaurant—steps up to the mic.
"Good evening, Rusty’s," he says with a wide smile that draws a few whistles from the crowd.
"I’m Ethan, and this is my little sister Taylor, though most of you already know that.
" More whistles; Taylor smiles, and something tightens between Abigail’s legs.
"We’re going to start with something you all know. "
The first chords from the electric guitar fill the room, followed by the softer sound of Taylor’s acoustic.
When they start to sing together, Abigail is frustrated.
Ethan’s voice isn’t bad, but it covers Taylor’s, and it annoys her.
She can hear flashes of something in the sister’s voice—notes that rise above the melody with a different quality—but she can’t assess it properly with that constant, irritating interference.
The hairs on her nape lift when Taylor sings a verse alone.
Her voice comes through clean and clear for the first time, and there’s something in its tone that makes Abigail lean forward without meaning to.
The moment ends when Ethan joins her again for the chorus.
The song finishes to applause, and Abigail waits impatiently while Ethan adjusts something on his guitar—but then Taylor moves around the stage with easy confidence, as if it belongs to her, walking under the lights as she smiles at people she clearly knows.
"I wrote this one last month," she says with that crooked smile that starts fires. Taylor takes the main mic and her brother hangs back. "It’s called Wildfire."
The first chords from her acoustic are simple, almost intimate, but there’s something in the way she plays that grabs Abigail’s attention at once. Then Taylor opens her mouth and sings, and Abigail’s world stops.
The voice that pours from that throat doesn’t sound human to her; it’s pure emotion crystallized into sound.
Every note is loaded with something wild and ancient, a keening that seems to rise from deep in the earth.
It’s rough in the low notes and ragged in the middle, but when it climbs into the highs, it turns clear without losing the texture that makes it unique.
Abigail feels chills race down her back, along her arms, and finally through her whole body.
The whiskey glass trembles in her fingers as Taylor sings about fire and loss, about how pain turns into strength.
She doesn’t catch every word—sometimes Taylor almost whispers and the acoustics aren’t great—but she doesn’t need to.
The raw emotion transmits itself directly through that torn voice that cradles each note as if it were the last she’ll ever sing.
To Abigail, it’s impossible that a voice like this exists in a small-town bar, served up as casual Friday night entertainment for a crowd that drinks beer and chats between songs. It’s like finding a Gothic cathedral in the middle of a cornfield—she can barely process it.
The executive’s heart is pounding so fast she’s sure the bartender can hear it over the music.
Her breathing has turned uneven, and she has to fight the urge to stand and move closer to the stage.
She watches Taylor sing—the way her entire body follows her words, how she closes her eyes in the most intense moments, how her hands move expressively even while she plays the guitar.
She’s pure, unfiltered passion, raw talent that hasn’t been molded or tamed.
Her gaze shifts to Ethan, who’s accompanying the song on electric guitar.
He’s good—he knows what he’s doing—but the difference between him and his sister is abyssal.
And yet Abigail notices something in his stance, in how he positions himself slightly forward, that makes her think he’s used to sharing the spotlight equally when it’s obvious his sister has all the talent.
Ethan is a problem. Abigail understands that immediately, but she’ll worry about it later.
The song reaches its peak, and Taylor’s voice rises in a raw cry that seems to hold all the world’s rage and beauty. Then it simply fades into a whisper that leaves the audience completely silent for several seconds before it explodes into applause.
Abigail remains motionless, almost panting, whiskey glass in hand as she processes what she’s just witnessed.
She’s listened to hundreds of singers over the course of her career—probably thousands.
She’s discovered stars, shaped careers, and watched raw talent turn into commercial empires, but never, not once, has she felt something visceral in response to a voice.
Taylor smiles at the crowd, breathless from the effort, her forehead shining with sweat.
She lets her gaze wander over the faces, and suddenly it stops when she meets Abigail’s eyes.
She recognizes her instantly, and Taylor blinks in surprise.
Her smile shifts, quirks to one side, and her gaze narrows.
Abigail keeps her expression impassive, but it feels as if Taylor is looking straight through her with those big brown eyes.
Ethan steps up to the mic to announce the next song, but Abigail isn’t listening anymore. Her mind is racing, calculating possibilities, seeing everything she can build around that extraordinary voice—a new world for Taylor, one where her voice can shine and everyone can hear it.
Jimmy Walt was right. What a fucking drunk bastard.
And Abigail has found what she didn’t know she was looking for.