Chapter 6
Abigail stays still on her stool at the end of the bar as she watches Taylor and her brother pack up the instruments after the set.
Her mind is a hive as she works out her next move.
She could go over now, but she thinks that would be too obvious, too eager.
Better to wait, read the room, and find the right moment to take the next step.
She thinks of calling Liam to tell him what she’s just discovered, but she’s so rattled she wouldn’t know where to begin.
Besides, she can’t take her eyes off Taylor, who moves through the bar with the same magnetism she had on stage.
She’s charismatic in a way Abigail knows you can’t learn; you’re born with it.
People simply gravitate toward her, hungry for her attention, and all it takes is a smile or a couple of words to please them.
To Abigail it feels like a waste, and it puts her in a bad mood to see her here knowing she spends her time waiting tables at Davey’s when she should be holed up in recording studios or up on stages in front of thousands who can do more than clap and drink beer.
Taylor stops by a table where she seems to know some people, smiling and thanking them while her gaze keeps sliding to Abigail. When she finally looks about to shake them off, Ethan appears behind her to say something and Taylor nods, but she does it distractedly, focused on the woman at the bar.
Abigail watches that moment between the siblings and reaches the same conclusion she already drew on stage.
There’s something about Ethan she doesn’t like; he orbits his sister as if he’s trying to control her when it’s obvious her attention is elsewhere.
When Taylor finally gets free, she walks toward Abigail with her crooked smile and that effortless sensuality that wraps her like a halo of fire, catching several looks along the way.
"I wasn’t expecting to see you here," Taylor says, leaning against the bar with so much confidence that, for a moment, Abigail thinks she’s about to jump her. "Did you like the set?" she asks, looking at her with those huge brown eyes.
Abigail looks at her and lets the silence stretch just long enough to make her expect a well-crafted answer. Taylor doesn’t seem intimidated; she’s simply there with that playful smile dancing on her lips.
"You could’ve done better," Abigail replies in her particular rough tone.
Taylor’s smile wavers for a moment and surprise crosses her face before she can hide it. It’s obvious she’s used to praise, to automatic, easy compliments after every performance. The woman’s blunt critique has thrown her off—and intrigued her.
"Really?" Taylor straightens. "And according to your expert judgment, what should I have done differently?"
Abigail isn’t one to smile, but the sarcasm in her voice almost makes her laugh; even so, she only lets her lips curve slightly.
Her expert judgment… Abigail could explain that she’ll probably never meet anyone with better judgment than her, but she bites her tongue—she’ll have time to tell her who she is.
"That..." Abigail says, picking up her whiskey for a sip, "...is a very long conversation."
Taylor frowns, studying her with her almond eyes without knowing if the woman is teasing her.
"I’ve got time," Taylor replies, shrugging as her gaze drops to the dress.
Her eyes linger on Abigail’s neckline a beat too long, then on her bare legs below the knee, then climb to her neck and relish the hickeys, turned into two dark smudges in the bar’s dim light.
"You done looking?" Abigail asks, feeling her skin burn everywhere Taylor lays her eyes.
"Maybe," she says with an amused smile. "So, are you going to tell me?"
"Buy me a drink and we’ll talk," Abigail says.
"Do you just want me to buy you a drink, or do you want me to do something else?" she asks, unfiltered.
Abigail pushes the empty glass along the bar.
"We’ll see."
Taylor laughs, an unguarded, low, raspy sound that makes something in Abigail’s belly tighten.
"Follow me," Taylor says, stepping away from the bar.
She leads her through the bar, weaving between tables to a door near the stage that opens onto a back patio.
It’s a small space that strikes Abigail as very intimate, lit only by a few lights strung from the trees, with four wooden barrels scattered as tables and several stools, most of them empty at this hour.
Taylor chooses the table in the farthest corner, where the light barely reaches and privacy is at a maximum.
She drags a stool out for Abigail and leans in as if she’s about to kiss her.
"What are you drinking?" she asks without Abigail moving back an inch.
"Whiskey."
"Of course you are," Taylor murmurs with a wry smile. "Be right back."
She disappears inside, leaving Abigail alone in the patio. The air is still a gentle breeze and a scent from some plant reaches her, pleasant but unplaceable. Taylor is back quickly, setting a glass of whiskey in front of Abigail before sitting and holding a pint of beer for herself.
"So," she says, raising the pint for a toast, "are you going to tell me your name?" she asks as if she’d forgotten the conversation they have pending.
"No." Abigail’s voice is like thunder in the middle of that empty patio, but Taylor seems amused.
"Well, I need some way to address you," she says before taking a sip of beer. "Let me think..."
"Don’t think too hard," Abigail cuts her off. "You don’t need to address me at all. You don’t need my name, and I don’t need yours."
"But you already know mine," Taylor counters.
"That’s your problem."
Abigail wants to rein in her poisonous tongue; she doesn’t even know why she’s refusing. As soon as they talk about what they need to talk about, she has to tell her who she is. It’s absurd not to say her name, but she likes the flash of amusement that lights Taylor’s eyes when she denies her.
"Okay," Taylor says with a shrug. "When are you leaving?"
"What?"
"Town—when are you heading out?" Taylor presses.
"Sunday," Abigail answers.
"Short visit, then. Anyway, tell me what, according to you, I could do better."
Abigail huffs as if the list is too long; it’s so spontaneous that Taylor starts laughing and Abigail just watches.
Although the waitress is a diamond in the rough, Abigail could mention plenty she can still improve—can and should—but she looks closely at her and decides not to, not tonight.
Taylor is too euphoric, too charged with adrenaline after the set to have a serious conversation.
Her eyes shine like she’s holding herself back, a volcano about to overflow.
She can’t stop moving her hands when she talks and jumps from topic to topic without focusing on anything specific.
This isn’t the right time to tell her who she is or why she’s here.
That conversation requires Taylor to be centered and receptive, able to process information that could change her life.
Right now she’s in celebration mode, untethered because her afternoon fling is with her again tonight, and Abigail is smart enough to know when to wait before making a major move.
Instead of answering, Abigail just looks at her, still processing what she witnessed on that stage. That extraordinary voice, that natural presence, as if she were born to be up there—her magnetism. Taylor has the kind of talent Abigail knows only shows up once in a generation.
Taylor takes her silence as something completely different from what it is. Her eyes darken as she looks at the woman and, suddenly, she slides off her stool and comes closer.
"Fuck," she murmurs, taking the whiskey glass from Abigail’s hand and setting it on the table.
Abigail doesn’t have time to react. Taylor steps between her legs and presses against her, gripping the base of the stool with her hands as she kisses her with an intensity that leaves Abigail breathless.
The kiss is different from any they shared this afternoon in the room at Harold’s; this one is pure fire and need.
Taylor tastes like beer and something sweet and, when her tongue grazes Abigail’s, Abigail feels a current run the length of her spine.
"I can’t think about anything but hiking up that dress and fucking you on a table," Taylor whispers against her mouth, voice hoarse and eyes fixed on her lips.
That filthy, brazen talk makes Abigail wet in an instant.
She knows she shouldn’t sleep with her again, that the situation between them has changed, but they haven’t talked yet, and she tells herself that if they fucked once, there’s no harm in doing it again.
Her theory is bullshit and Abigail knows it, but Taylor’s tongue is back in her mouth and Abigail needs her to put it somewhere else.
"Let’s go back to my room," she says, pushing her back a little, "but tomorrow I want to talk to you."
Her icy tone returns and Taylor watches while the executive smooths her dress as she steps off the stool.
"Talk about what?" she asks while the executive smooths her dress.
"Tomorrow," Abigail repeats, used to not giving explanations.
Taylor gives her a crooked smile and shrugs.
"Whatever you say."
The walk to Harold’s place is exquisite torture for both of them. Taylor walks so close that Abigail can feel the heat rolling off her body and smell that perfume mixed with the sweat from after her set.
"You go in first," Abigail says when they reach the building’s door.
"Why?" Taylor asks.
Abigail gestures like it’s obvious.
"I don’t know, do you want people to see you come in with me? It’ll be pretty obvious what you’re here for."
"I’ll remind you I’ve already been here," Taylor says with a little laugh. "Besides, Harold isn’t going to spread gossip; he’s a john, and keeping his mouth shut is in his best interest."
Abigail doesn’t know what to say to that, so she pushes the door and lets Taylor pass, following her inside.
"Hi, Taylor," Harold greets. "Ah, Mrs. Stone, you’re back."