Chapter 7
Taylor pulls up to Harold's place two minutes before noon, behind the wheel of a blue pickup with the paint a little worn.
She's wearing oversized sunglasses and her hair is pulled into a high ponytail that bares her neck.
Abigail steps out of the building just as she's parking, and Taylor nearly goes cross-eyed when her gaze lands on her.
Abigail's in another of the suits like the one she wore when they met at the restaurant, white pants and a purple blouse that matches the hickey on her neck.
"Good morning," Abigail greets her with a chill that could freeze the car's air-conditioning.
She settles into the passenger seat, sets her purse on her lap, and buckles up, staring straight ahead as if they hadn't spent half the day moaning yesterday.
"Hi," Taylor replies, carefree. "Did you sleep well?" she asks as she starts the engine.
"Perfectly," Abigail answers without looking at her.
Taylor smiles. The attitude doesn't bother her; she finds it amusing.
That iciness that would send anyone else running for the hills only makes Taylor more curious.
She's never met anyone like her, able to keep that kind of distance after what they'd done.
She's fascinated by her, though she has to admit she's a complete mystery.
"You do remember we fucked yesterday, right?" she asks, as casually as if she were talking about the weather.
Abigail goes even more rigid. Now the situation has changed. She's here to talk business, and to her, business is serious—it's not something you mix with anything else or take lightly.
"We fucked yesterday, yes. Get over it."
Taylor's eyebrows shoot up as she flicks a glance at her.
"Get over it," she repeats with a little laugh. "Fuck, you're incredible, seriously."
Abigail doesn't hear a trace of sarcasm in her voice; if anything, there's a hint of admiration, and that throws her. She's used to her coldness breeding resentment, protests, even ridiculous arguments she has to shut down before they start, but Taylor seems to find everything she does stimulating.
"Where are we going?" she asks to change the subject.
"Somewhere you'll like," Taylor answers. "It's on the outskirts, but the food's good and it's quiet."
"And how do you know I'll like it?" Abigail asks.
"Because it's almost always empty, and I get the feeling you're kind of a loner."
The answer pins Abigail to her seat. She says nothing, pulls out her phone, and opens her email to check her inbox.
"What are you doing? Talking to your husband?" Taylor asks after a minute, uncomfortable with the silence.
Abigail shoots her a look that sends Taylor's eyes back to the road.
"Right. None of my business."
Abigail wants to break things. She doesn't like giving explanations about her private life—about anything, really—but it bothers her that Taylor implied there's a man in her life. Does she look like a woman who needs that kind of dead weight at her side?
"I'm working," she answers tightly, still scrolling through her emails.
Taylor's lips curve and she drums her fingers on the wheel.
"Why are you working now? You should relax."
"Fuck," Abigail mutters, looking up. "I work because I like it, because it's what I know how to do and what I'm good at. Now shut up and drive."
"There are other things you're good at, you know."
The tension in her shoulders is so strong Abigail has to close her eyes. It happens sometimes—when she can't control a situation or gets very nervous, she goes so rigid that her muscles seize and the pain is almost unbearable, though she'd never complain.
She ignores the subtext in Taylor's words and sets her phone on her thigh to massage her neck with her fingers. Taylor glances at her from the corner of her eye, thinking how much she'd like it to be her fingers sinking into that pale skin, but she pushes the thought away.
"This is it," she says as she parks.
The restaurant is a classic diner with red booths and huge windows looking out over the fields. Only three tables are occupied when they walk in, and the vibe is as calm as Taylor mentioned. They choose a table in the back, the one farthest from the other diners, and sit facing each other.
"Better?" Taylor asks.
"What?"
"Your neck," Taylor points.
"Yes."
Abigail unbuttons her cuffs and rolls up her sleeves, feeling the air-conditioning is cranked too high. Taylor follows the movement of her fingers until the waitress comes over to take their order, and she orders a burger and Abigail a salad.
"So, what do you want to talk about? Is this where you're going to tell me everything I do wrong when I sing?" Taylor asks.
Abigail sighs and rests her arms on the table, fixing her with a look.
"My name is Abigail Stone," she says, very serious.
Taylor blinks, surprised.
"Ah, wow, finally. Well, hi, Abigail," she greets with a smile.
Abigail sighs and rolls her eyes.
"I'm not telling you to make you happy," Abigail clarifies. "I'm telling you because I own a company. I'm a music talent scout. My agency represents some of the most important artists in the country. Martin Reed, Isabella Cruz, the McKenzie brothers..."
Taylor goes still, staring at her with those big dark eyes.
"You're kidding," Taylor says.
"I never joke when I'm talking about work."
A breathy laugh breaks across Taylor's face, then she goes still again as she keeps staring at Abigail.
"No, yeah, you're kidding," she insists, dazed, though there's a flicker of doubt in her voice. "Martin Reed—the same one who won three Grammys in a row?"
"The same," Abigail answers.
Taylor rubs her temples; suddenly she's hot and then a little cold.
"Isabella Cruz sold out Madison Square Garden last year," Taylor says.
"Yes," Abigail replies, sliding a card she'd taken from her purse across the table—the one that proves she's exactly who she says she is.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Taylor whispers as the card trembles between her fingers.
The waitress brings their drinks, and she grabs her Coca-Cola with both hands, like she needs something to hold on to. Abigail watches her in silence, waiting for her to process the information.
"So why are you telling me all this?" Taylor asks, more and more nervous.
"I came to Smithville because one of our contacts told my partner about a voice worth hearing," Abigail explains. "Honestly, I thought it would be a waste of time."
"And was it?" Taylor asks, intrigued, not realizing she's the one Abigail is talking about because she's too overwhelmed.
"No." Her answer lands like another blow, one that makes Taylor blink.
"Wait, the voice was mine?" she asks, and Abigail takes the glass from her hands, afraid she'll spill it.
"Yes."
Taylor lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Come on, I mean, I know I don't sing badly and all that, but it's not that big a deal. My brother says my style is too Spanish, too weird for the American market. That the wail I do doesn't appeal to anyone around here."
Abigail's eyes darken like a storm about to break. Her brother, of course.
"Your brother is wrong," she says coolly, "and he's holding you back."
"What? No, Ethan's supported me from the beginning. He was the one who encouraged me to get onstage for the first time," Taylor explains.
"And the one who makes sure you never get up there alone, right?" Abigail fires back. "He's always there, sharing the spotlight, drowning your voice out with his."
Taylor opens her mouth to protest, but Abigail raises a hand to cut her off, making it clear who's in charge.
"I'm not here to talk about your brother.
I'm here to talk about you. You have a unique voice," Abigail explains.
"An ability to pour pain and passion into every note that's overwhelming—not to mention that raw, torn edge and the wail that scares you so much.
That voice is a powerhouse, and you're wasting it in a small-town bar. "
Taylor's eyes are locked; she can't blink, can't believe those words are coming out of the mouth of the coldest woman she knows.
"And what exactly are you suggesting?" she asks, trying to focus.
"I want to represent you," Abigail is direct as a shot. "I want to take you with me to New York, get you the best vocal coaching sessions, connect you with top-tier producers, and get you auditions with the most important record labels in the country."
Taylor stays silent for several seconds; she feels dizzy and she's going pale.
"Drink," Abigail orders, offering her Coca-Cola.
She takes the glass and sucks hard on the straw. The liquid cools her throat and seems to bring her back to life.
"Are you serious? I mean, this isn't a joke?"
Abigail's withering look lands on her, but her phone starts ringing and drags her gaze to the screen. Taylor can't see the name that flashes there, but Abigail doesn't seem to like it, because she silences the call and sets the device face down on the table.
"Look at me, Taylor," Abigail demands, ignoring the call, saying her name for the first time.
Taylor feels something twist low in her belly when she hears it, and the sensation is too intoxicating to analyze, so she just obeys and looks at her.
"Do I look like someone who likes to joke?" Abigail asks.
"No," Taylor answers.
"Good, because I don't, and especially not when it comes to talent, and yours is undeniable."
"Fuck, but I'm just a waitress. I don't know anything about the music industry and I don't have money to go to New York and..."
"Did you hear anything I just said?" Abigail cuts in. "Everything you're saying is irrelevant. I have the contacts. I have the experience. I open the doors and you walk in—it's that simple."
Taylor bites her lips and breathes hard through her nose, her nostrils flaring; she's so overwhelmed she doesn't know if she wants to scream, cry, or fuck Abigail again.
"I need to think, I mean, I have to talk to my family and..."
"You have until tomorrow at noon. When that hour comes, I'll leave—with or without a contract," Abigail replies.
"Tomorrow? That's not much time," she says, dazed.
"Talent like yours has an expiration date. Every day you spend singing in that bar is time wasted. The music industry doesn't wait; it's ruthless about time."
"And what if I'm not as good as you think?" Taylor doubts. "What if I go with you and you find out there's nothing special about me?"
"If I had the slightest doubt, I wouldn't be sitting with you right now," Abigail replies. "I've been doing this for fifteen years; I recognize talent the moment I see it, and you..." Abigail pauses. "You've got more talent on the tip of your tongue than most artists have in their entire careers."
Taylor smiles.
"How old are you?" Abigail asks.
"Twenty-seven," Taylor answers, not quite understanding why she wants to know.
"Twenty-seven," Abigail repeats. "Then think carefully about what you want to do for the next thirty or forty. Wait tables at your parents' restaurant while you sing for thirty people on Friday nights, or blow the roof off stages in packed stadiums every month?"
"Put like that, it sounds simple," Taylor says, taking the card Abigail gave her and making it dance between her fingers.
"It really is simple. You don't belong here and you know it. Your voice deserves to be heard by the world, not by a handful of drunks in a bar."
"No need to be cruel," Taylor says, lifting a brow.
"I'm not cruel, I'm just doing my job. I identify talent and take it where it needs to be. I understand you need to talk to your family, but remember that, in the end, the decision has to be yours alone. Now, finish your burger."
"I can't," Taylor laughs suddenly. "You drop all that on me and expect me to eat?"
Abigail spears her salad with her fork, and her lips curve slightly into a smile before she opens her mouth. She doesn't expect it, of course not, and she'd be much more worried if Taylor weren't shaken after the bomb she just dropped on her.