Chapter 10
Taylor drives her pickup, humming along to a song on the radio to steady her nerves. At eight on the dot, Abigail has texted her to say they’d meet directly at the same diner where they had lunch yesterday.
When she walks in, she finds her seated at a table by the window, laptop open in front of her and phone pressed to her ear, gesturing with her free hand as she speaks in a low voice.
She’s wearing another of those suits that seem designed just for her, this time pearl gray, and her hair is pulled back in a low bun that leaves her neck bare.
Taylor notices the visible marks on her throat and along her cleavage—now a deeper purplish shade than yesterday—and she can’t suppress the satisfied smile that crosses her face, or the lash of heat between her legs as she thinks about biting her again.
She stands there watching her. Abigail is completely focused; she hasn’t even seen her.
Now she’s picked up a pen and is jotting something down in a planner while she listens, eyes fixed on her own hand, oblivious to everything around her.
Taylor wonders if she’s ever capable of unplugging; it’s obvious she’s working, and today is Sunday.
"I don’t care, Liam, tell them that’s nonnegotiable," she hears her say as she approaches, with that cutting tone Taylor loves. "Give them until tomorrow to decide. If they don’t accept, we’ll find someone else. It’s not the end of the world."
Taylor pulls out the chair and sits across from her. Abigail looks up and watches her. Taylor feels her body heat and smiles in greeting, but Abigail remains unmoved, focused on what she’s hearing while she stares at Taylor with that tense expression that makes it hard to know what she’s thinking.
"Then you should’ve come here yourself," Abigail snaps into the phone. "I have to hang up."
And Abigail hangs up, just like that.
"You’re right on time," she comments without taking her eyes off Taylor, closing the laptop.
"I’m not sure I want to know how you react when someone makes you wait," Taylor says as the waitress pours her coffee. "Good morning, by the way."
Abigail’s gaze is so intense Taylor feels it could pin her to the chair.
"Have you made a decision?" the executive asks without preamble.
Taylor would’ve preferred to start the conversation more casually. She’s nervous, and she has so many questions she doesn’t even know which one to ask first or if she should set an order, but Abigail is relentless and doesn’t seem willing to cut her any slack.
"Yeah," Taylor answers, "but I have some questions, I mean..."
"What questions?" Abigail cuts in. "Start."
Taylor groans. She’s spent the whole night thinking about this conversation, but Abigail’s coolness right now isn’t helping.
"Well, it’s just that I’ve only ever sung in small bars..."
"That’s not a question," Abigail says.
"For fuck’s sake, let me talk," Taylor snaps, exasperated.
Abigail’s jaw tightens, her shoulders too, but she nods, though she doesn’t apologize for her impatience or for constantly interrupting.
"You say I’m very good, that I have talent, but what if I get up on a bigger stage and freeze? I haven’t left town—well, I have, of course—but I’ve never sung in front of more than fifty people..." Taylor starts to ramble, gesturing a lot, breathing fast.
Suddenly she forgets the questions and starts mixing everything together.
"Ethan says it’s better if it’s the two of us. I know it’s not, but I don’t know, he says me on my own out there, maybe you want to take advantage. I’ve never been to New York; maybe I’ll get on a stage and freeze up..."
"Taylor," Abigail says.
"My sister Tiffany supports me, she says I should do it, forget Ethan. He’s a good guitarist, I’m a singer because of him, but I want to go with you..."
"Taylor," Abigail says again.
"What?"
"Drink some water."
"Yeah, I’m thirsty," Taylor answers, not sure when her throat got so dry.
Abigail watches her as she takes the glass. She finds it hard to reconcile a girl so confident seducing a woman, so sure in bed—probably in her day-to-day life too—a wildcat on stage, with the fact that her idiot brother has managed to make her think that without him her talent is worthless.
She concludes she needs to change tactics.
If she wants to turn Taylor into the star she knows she is, she can’t take her away now—not with that insecurity.
She has to show her what she’s worth, but she has to do it where Taylor feels safe, close to her people, and that includes that town and her brother.
"I’m sorry," Taylor says, wiping her lips with her fist.
They’re shiny and very red. Abigail feels a faint flutter low in her belly that makes her straighten in her chair, but she looks away and focuses on the potbellied guy at the counter until the sensation disappears.
"Let’s see," Abigail says, centering herself on what she has to do. "It seems like all your doubts have more to do with your confidence than with what I can offer you."
"That’s not it, it’s just that I..."
"That’s exactly what it is," Abigail declares, like a verdict.
Taylor sighs, knowing she’s right. Abigail already told her everything she could do for her, how far she could take her, and she trusts Abigail, so that doesn’t raise any doubts.
"I’m going to do something I’ve never done, and I’m not doing it for you," she clarifies coolly, "I’m doing it because if I let you slip away, someone like me will end up finding you, and I can’t allow that."
"Fuck, you’re a delight," Taylor says, dripping sarcasm.
"I’m good at what I do—very, in fact," Abigail says, scrolling through something on her phone, "that’s why people owe me favors. Know what this is?"
Abigail shows her the phone screen, where the information for the Smithville Fiddler’s Jamboree. festival appears. Taylor leans in to read over it and nods with a smile.
"Yeah, of course. I go every year with my siblings. It’s in three weeks," Taylor replies.
"How about this year you go sing instead of attending as a spectator?" Abigail asks.
Taylor’s jaw drops and a breathy little laugh slips out.
"To sing? Come on, that’s impossible. The lineup’s been locked for months. Besides, nobody knows me, how am I supposed to...?"
"Stop insulting me," Abigail cuts her off. "I’m giving you the chance to prove to yourself that you can sing on a big stage. In fact, you can do it with your brother—I’ll let him get up there and have his moment of glory in front of thirty thousand people.
But he only plays guitar. The only voice I want to hear up there is yours. "
"You’re not serious," Taylor says, stunned.
Abigail skewers her with that intense gaze.
"Holy shit, you are serious. You can really do that?" Taylor practically jumps out of her chair.
"I can do a lot of things, but I have conditions," Abigail says, implacable.
"What are they?" Taylor asks, heart about to leap out of her throat.
"I’ll give you these three weeks to prepare. I’ll bring in more musicians to complete the band and help with the sound, but after this, when you see that you can do it, you’ll sign with me and come to New York."
"What about my brother?"
"Your brother stays," another verdict—and from her icy tone Taylor knows it’s nonnegotiable. "Use this time to say goodbye, to understand that you don’t need him, that he’s only an obstacle in your career.
If you can’t do that, the meeting ends here.
You can keep singing at that bar on Friday nights for the rest of your life," Abigail says.
Taylor leans back and fixes her dark eyes on the table.
She’s dreamed of singing at that festival so many times she can’t even remember them all, and she can’t imagine anything better than having her people close the first time she gets on a big stage.
And Ethan... Abigail is being generous, Taylor knows it.
"Okay," she says suddenly. "If you can really make that happen, I’m in."
Abigail’s jaw tightens completely as she picks up her phone and dials a number, staring at Taylor while she waits for someone to answer.
"James, I need a favor," Abigail says when someone picks up. She’s very concise about what she wants, without elaborating, because apparently she doesn’t need to be. "Yes, I know everything’s locked and there’s not much time, that’s why I’m calling you."
There’s a pause. Abigail waits, studying her nails calmly, because she knows what the answer will be.
"Good. Thanks. Now we’re even."
Abigail hangs up and writes something in her planner.
"Done. You’ll sing on Saturday. We’ve got room for three songs."
Taylor stares at her, slack-jawed.
"Fuck, seriously?"
"I told you: I open doors and you walk through. That’s how my world works. I have contacts, I do favors, and I call them in when necessary."
Taylor is floored. Right now, Abigail seems like a force of nature capable of moving mountains.
"All right," Abigail says, as if what she’s just pulled off were as simple as booking a flight. "You have three weeks to prep three songs. Whatever you want, as long as they’re originals, but you’ll deal directly with me.
You’ll show them to me, sing them for me, and we’ll make whatever adjustments we need with the music. Do you have a place to rehearse?"
"No—well, my brother and I rehearse in our parents’ garage, but I guess that won’t do."
"No, it won’t," Abigail replies, who hasn’t stopped scribbling in the planner since she hung up. "I’ll tell Patricia to find something fast, and to get me an Airbnb. I can’t stay in that room for three weeks," she mutters to herself. "Oh, and one more thing."
"What?"
"Your time from now on is mine," she says, and something flutters again in Taylor’s stomach for reasons she can’t explain.
"No working at the bar. Getting you into the festival is one thing; letting the performance be a disaster is another. My reputation’s on the line here too.
Same for your brother—if he wants to play, he has to rehearse and adapt to the rest of the band.
I’ll give you a couple of days to sort out whatever you need to at the bar.
Hire people to help your parents or whatever you want to do—I don’t care—but you’re mine from now on. "
"Yours," Taylor repeats with a playful smile.
"Is there anything you didn’t understand?" Abigail goes rigid.
Taylor is going to be a problem for her; she’s crystal clear on that—one very serious problem that makes her thighs tremble and her panties get wet far too often, especially when Taylor flashes those crooked smiles—but this is work. She has to keep her in line.
"I don’t think so," Taylor replies.
"Good, then we can consider this meeting concluded."
"Meeting? I thought this was breakfast—something casual. Do you ever stop working? Not even on a Sunday?" the singer asks.
Abigail blinks, as if she doesn’t understand what she’s saying. What is this “stop working”?
"Work keeps me focused." Abigail closes her planner and slips it into her bag with the pen.
"I do have one more question," Taylor says.
Her future agent sighs.
"Go on."
"Friday, when you came to the bar for lunch, did you know it was me?" Taylor asks.
"What?"
"Let me rephrase." Her confidence is overwhelming when the subject isn’t her talent. "When I went to your room and we fucked, did you know I was the voice they’d told you about?"
Rigidity returns to Abigail’s body and the muscles in her neck seize.
"No, I didn’t," she answers, her voice sharp as a knife blade.
"But the second time you did, and you still slept with me," Taylor states.
"Yes," Abigail says. "A mistake, of course. Something that won’t happen again."
Taylor’s eyebrows lift and something inside her twists again. She can’t name it; she doesn’t even know exactly how she feels in the face of Abigail’s coldness right now, but it stings—that she does know.
"A mistake," she repeats, looking at her. "It didn’t seem like one while you were coming."
"Listen to me carefully, Taylor, because I’m not going to repeat this," Abigail says, eyes bloodshot. "I don’t make a habit of sleeping with anyone connected to my business, least of all a singer I intend to sign. That night I let myself go; we’d already fucked before, the damage was done, and you seemed pretty willing.
" Abigail arches a brow. Taylor’s stomach tightens; she wants to call her a bitch, but Abigail isn’t lying—she was dying to fuck her.
"But now you know who I am and I know who you are, and that’s over. "
"Why does it have to be over?" Taylor asks.
"What?"
Abigail wasn’t prepared for that question. Taylor shrugs with that carefree gesture she has for everything, throwing her even more off balance.
"Why can’t we keep fucking? No strings. Fuck, I love fucking you, and I think you..."
"Stop," Abigail cuts her off in a thunderous voice, bringing a hand to the nape of her neck to massage it. "I said no. From now on our relationship will be strictly professional. If you can’t understand that, we have a problem."
"I can," Taylor says. "And I get it, but I had to try," she adds with one of her crooked smiles.
Abigail feels another jolt between her thighs and regrets not having chosen darker pants.
"Good," she says, tucking away her laptop too.
"Hey," Taylor says.
Abigail huffs.
"What?"
"Thanks. For the festival and all that..." she says with a shrug.
"Don’t thank me. It’s the only concession I’ll make you. After that, your life will change completely and you’ll be on your own, unless someone in your family moves to New York with you. You’ve got three weeks to take it in. I’ll call you tomorrow."
Abigail leaves a bill on the table and walks out, leaving Taylor with a hornet’s nest in her head and a scream lodged in her throat. She’s sure there are plenty of agents like Abigail in the music world, and she’s ended up with the one who seems to have a stone where her heart should be.