Chapter 11
Abigail gets to the coffee shop where she asked Taylor to meet ten minutes before the agreed time.
She chose the place because it’s close to Harold’s house and she could walk, even though Patricia has already found her an Airbnb on the outskirts that she’ll move into tomorrow.
She sits at the back table, takes out her planner and her phone, and goes over all the points she’s noted for this meeting.
Patricia needs specific information to prepare Taylor’s preliminary contract for when the time comes.
Basic data, but also other details from her life that could complicate future negotiations, and Abigail never leaves anything to chance—especially when it comes to a talent like Taylor’s.
If she’s so good at her job, it’s because she’s always one step ahead of any curveball.
Taylor walks in five minutes later, wearing dark jeans and a white blouse that barely makes her small breasts stand out, yet makes Abigail feel a sudden urge to rip it open.
Her dark hair falls loose over her shoulders, swaying with each step as Taylor heads toward her with that cocky smirk that makes Abigail feel a tingle in places where she really shouldn’t.
"Punctual again," Abigail comments when Taylor sits across from her. "I’m impressed."
"Do you doubt my commitment?" Taylor asks, dropping the keys to her pickup on the table.
A waitress comes over and Taylor orders a latte, Abigail a black coffee. Once they’re alone, Abigail doesn’t waste time, opens her planner, and picks up a black pen.
"I need some details so my assistant can start preparing the paperwork," she explains without looking at Taylor.
Taylor does look at her. Today Abigail’s hair is down, slightly wavy, sliding over her shirt, whose very light brown color makes the greenish tone of her eyes pop.
"You look beautiful," Taylor blurts.
"Excuse me?"
The singer shrugs.
"That you look beautiful. You always do, but today..."
"Can you focus?" Abigail cuts in.
"Yeah..." Taylor answers in a bored tone. "What do you want to know?"
"Basic information we’ll need when it’s time to formalize the contract."
"Fine, ask whatever you want."
"Good. Let’s start with the basics," Abigail says, clicking the top of her pen. "Full name, date of birth, and Social Security number."
"Taylor Elena Davey, March 15, 1998," she answers automatically, then gives the number, and Abigail writes it down.
"Is there a stage name you want to use?" Abigail asks.
Taylor touches her hair.
"I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it. I guess Taylor Davey is fine. What do you think?" the singer asks, staring at Abigail.
"Works for me. It’s catchy, easy to sell, but if you want another, don’t take too long to decide."
"No, I like my name," Taylor says.
"Okay," Abigail notes. "Education completed?"
"Is that relevant?" Taylor asks.
Abigail lifts her eyes from her planner.
"Everything is. I’m about to pull you out of a small town, and there are regular journalists and asshole journalists. We need to be ready for any question."
Taylor chuckles.
"High school. I started college—business administration—but I dropped out in my second year."
This surprises Abigail; if she had the time, she’d still be studying—she’s a die-hard nerd.
"Why?"
"Because I was bored out of my mind," Taylor replies without blinking, "and because I needed to work."
Abigail nods.
"Any musical training?"
"None. Everything I know, I taught myself or learned with my brother."
"Any professional experience in music? Recordings? Any prior contracts?" Abigail keeps asking.
Normally, this is the part of her job that bores her most. In fact, she usually doesn’t handle it—this is what her assistants do—but Taylor’s particular situation has her sitting here, asking those questions she thought would be tedious, a waste of time that for her is worth a lot of money.
And yet she’s just realized she isn’t bored at all; she’s curious about every one of the small-town singer’s answers, and that only confirms that Taylor is a problem for her.
"You know I don’t," Taylor says.
"I don’t know anything; that’s why I ask and you answer."
Taylor groans. So many questions overwhelm her, and Abigail is way too gorgeous this afternoon for her to focus on boring questions.
"Now for more personal things," Abigail says as if talking about the weather, taking a sip of her coffee. "Are you seeing anyone right now?"
Taylor’s smile curves.
"Well, finally the interesting questions."
"It’s not interesting," Abigail huffs. "It’s necessary. Your relationships can affect your availability for everything, can spark jealousy problems, and can also damage your image depending on who you’re with."
"Fuck, what a shady business."
Abigail snorts.
"I’m not seeing anyone. You?" Taylor says.
The question catches Abigail off guard.
"I’m not the one who’s going to sign the contract."
"But you can answer me," Taylor smiles, watching her tense jaw.
"Have you dated any public figure or anyone problematic who could cause issues once your image goes public?" Abigail asks, ignoring her.
"No, not that I know of. My longest relationship lasted three years or so. After that, I haven’t had anything serious with anyone."
"What does ‘nothing serious’ mean?" Abigail asks.
Taylor’s almond eyes narrow and she leans forward a little.
"It means I like meeting people, but not committing," Taylor explains without a shred of shame. "Is that a problem for your agency?"
Abigail wants to rub her neck, but she doesn’t move.
"No, it isn’t. I just need to know what to expect."
"And what do you expect, Abigail?"
Abigail feels as if Taylor has just handed her a lit stick of dynamite. If she gets the answer wrong, Taylor will be ready to go for her throat, so she simply sidesteps it.
"Do you use drugs or alcohol regularly?"
"I drink sometimes. No drugs," Taylor says.
"Criminal record?"
"Seriously?" Taylor laughs. "Have you seen this town? The most exciting thing that happens around here is when the sheriff chases someone for speeding."
Abigail can’t help but smile as she writes in her planner.
"Any significant health issues? Allergies? Regular medication?"
"Fuck, Abby, this is so boring," Taylor complains.
"Don’t call me Abby, and please answer."
Taylor laughs again. She knew Abigail would complain and look at her with that furious expression she loves so much if she shortened her name.
"Nothing. I’m healthy as a horse."
"Family? Anyone who might be a problem for you besides your brother?"
"No. My parents are great," Taylor says, blushing. "They don’t really get how this works. They think you’re going to take me around to sing at a few places and I’ll be back in a few weeks.
They’re happy with the bar. Then there’s my maternal grandmother, but she lives in Spain and I only talk to her by video call. "
"Spain?" Abigail asks, looking up.
"Yeah, from Seville. My mom was born there. She emigrated when she was young, met my dad, and stayed here."
"Well, that explains a lot," Abigail says, surprisingly pleased.
"Like what?" Taylor asks, dying of curiosity.
"Like that olive tone to your skin, your dark eyes, that hair..." Abigail stops when Taylor’s gaze darkens. "And that tone in your voice. That lament, that raw rasp—it’s very common in the Andalusian Roma community. Do you speak Spanish?"
"Well, I understand it better than I speak it, and I hold my own when I talk to my grandmother, though I’ve never been to Spain."
"No?" Abigail is surprised and writes it down for some reason she doesn’t understand.
"You have?"
"A few times. I know Madrid, Barcelona, the Granada coast, and the island of Menorca."
"Wow," Taylor says.
Abigail looks at her; for a moment, she’s about to tell her she could take her, but she dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.
"Maybe your music will take you there someday. The Hispanic market could be a very interesting option. Maybe include a Spanish version of a track or two—we’ll see," Abigail notes.
"Fuck, you’re a machine when it comes to spotting opportunities," Taylor says.
"It’s my job," Abigail replies. "Any significant debt?"
"No. The house I live in is a rental. Why does that matter?"
"Stop questioning everything; you’re wasting my time," Abigail snaps, but Taylor folds her arms, refusing to continue.
"Fine," Abigail says, resigned. "When you sign, your financial situation will change dramatically, and I need to make sure you won’t be one of those artists who lose it all as fast as they make it because they’re in debt up to their eyeballs and then get so traumatized when they see the money’s gone that they get hooked on drugs and tank their career before it even starts. "
"Um, okay," Taylor says thoughtfully, "so yeah, I don’t have any debts."
"Your parents?"
"Nothing that’s going to bankrupt me."
"Good, I think that’s enough for now. Patricia will prepare the draft; I’ll send it to you when it’s ready so you can start looking it over and tell me any questions you have, although my advice is that you run it by your own attorney to make sure your interests are protected at all times."
Taylor leans in again. Abigail leans back.
"I trust you. I don’t know why, but I do. Still, I appreciate the advice—my sister’s a lawyer and she’ll go over it," Taylor murmurs, staring at her lips.
Abigail clears her throat.
"Perfect. A sensible sister in the family," she says, closing her planner.
"That’s it?" Taylor asks.
"I seem to recall you were very bored with my questions. I’ll set you free," Abigail says, opening her purse to leave a bill on the table.
"Well, now that we’re done, we could do something more fun."
Abigail’s purse slips from her hands, but before she picks it up, she stands and steps closer to Taylor, bracing one hand on the table and the other on the back of her chair.
"Which part of the conversation we had on Sunday don’t you understand?" she whispers, like a venomous snake about to sink its fangs.
Taylor holds her breath. Abigail’s perfume is soft, and the faint waves that reach her bring back very specific moments of her lips pressed to her neck.
"We talked about a lot of things on Sunday," Taylor replies.
Abigail’s fingers tense on the back of the chair.
"Then I hope you remember all of them, because I don’t like repeating myself."
Taylor smiles. She thinks about tilting her head back, yanking her hair hard, and dragging her down to her mouth. It wouldn’t be hard, and Abigail would have no room to maneuver, but she doesn’t want to piss her off—at least not yet.
"I was only going to ask you to have dinner with me. You’re so quick to assume," Taylor says.
Abigail’s laugh brushes her hair, skimming her ear. Taylor shivers, her belly humming.
"I’m sure you were," Abigail says, "but I like to have dinner alone. See you tomorrow at ten."
Abigail straightens, grabs her purse and her planner, and leaves.