Chapter 12
Abigail walks out of the Airbnb Patricia managed to get for her in record time—a modern apartment in a residential part of town with plenty of space so she can work comfortably—and drives her rental car to the rehearsal space.
It's eight thirty on that Wednesday morning, the first real day of work, and Abigail has already made four work calls before heading out.
The space Patricia rented for the rehearsals is a converted warehouse on the edge of town, big enough to fit the full band and the sound gear Abigail had brought in from Nashville.
When she arrives, a truck is already unloading amps and microphones under the supervision of one of her regular sound techs, Johan, an African American man in his fifties who has worked with her on a dozen projects.
"You're looking well, Ms. Stone," Johan says as he checks the list in his hand. "Everything's here on time, as always," he adds, guessing her first question.
Abigail gives a small smile.
"Good morning, Johan. Perfect," she says, checking her watch. "The musicians will be here in half an hour; Taylor and her brother at ten. Think you can have everything ready by then?"
"No problem," Johan replies.
Abigail goes inside and takes it all in.
The walls are soundproofed and there are a couple of windows that let in natural light, plus enough space for everyone to move without tripping over each other.
It isn't the Manhattan recording studio she's used to, but it'll do for what she needs to do with Taylor.
Her phone rings and she answers while watching Johan start to set up all the equipment.
"Talk to me, Liam," she answers, leaning back against a wall.
"Am I interrupting?" he asks.
"No, we haven't started yet. What do you need?"
"I was wondering if you've completely lost your mind or if it's just temporary," her partner says. "Patricia just walked me through everything you've asked for. Do you know how much you're investing in a girl who hasn't even signed with us?"
Abigail clenches her jaw. Of course she knows—she never does anything without calculating first—and she knows it’ll be a sunk cost if Taylor decides not to sign in the end, but she also knows what she heard in that bar.
"I know what I'm doing," she answers coolly.
"I don't doubt it; I've always trusted your judgment, but you can understand why I'm a little nervous. You, of all people, are the last one to give an inch to anyone—you shut down negotiations by barking, intimidating people with those eyes of yours that..."
"Are you done?" Abigail cuts in.
"Okay, I'm not going to second-guess the move, but was it necessary to hire the same pro musicians we use on tour for this? Jesus, Abby, they cost a fortune."
"If Taylor's going to understand her real potential, she needs to hear herself with musicians at her level. If I wanted someone mediocre, I'd stick with her brother."
"For God’s sake, poor guy," Liam mutters.
"You wouldn't say that if you understood this is his fault. He's the one who’s made Taylor think she's just average. I have to hang up now."
And Abigail hangs up.
At nine on the dot, a van pulls up in front of the building and three men climb out carrying instruments.
The first is David, the lead guitarist who worked with Martin Reed on his last two albums. The second is James, a bassist who usually backs Isabella Cruz on tour, and the last is Lucas, a drummer they signed recently whose versatility has made him one of the most in-demand players for every singer.
"Abigail Stone..." David says, opening his huge arms.
Abigail stiffens and keeps her arms at her sides, but lets David hug her and lift her off the floor like he always does. He’s something like a cuddly bear who isn’t put off by her coolness and whom she has no idea how to handle.
"Okay, you can put me down now," Abigail murmurs.
David lets out a deep laugh and sets her on the floor. Abigail greets James and Lucas with a handshake.
"Well, here we are," David says, taking in the place with raised brows.
"Thanks for coming," Abigail says. "I know this isn't the kind of place you're used to, but it's the best I could get with the little time we had."
"Relax, we'll be fine," David replies. "Got coffee?"
Abigail lifts a brow.
"Right, no coffee."
While they say hi to Johan and start setting up and tuning their instruments, she looks for a spot where she won’t be in the way.
She picks a wall in the back, drags over a stool, and sits, one foot on the floor, her phone in one hand and her planner in the other.
From there she can see the musicians, check the acoustics, and, when Taylor arrives, have the perspective she needs to assess her stage presence.
At five to ten, Taylor walks in and Abigail’s pulse kicks up for no reason she can justify—annoying—so she chalks it up to the importance of the moment.
Taylor carries her acoustic guitar and wears dark jeans and a gray T-shirt.
Her loose hair ripples behind her shoulders as she walks, and she radiates a nervous energy that reminds Abigail of a high-voltage cable that’s just come loose.
Ethan comes in behind her with his electric guitar and a small amp.
His expression goes rigid the moment he sees the three musicians.
"Hi," Taylor says, looking first at Abigail with a nervous smile.
"Good morning," she answers with a blend of coolness and poise that makes Taylor's throat go dry.
Abigail does the introductions and doesn’t miss the look Ethan gives the musicians, really uncomfortable with their presence, especially when David mentions he’s listened to the recordings of some of Taylor’s songs.
"Recordings?" Ethan asks, looking at his sister.
"I sent Abigail some demos I have on my phone," Taylor explains, and Abigail notices how, in a way, she’s seeking her brother’s approval as she says it.
Of the three songs Abigail told her to pick, Taylor sent her two, saying she’d like to write a third to sing for the first time at the festival.
"Okay," Abigail says before Ethan can get a word out, "let's start with 'Wildfire.' The song you sang at the bar."
Taylor nods and steps up to the center mic.
All the musicians take their places, and her brother plugs his electric guitar into the amp Johan set up for him.
Abigail retreats to her corner and watches the dynamic from there.
Taylor looks too small behind the mic, as if she isn’t sure she deserves that much professional gear all to herself.
"Whenever you're ready," Abigail says.
Taylor looks at her brother, waiting for him to set the tempo like they always do, but David steps in first, gesturing that he’ll follow her lead, and she nods.
The difference is immediate. Instead of being tied to the beat Ethan always imposes, Taylor can feel the music and let it flow.
She starts with the first chords on her acoustic guitar, but when she opens her mouth to sing, Abigail feels something’s off.
Her voice, though technically correct, sounds restrained, like it’s been tamed.
It’s pretty, it rises above many others, but it isn’t what she heard at Rusty’s that night.
"Stop," Abigail’s thunderous voice orders after the first verse, slicing through the air like a knife.
Everyone stops and Taylor turns toward her, almond eyes wide, nervous, while David, used to working with Abigail, takes the chance to stretch like a cat.
"This is just a shadow of what I heard the other day," Abigail says, pushing off the wall to walk toward them.
Taylor blinks, confused. Ethan, however, looks thrilled, thinking maybe his sister will realize she’s made a mistake and tell him they’re leaving.
"What do you mean?" Taylor asks.
"You're singing like you don't want to bother anyone," Abigail explains with a coolness that, right now, is devastating for Taylor. "You're being polite, and your voice is not polite—your voice is fire. Where is it?"
David clears his throat and Abigail silences him with a single look before he can speak. Taylor turns toward him, then looks at the others, and finally at her brother, stunned.
"I don't know, I'm not used to this many people..." she says at last.
"One musician or four, it doesn't matter," Abigail replies, stepping closer. "Either you sing the way I know you can, or we're wasting our time."
Ethan straightens, and Abigail glances at him.
She wants to rip the guitar out of his hands and crack it over his head.
A brother should defend his sister from an attack like the one she’s deliberately unleashing on Taylor just to see her reaction, but there he is, still, letting her drown because it’s exactly what he wants.
"Come here," Abigail says, motioning for Taylor to follow.
Taylor sets down her guitar and follows her until they’re far enough that the others can’t hear them. Abigail plants herself in front of her, cutting off her line of sight.
"What’s going on with you?" she asks softly.
Taylor rakes a hand through her hair. Right now she doesn’t understand any of it; she’s disoriented by the whiplash between the woman who a moment ago seemed to hate her and the one who now can’t take her eyes off her.
"Nothing, I don't... know..."
"Nothing, no. What is it?" Abigail presses, keeping her voice low. "That's not your voice, and you know it."
"They're really good..." A nervous laugh slips out of Taylor as she gestures toward the musicians.
"They are. So what?"
"I'm a small-town waitress..."
"What did I tell you about your talent?" Abigail cuts in.
Taylor’s dark eyes land on her. Abigail holds her breath.
"That I've got a lot sitting on the tip of my tongue," she says, her grin turning sly.
"Exactly. You do, which is why I had to spend a fortune hiring them—to be at your level. So now you have to be at theirs."
Taylor stares at her. They’re very close, and Abigail can smell that soft perfume she always wears, while Taylor can see the golden flecks in her future manager’s eyes.