Chapter 17
Abigail’s vision goes blurry as she keeps running through the details for the festival. It’s the fifth time she’s done it. She’s in the apartment, it’s nine at night, and she’s wearing pajama pants with a loose T-shirt whose neckline is so wide it bares one shoulder.
She’s sitting where she always does, taking up the center of the couch with the laptop in front of her, only this time, instead of a glass of wine, she has a tumbler of whiskey.
Once again she goes over the festival schedule, every name of the people she has to deal with, and every possible snag that could come up.
She’s got everything buttoned up; she knows it’s impossible anything will slip past her, and the only thing left is to hope Taylor rises to the occasion—though Abigail is very sure she will.
She knew it from the first night she saw her at Rusty’s, when she heard her voice and got goosebumps.
Three weeks. There are only two days left until the performance, and she’s ready to present Taylor to thousands of people. Any other artist would’ve needed months of preparation, but Taylor is different; her talent is as natural as breathing.
Two sharp knocks on the door startle her, and Abigail pins a hard stare on the wood; she doesn’t even wonder who it is—she doesn’t need to, because she knows it’s her.
Only Taylor knocks like that, only Taylor dares to come by at this hour, and only Taylor dares to show up at her apartment without warning.
Abigail lets out a long sigh as she stands.
She’s surprised it took her this long to come.
Since she gave her the song two days ago, she’s been avoiding her, aware that that fucking lyric has planted a seed between them, the start of a conversation they haven’t had and that Abigail doesn’t want to have.
When she opens the door, Taylor is there, dark, tousled hair falling over her shoulders and that crooked smile that makes Abigail’s lungs work harder.
"Hi," Taylor says, and she walks in without waiting for Abigail to let her.
"I assume you have a good reason to be here," she says, with that edge she uses for everything.
Taylor shrugs, glancing sideways at the coffee table and then at Abigail.
"I thought you slept in silk pajamas," she says, amused, eyes pinned to her bare shoulder.
Abigail clears her throat.
"Patricia didn’t include my pajamas when she sent me more clothes, so I’ve had to improvise," Abigail replies.
"Right, Patricia. I guess that woman must have the patience of a saint to be your assistant," Taylor murmurs.
"She has it in proportion to her salary. What do you want, Taylor?"
"I was thinking about Saturday’s performance," she says, sitting down on the couch.
Abigail knows she’s lying—Taylor isn’t very good at it—but she lets her go on.
"What about the performance?" the executive asks.
"I don’t know, maybe we could open with Tongue of Fire instead of Wildfire."
Abigail arches a brow and folds her arms.
"I hope you’re not seriously proposing that."
Taylor shrugs, but a little laugh slips out, and Abigail huffs.
"It wouldn’t be that bad to do it that way."
"It would be a fucking disaster to do that and you know it. I’m offended you’d even suggest it. If you start with that song, anything you sing after will feel like a letdown to them. Why don’t you just say what you came to say, Taylor?" Abigail snaps.
Taylor stands, walks toward her, and stops right in front of her.
"Fine. You’re avoiding me," Taylor says without preamble.
"So what?" Abigail doesn’t bother to hide it either, and that throws the singer for a moment.
"Why are you doing it?"
"Because my job is to represent you and take you to the top, not fuck you," Abigail growls.
Taylor reels for a moment, starting to get furious. She’s familiar with her coldness and used to it, but the fact that she’s so blunt about something they haven’t even talked about pisses her off.
"It’s not just fucking and you know it," Taylor says.
"For me it is," Abigail snaps, cold as ice.
Taylor’s lungs seize and she clenches her fists, but she refuses to let it get to her.
"You haven’t said anything about the song, about the lyrics," Taylor murmurs softly, not taking her dark gaze off her.
"I told you I liked it. I don’t know what else you want."
"I want more, and by now you damn well know it," Taylor snaps, starting to lose it.
"Well, I don’t have anything more than..."
"Why the fuck are you like this?" the singer roars.
"Watch your tone, Taylor," Abigail warns her, feeling the muscles in her neck like rocks on her shoulders.
"Forget tone. Yours is worse—you just don’t raise your voice," Taylor says, moving closer until she sets her hands on Abigail’s chest.
She doesn’t move; she’s like an impassive marble statue, though she feels like her skin is slowly being scorched.
"I like you and you like me. Why won’t you admit it?" Taylor whispers.
"When did I ever say I like you? We’ve fucked and it’s fine, but that’s it, Taylor. Don’t get it twisted."
"You’re lying, and I’m not confused." Taylor presses into her and pushes with her body, making Abigail step back until her back hits the wall.
Abigail doesn’t stop looking at her. Taylor doesn’t scare her; what scares her is the cotton that suddenly seems to stuff her head, the fluttering in her chest that she’s never felt before, and the tingling low in her belly, that pull that drags her toward Taylor like a goddamn magnet she has zero control over.
That’s what truly scares her, though she has no intention of admitting it.
"Move," she growls again.
"No. I’m not going to," Taylor says as she slides a hand under Abigail’s waistband.
The executive doesn’t stop her, and Taylor’s fingers quickly slip through all that wetness that’s only for her. Abigail gasps before she can help it, and Taylor thrusts into her suddenly, making her jolt and stifle a groan as she looks at her.
"Why can’t we have this?" Taylor asks, keeping still while Abigail holds her breath.
She isn’t going to beg her to move; she isn’t going to ask her to fuck her until she’s breathless, because she doesn’t beg, even if the wetness is sliding down her thighs.
"What exactly is it you want to have, Taylor?" she asks, so rigid she’s afraid she’ll snap in half.
"You. I want to fuck you, laugh with you, be able to look at you while I sing and not have you avoid me. I want to know I can take you into a dark corner and kiss you without you getting mad, that I can walk past and brush your hand without earning one of your withering looks. I’m not asking for a relationship, just that you let us have this without you being tense all the time, without feeling the need to keep looking for reasons to push me away," the singer explains.
"The reasons exist, Taylor, and you know it," Abigail says, clenching her jaw. "Mixing the personal with the professional doesn’t work, and it wouldn’t be any different just because it’s you and me.
All I can be to you is your representative.
If you want to get to the top, that’s what I can offer you. "
Taylor moves her fingers and Abigail gasps.
"But right now you’re not," Taylor says, desperate.
"What?"
"You’re not my representative yet. Here, in this town, we’re just two women who’ve made a verbal deal."
Abigail opens her mouth, but Taylor moves her fingers again and the jolt is so strong her knees almost buckle.
"Fuck," she murmurs, clutching her shoulders.
She squeezes her eyes shut and, when she opens them, she seems to have absolute control over her body again.
"It ends when we get to New York," Abigail says.
Taylor blinks.
"What?"
"You want me not to avoid you? You want to take me into dark corners to kiss me and all those things you said? Fine," she says in a thunderous voice, "but it ends the moment you sign the contract, and it’s nonnegotiable. When we go to New York, everything will be completely different from what you’re living here. The pace will be different, there’ll be a thousand things to do, and we both need to be completely focused on your career.
You can take it, or you can take your fingers out of my pussy right now," she says with that coolness that never stops surprising the singer.
Taylor sighs. The deal Abigail’s offering is crap—barely three or four days of her time. The concert is on Saturday; after that, how long until the executive leaves? A couple of days? Three? But Taylor decides it’s better than nothing, so she accepts.
"Okay."
"Look at me," Abigail demands, putting a hand behind her head, holding her firmly.
Taylor does, staring at her with almond-shaped eyes bright with pure desire.
"It ends when you sign. Say it," Abigail demands.
"It ends when I sign," Taylor whispers, knowing that for Abigail her word is as important as punctuality.
"Good," the executive replies, crashing her mouth against Taylor’s, biting her lip with less force than she’d like because she doesn’t want to damage that mouth before the concert.
Taylor thrusts into her with all the anger she feels. She bites her too, though this time not with the same ferocity as last time, because Abigail still has a terrible mark on her back and Taylor feels guilty.
"I’ll never get tired of you, fuck," Taylor pants as her fingers move in and out of her.
Abigail feels heat pool in her lower belly and pants against her shoulder, tensing as she tries to hold off her orgasm.
"Wait," Taylor says, pulling her fingers out. "Come in my mouth."
Abigail’s back presses to the wall and she hikes a leg over Taylor’s shoulder when she drops to her knees.
The first stroke of her tongue nearly drives her insane, the second makes her whole body go taut, and when she sucks hard on her clit and starts to lick, Abigail detonates and arches against her.
"I need you inside me," Taylor whispers against her ear when she straightens.
Abigail pushes her toward the couch, and she not only gives Taylor what she asked for, she also slides her tongue between her legs, drinking from her as if the singer were water in the middle of the desert and Abigail could never get enough.
"Fuck, I love your fucking mouth," Taylor pants after the last orgasm.
Abigail smiles against her thigh, wipes her mouth with her hand, and slides down to the floor, sitting in front of the laptop with the intention of feeling the cold tiles under her body.
"You can’t work now," Taylor complains, jerking upright.
"I’m not working," Abigail replies, having closed her eyes for a moment because she feels like she doesn’t have strength anywhere in her body.
She’s suddenly exhausted, as if she’d run a race and, at the finish line, they’d beaten her up. She touches her neck and squeezes and nearly cracks her knee on the coffee table when she jumps at the shock of Taylor’s hands on her shoulders.
"Let me," the singer whispers.
"Let you what?" she asks, stiff as a utility pole.
Taylor’s fingers knead her shoulders gently and Abigail’s eyes fly wide, not knowing what to do with the rest of her body.
"Just close your eyes," Taylor murmurs.
Abigail feels like laughing; instead, a strange little gasp escapes her. She doesn’t know how to relax—she never has—and she certainly can’t close her eyes while hands that aren’t hers are massaging her.
"You don’t have to do this, Taylor," she says in her usual cutting tone.
Taylor doesn’t take offense, and she doesn’t stop either.
"You don’t have to close your eyes either, but at least stop tensing up—it’s like trying to massage a rock."
Abigail’s chest inflates dramatically after a deep sigh. She lets Taylor massage her for a minute, then gets up, because not being able to relax like any other person would makes her uncomfortable.
"It’s late, Taylor. You should rest."
Taylor brings her hands to her temples and gives herself a gentle rub as she smiles. She doesn’t expect to spend the night with Abigail; she knows it’s a line the executive won’t cross with her, but her behavior after sex is starting to throw her.
"Can I ask you a question?" Taylor says as she pulls up her pants.
"You’re going to ask me even if I say no. So shoot."
Taylor’s spontaneous, mischievous laugh makes Abigail’s stomach clench.
"How many women have you dated?" Taylor asks.
Abigail frowns.
"I don’t understand."
Taylor’s eyebrows lift.
"It’s a simple question, Abby. How many women have you had a long-term relationship with?"
It’s a simple question for most people, probably, but not for Abigail.
"None."
"Excuse me?" Taylor says, eyes going wide.
"I’m not good at that kind of thing; I think that’s obvious," Abigail clarifies in the tone of someone who’s just finished a deadly boring book. "Anything else?"
Taylor is so thrown she doesn’t know what to say.
"No, just that," she says, stepping closer. "See you tomorrow?" she whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind Abigail’s ear.
She nods. And Taylor gives her a slow, wet goodbye kiss Abigail isn’t used to.