Chapter 19
"Come on, sit down and tell me what's going on," says Carmen, Taylor's mother, grabbing her by the arm as her daughter walks past.
The three of them are in the kitchen of the family home: Carmen, Taylor, and Tiffany. Both daughters are supposed to be helping their mother make dinner, but Taylor is so nervous about tomorrow's festival that all she does is pace back and forth, stressing her mother out.
"Nothing, Mom, I'm just a little nervous," says Taylor.
Tiffany lets out a mocking snort and laughs while shaking her head.
"Don't laugh at your sister," their mother scolds, and then Patrick Davey, their father, walks in for a beer.
"You shouldn't be," says Patrick as he opens the fridge. "It's just a show like the ones you do at Rusty's."
Tiffany looks at her father and then at Taylor, who has gone still beside their mother.
"Well, it's a little different, Dad," Tiffany explains. "There will be thousands of people tomorrow."
"Thousands?" Carmen frowns. "Well, I'm sure you'll do great anyway."
Taylor smiles, grateful for the support but frustrated by her parents' inability to grasp that tomorrow's performance isn't just another anecdote they'll share with restaurant customers; it's something that could change her life forever.
"So then why are you saying you're not staying for dinner?" her mother completely changes the subject, and Taylor feels her sister's body hugging her from behind.
"Relax," she whispers in her ear, "they'll get it when they hear you singing on the radio."
They both burst out laughing, and their mother turns to them, waiting for an answer to her question.
"I told you already, Mom, I'm having dinner with Abigail."
"The woman who's taking you to the concert," her father mutters, leaning against the counter while he drinks his beer.
"Yeah, something like that," Taylor replies, rolling her eyes.
"Go," Tiffany tells her. "I'll try to explain it to them for the umpteenth time."
"Thanks."
Taylor walks into the diner where she's meeting Abigail that night two minutes before eight and, of course, the executive is already waiting, seated in one of the booths whose high backs show only part of her hair—brown so light that, under the lights and the paler highlights, looks blond from the doorway.
"You're late," Abigail says.
"That's a lie," Taylor replies, dropping into the seat across from her. "I've still got two minutes."
"Being five minutes early is being late," Abigail murmurs.
Taylor frowns as she parses what she said, not fully understanding.
"Does your mother say that too?" she asks with the confidence she has about everything except her voice, something her brother has chipped away at.
Abigail straightens as if someone had whacked her with a board, and her eyes, now more gray than green, turn to liquid concrete.
"Maybe it's the one thing she's right about."
"Okay..." Taylor lifts a hand in surrender, then picks up the menu and starts to read, though her eyes skim line after line without landing on anything.
"Are you nervous?" Abigail asks, noticing the slight tremor in her fingers.
"A little. Okay, maybe a lot," Taylor admits, smiling.
"If you want a tip," Abigail says, "order something light for dinner, not one of those massive burgers you usually put away. They won't sit well."
Taylor smiles. She wants any advice that comes from this woman, even if it's about food.
"Protecting your investment?" Taylor asks.
Abigail shoots her a look, but then showcases her coolness and nods. Taylor huffs—after all, she provoked it.
"Can I sit next to you?" she asks suddenly. "Just until they bring our food."
"What for?" Abigail asks, staring at her.
"Because I feel like it," Taylor answers, just like that.
That wrong-foots the executive, who doesn't know what to say, though she doesn't do anything when Taylor gets up and slides in beside her on the padded bench.
Her warmth scorches her; it's barely the brush of a bare arm against the fabric of her shirt, but Abigail feels her skin ignite, especially when Taylor finds her hand under the table and interlaces their fingers.
Her body goes taut and she holds her breath.
"What are you doing?" she asks, shocked, but she doesn't let go of Taylor's hand.
The singer smiles and presses closer, breathing in her perfume and sighing sharply before answering.
"Has no one ever held your hand?" Taylor asks, more and more surprised by this woman's reactions.
"I don't find it necessary for having sex," Abigail replies.
"But we're not just having sex now," Taylor murmurs, amused by Abigail's obvious discomfort.
"We don't have much more than that either; I hope that's clear."
"This is a date, Abigail. We're having dinner together, so it's more than just sex," Taylor insists, giving her a gentle nudge with her shoulder.
"People eat together all the time," Abigail clarifies, "and it doesn't mean anything."
"But they don't hold hands under the table." Taylor is having a blast with the executive's discomfiture, who seems completely out of her depth, unsure how to handle something so simple.
"But, but, but..." Abigail mocks, exasperated. "Then let go of me."
"I don't want to. I like touching you," Taylor sing-songs next to her ear.
Abigail leans back in the seat and frowns as she looks at their hands resting on her thigh. She likes the feeling, even the contrast between their skin—hers completely pale, Taylor's olive-toned.
"Do you want anything else?" she asks, arching a brow to make it clear her tone is pure sarcasm.
"I want a lot of things," Taylor answers, "but for now I'll settle for you helping me decide what to wear tomorrow."
The waiter comes to take their order, and Abigail tries to free herself from Taylor's grip, but Taylor doesn't allow it and holds on tighter.
"What's your issue with the clothes?" Abigail asks when they're alone again.
"I don't know." Taylor's leg starts bouncing and she fiddles with the silverware with her free hand.
"Do you think I should wear something flashy?
Something more low-key? Go heavy on makeup?
Barely any? I don't know whether to wear heels or sneakers.
Pants or a dress, a loose T-shirt or a tighter one.
Fuck, I'm really freaking out..." she says, while Abigail watches in silence.
"And the color? Maybe something light so they can see me? "
Taylor starts to ramble, and Abigail lets her.
She lets her air out every doubt until she's out of breath while Abigail takes unhurried sips of her wine, watching her from the corner of her eye.
She likes this nervous, insecure side of Taylor; it contrasts so much with the overwhelming confidence she shows in other parts of her life—especially when it comes to the two of them, whether it's just claiming her attention or claiming her body and her focus when they're in bed.
Abigail exhales sharply, feeling a pull between her legs at the thought.
"Are you listening to me?" Taylor asks, giving her hand a squeeze.
"Yeah," she answers in her usual dry tone.
"And are you going to help me or just stay quiet the whole time?"
"Are you done complaining?" Abigail asks.
Taylor goes still, staring at her with her huge almond eyes wide. "I'm not complaining. I'm just laying out my doubts."
"Good," Abigail says, with a calm that sometimes makes Taylor falter. "What do you feel like wearing?"
Taylor blinks, thrown.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. What will you feel most comfortable in to sing tomorrow?" the executive asks. "A dress, or the usual pants and tees you wear to rehearsals?"
Taylor's smile starts to spread slowly, and all Abigail can think about is catching those full lips and slipping her tongue into her mouth.
For a moment she feels the impulse to lunge, forget they're in a crowded restaurant, and take what she wants, but she holds back—only, apparently, something in her expression gives her away.
"You want to kiss me," Taylor states, with such conviction that Abigail doesn't bother to deny it.
"Yeah, I do," she confesses, staring at her lips as if there were something addictive on them.
"So why don't you?"
"Because there are things that are right and things that are wrong."
"And kissing me is wrong?" Taylor bristles.
"Here it is, so stop looking at me like you want to rip my panties off with your teeth and focus on tomorrow."
"Fuck..." Taylor lets out a little laugh. "Seriously, I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"Keep that control all the time. Right now I can only think about that—your panties and my teeth on them."
Abigail feels lightning spear through her just thinking about it, but nothing in her expression gives it away.
"A matter of practice and determination, I suppose," she answers without batting an eye, as if she were talking about another item on her to-do list.
Taylor sighs and tries to forget the heat throbbing between her legs.
"So what you're saying is that tomorrow I can dress however I want?" the singer tries to focus.
"Yes."
"You're not going to impose some style on me? Something that, according to you, will sell more, that kind of thing agents do?"
"Why would I?" Abigail counters. "You have your own style, and I can't put you on a stage and expect you to give it your all if you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. As long as you don't go up there covered in sequins, I'm fine."
Taylor would laugh at the comment at any other moment, but right now she can only look at her. She keeps being fascinated by how straightforward Abigail is about things like this, and she loves that she doesn't try to change anything about her.
"Stop staring at me," Abigail demands, "and get back to your seat," she orders when their plates are served.
The singer lets go of her hand and sits across from her.
"Fuck, I need a distraction. Tell me about your sister," Taylor asks.
"No," Abigail growls.
"Why not? I want to know things about you."
Abigail stops cutting her steak.
"Knowing things about my sister isn't knowing things about me."
"Sure it is. Your sister's part of your life. Come on, Abby," she says, almost pleading.
Abigail bites her tongue and presses until it hurts. She doesn't want to talk about her sister or her life, but she also doesn't want Taylor nervous. That's not good for business; she needs her to switch off, even for a bit.
"Three questions, so choose very carefully," Abigail concedes.
"Three? That's nothing," Taylor protests, brows raised.
"That's what's on offer. You can ask them or let me eat my steak in peace."
Taylor twists her mouth into a smile; of course she's going to ask, but she has to choose carefully to get the most information possible.
"Okay, let's see. You said she's your stepsister, so your parents are divorced. How old were you when they split up?" the singer asks.
"Seven."
The answer really surprises Taylor, throwing her off, and she doesn't understand why it hit her so hard.
"Wow, you were really little," Taylor murmurs.
"I survived. Next question," Abigail cuts her off.
Taylor realizes the subject makes her uncomfortable, but now she's even more intrigued.
"Why do you avoid Erin?"
Abigail's gaze darkens. Her steak is getting cold, and that puts her in a foul mood.
"I don't avoid her."
"Yes, you do. I saw you—saw you mute her call and heard how you talked to her. You avoid her, Abigail. Why?" Taylor presses.
Abigail may be making certain concessions with Taylor—she's aware of it, of doing things she's never done before, driven by impulses she still can't explain logically—but it's one thing to give in on certain fronts and another to be willing to tell her things she never talks about, and Abigail only shares what she feels like sharing.
"Because she's a pain in the ass, same as you. Next question."
"That's not an answer," Taylor complains.
"It's my answer." Abigail's voice is implacable, and Taylor whimpers, accepting she has one question left.
"Do you see her often?"
"More than I'd like."
"Jesus, Abigail," Taylor practically bounces in her seat, desperate, and Abigail can't suppress the small smile that curves her lips.
"She comes to see me in New York two or three times a year," Abigail answers in a fit of generosity, "and to my misfortune she stays in my apartment, as if there were no hotels."
Taylor stares at her, eyes wide.
"Where does she live?"
"That's four questions. Sorry," Abigail concludes, making Taylor smile.
The singer raises her hands and doesn't protest; she's gotten far more information than she'd imagined, so she doesn't push any further and, for the rest of dinner, limits herself to asking about the next day's concert, making Abigail clarify every doubt that pops into her head.
"I'm going to the bathroom for a second," Taylor says when they finish dinner.
She goes into the restroom to wash her hands and freshen up a little. Being with Abigail calms one kind of nerves but sparks another, and then the door opens and, when she looks up, she sees her in the mirror, pressing up against her back.
"I still want to kiss you," Abigail whispers, taking her by the waist, "but first I want to use my mouth somewhere else so you can clean me up afterward with yours," she adds, sweeping Taylor's hair off her neck.
Taylor's heart speeds up so much she feels like her chest is going to burst.
"Here?" Taylor asks.
"Yes, here," Abigail murmurs, gesturing at the bathrooms.
Taylor doesn't even have to think about it; she grabs her hand, drags her into an empty stall, and shuts the door, pressing her back to the wall while Abigail watches her intently. It's a small space, barely enough room to move, but it's clean, and that's all Abigail needs.
"Take your pants down," she orders without moving.
"Fuck, Abby," Taylor whimpers, fumbling with her own hands as her fingers work the closure.
In a moment she has her pants and panties around her ankles, her head and shoulders pressed to the wall and the rest of her body bent forward in what, for her, is one of the most erotic moments she's ever lived.
Abigail kneels without breaking eye contact as she does, but once she's on the floor, she grips her thighs and her saliva mixes with all the wetness Taylor has ready for her.
"Your fucking mouth..." Taylor murmurs, pulling her in while Abigail digs her nails into her ass and drives her crazy with her tongue.