Chapter 23
Taylor spends the rest of the morning at home with Tiffany. They stay on the couch talking about all sorts of things, including Tiffany’s house hunt which, according to Taylor, is no longer necessary because if Taylor leaves, Tiffany can stay there.
"This rental is cheap; you could keep paying it yourself. If you like it, of course. Plus, I’ll need a place to crash when I come visit."
"Ummm," Tiffany says, looking up at the ceiling as she stretches her legs and props her feet on the coffee table.
"Yeah, I could stay here; I hate moving. Where will you live?" she asks, looking at Taylor.
"I don’t know, I guess I’ll rent something there. I’ll have to ask Abigail about the safest areas, or something close to her office. Fuck, I really don’t know anything."
"Well, don’t worry about that. I imagine taking care of you is part of her job—she’ll handle it," Tiffany says.
Taking care of you… Taylor wants to laugh at that.
She seriously doubts Abigail has ever taken care of anyone in her entire life.
Not because she’s a bad person, simply because it isn’t in her nature, she isn’t wired for that.
She’s only wired to work and make decisions; Taylor isn’t even sure she ever goes out to have fun, if she has any kind of hobby at all—which Taylor is starting to doubt.
At noon, neither of them feels like cooking, so they decide to go eat at their parents’ restaurant.
Taylor doesn’t really feel like going out—her energy is low, like she’s got an emotional hangover from yesterday—but she also wants to take the chance to spend time with her parents because she knows that once she leaves, she’ll see them very little.
"Here to have the riffraff serve you?" Ethan asks before Taylor even sits down.
The tone is rough, contemptuous, and cutting. Taylor freezes, so thrown she doesn’t know what to say.
"What the hell is your problem, Ethan?" Tiffany asks, shooting a death glare at her brother.
"Not the diva act she’s got going on, that’s for sure," he says, dropping the menus on the table.
Tiffany sets her purse on the chair, ready to grab her brother by the arm, drag him to a corner, and set him straight, but Taylor steps in first.
"What’s your problem, Ethan?" she asks, remaining on her feet in front of him.
There are several customers scattered around the restaurant and their father is watching them from the bar, so Ethan jerks his head for Taylor to follow him outside.
"You’re leaving, aren’t you?" he asks as soon as they’re on the sidewalk.
"Of course I’m leaving, Ethan. Would you stay if they offered you something like this?" Taylor answers, trying to sound calm.
"I wouldn’t go without you. I wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re leaving me with nothing," he snarls, eyes bloodshot. "I won’t even have our nights at Rusty’s. Who the hell wants to listen to a guitarist without a singer?"
"You can find another singer, or go to Nashville, there..."
"I don’t want to go to Nashville; I want to go with you," he explodes, slapping the glass door with his open hand.
Taylor takes a step back, startled.
"You’re fucking selfish," he hisses so low it scares Taylor more than if he were shouting at her. "You only think about yourself; you don’t care that I’ve always been there for you and..."
The door opens and Tiffany and their father come out.
"What’s going on?" Patrick Davey asks, looking straight at his son as he places his body in front of Taylor’s.
"Nothing," Ethan replies, "I’m just congratulating my sister on how well she sings and how lucky she is."
"Yes, she sings very well," their father says, "but it isn’t luck, it’s talent. Now get inside, and don’t you dare ever show aggression in front of any woman in this family or any other, because I swear I’ll rip your hand off."
Taylor is so stunned she doesn’t even notice Tiffany’s hands on her shoulders. She has never seen her father talk like that, nor heard him defend her talent in front of her brother.
"Are you okay?" Patrick asks, turning to her.
"Yeah," Taylor answers with a nod, though inside she’s a bundle of nerves and eaten up by something that makes her feel very sad.
"I don’t know what he said to you, sweetheart, but I want you to ignore it and live your life. Understood?" her father asks.
"Okay, Dad."
"Good. Go on in; I’ll take care of your table."
"No," Taylor says. "I’d rather go; I still have to sign the contract."
"But you need to eat, Taylor," her father insists.
"Let her, Dad," Tiffany backs her up, as always.
Taylor wonders why Ethan can’t be a little more like her.
"I don’t think Taylor’s very hungry right now. I’ll take some food for her to eat at home when she gets back," Tiffany decides.
"All right," Patrick agrees.
Taylor says goodbye to both of them and walks home to grab the truck and drive to Abigail’s apartment.
She wants to sign, and right now, she has no remorse whatsoever about her brother.
What she has is hunger—a brutal hunger to devour the whole world and prove to everyone she deserves everything Abigail is offering her.
Abigail is about to try the Italian food she ordered when she hears two sharp knocks on the door.
She goes still for a moment, frowning at her chest as if she could see, through the white fabric of her shirt, the thud of her heartbeat making it tremble.
Taylor’s presence and everything about her shouldn’t affect her like this, but it does, and Abigail can’t wait to get to New York, hoping that once she returns to her normal pace of life, everything else will fade.
"Hi," the singer says, slipping past her when Abigail steps aside.
The air catches in Taylor’s throat when she sees the two suitcases by the sofa. Abigail is already set to leave tomorrow, and Taylor starts to feel vertigo because it’s a fact that she’ll be going too.
"You were eating, sorry to interrupt," Taylor says, breathing deeply until her lungs are empty.
"It’s fine. Have you decided?" Abigail is direct, as always.
"Yes, I want to sign."
"Good."
Abigail turns toward the living room unit, where she left the contract, and grabs it to hand to Taylor along with the copy she’ll keep.
"Can you give me a pen?" Taylor arches a brow and smiles at her. She doesn’t want that tension between them and doesn’t know how to cut it.
"Sure." Abigail searches over the table where her food is and hands it to her.
They both sit on the sofa, side by side, and Abigail sets her elegant signature next to Taylor’s every time she passes her a page.
It’s agony having her so close, that huge wild, wavy mane spilling over Abigail’s arm while she signs each sheet, sending waves of her shampoo toward Abigail every time she moves.
"All done," Taylor says, handing over the last page, her hand trembling with excitement.
She’s done it; technically, she’s now part of the music industry, and her career will begin hand in hand with Abigail Stone.
"Wait," Abigail says, signing the page before getting up for an envelope.
She takes Taylor’s contract and slips it inside. Then she extends it toward her from the other side of the table. Taylor stands and accepts it with a smile.
"Congratulations," Abigail says, offering her hand. "I promise I’ll take you to the very top."
Taylor looks at Abigail’s hand as she pinches her lower lip between her fingers and shakes her head.
The woman in front of her has just become her agent; it makes sense to shake hands to seal their agreement, but Taylor suddenly feels euphoric, and they aren’t in New York yet, so she brushes Abigail’s hand aside and hugs her.
"Please, hug me back," she whispers against her ear, while Abigail remains petrified.
Abigail hesitates; the muscles in her neck are knotted and it’s hard to breathe without her breath coming out in little gasps, but she forces herself to move and closes her arms behind Taylor.
"I don’t want to be angry with you," Taylor murmurs as she steps away, finally releasing them both from that taut moment.
The executive looks at her without saying anything. Abigail isn’t angry; she does her job, and if Taylor gets mad, she can live with it.
"What I said earlier," Taylor says while Abigail’s greenish gray eyes stay on her, unblinking, "I didn’t mean it. I don’t think you’re a bitch, or that you’re cold…"
"I am, Taylor," Abigail cuts in, her voice as firm as steel. "Think it or don’t, but I’m cold, cruel, and I don’t have room for feelings, which makes me a bitch."
Taylor is so shocked she doesn’t know how to respond to that.
"I get it," she finally says, with a hint of a smile because, really, she doesn’t get anything—but she decides she’ll analyze it later.
"I hope so."
"Can you remind me of the reasons why this can’t continue in New York? I mean the sex, of course—I wouldn’t ask you for anything more," she says, lifting her eyebrows.
Abigail frowns. She’s never given Taylor a clear reason why they shouldn’t keep sleeping together; she’s only said that she has them. But Taylor doesn’t seem inclined to insist or beg for something Abigail doesn’t want to give; she just wants to hear it, and that she can grant.
"I’ll start with the simplest: conflict of interest. Any intimate relationship between us that comes to light would let anyone question how you got where you are.
They’d talk about favoritism on my part, calling my professionalism into question and casting doubt on your real talent. I’m not giving anyone that advantage."
"Wow," Taylor says, impressed. She doesn’t share Abigail’s opinion—if it were up to her, they’d keep things as they are—but she understands her reasons. "Anything else?"
Abigail sighs.
"Personal ties breed distractions, jealousy, and expectations," she recites like a robot. "I need you focused on singing, not dissecting my silences."
That really leaves Taylor stunned.
"You think if we were hooking up I’d spend the day thinking that because you’re quiet it might mean you’re mad at me?"
Abigail arches an eyebrow and Taylor frowns, then lets out a little laugh.
"There are a thousand things, Taylor, and I know you know it. You’re starting your career while I’m fully established in mine; there’s no middle ground between us.
Not to mention the age difference—you’re in a phase that has nothing to do with mine.
Our paces and priorities are different, and that’s if I were willing to keep this going. "
"Which you’re not," Taylor finishes.
"Exactly, and this is the last time we’re going to talk about it. From now on, we’re going to focus on your career. That’s what brought me here, and what will take you to New York."
"All right. I get it. We won’t talk about it anymore."
Taylor means it. She understands, even if she doesn’t agree, but she’s willing to move forward and focus on her career.
She wants to be a singer, she wants to give it everything, and she wants to do it alongside Abigail—to soak up everything Abigail can teach her, follow her advice, make her proud, and show her every day that she wasn’t wrong when she decided to take her hand and help her fly.
"What do we do now? When do I have to leave?" Taylor asks.
"I suppose you need a few days to sort your things out here, but make sure it’s not many," Abigail says.
"Is a week okay? I can try to make it less."
"A week is fine. That gives us time on our end to prepare for your arrival. We need to find you housing before you get there. Plus, I have to meet with Liam, set up meetings, evaluate proposals, and handle several errands. Patricia will send you the plane ticket," Abigail says.
"Okay. Then I guess I should wish you a good trip for tomorrow," Taylor says, looking at her with those huge, bright dark eyes.
"No need; truth is, I can’t wait to get out of here," Abigail says, folding her arms.
"Yeah..." Taylor twists her smile, and Abigail feels her chest swell more than it should. "Even so, I wish it anyway. Have a good trip, Abigail."
Taylor offers her hand this time, and Abigail shakes it firmly, holding back the urge to yank her in with authority, press her to her body, and devour that mouth that sometimes tastes like beer and other times like sweet things.
"Thanks. See you next week," she says instead, letting Taylor go.