Chapter 29
"It's going really slow," Taylor complains.
"Yeah," Abigail answers beside her.
They’ve just stepped into the elevator in the building that houses the record label’s offices. They occupy the top seven floors; they’re headed to the fortieth, and for such a big, modern skyscraper, the elevator feels like a gutless piece of junk to Taylor.
No one else got in with them, so they’ve pressed their backs to the rear wall as if that were easier than looking at each other.
They ran into each other at the entrance.
Taylor arrived first, just two minutes before Abigail’s Mercedes pulled up with Loretta at the wheel, and then the executive got out and today she’s wearing a dress similar to the one she wore the night Taylor played at Rusty’s—the one Taylor later tore off Abigail in the bedroom at Harold’s house.
Her mouth went dry and she could only lift her hand and smile to greet Loretta before turning and walking into the building.
"Are you mad about last night?" Taylor asks, wiping her sweaty palms on her blue pants.
Abigail pinches the bridge of her nose.
"No," she answers dryly.
But she is, though not with Taylor. She’s angry with herself, because when Taylor kissed her, she realized the desire she feels for her is still there, completely intact and ravenous.
It hasn’t diminished at all in these three weeks of drought—if anything, it’s grown, because Abigail felt drunk on her for a moment and almost let her consume her right there on that sidewalk.
"Okay, good. Fuck, it’s so hot in here," Taylor says, fanning herself with her hand.
Abigail agrees; the cold wall that should be icing her back feels like it’s burning her, and the elevator’s only at the twenty-second floor.
"That dress looks really good on you," Taylor blurts, still fanning herself. "Are you seeing someone?" she adds for good measure.
Abigail isn’t sure she heard right.
"What the hell...?" she asks, turning toward her.
She’s starting to feel dizzy in there. The elevator is too small to be trapped with Taylor, who lately is acting in ways Abigail can’t predict.
"Sorry, I’m just nervous about the meeting," Taylor lets out a little laugh; she’s genuinely overheated. Her cheeks are red and a few strands of that huge mane are sticking to her neck. "But are you seeing someone?" she presses, and now she looks Abigail in the eye.
The elevator reaches the thirty-fifth floor. Abigail wonders how it’s possible that in the whole damn building no one has pressed a button and stopped the thing.
"Maybe I should," she snaps, cruel. "Maybe then you’ll understand there can never be anything between you and me."
Taylor’s lungs seize as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus, knocking the air from her. It was a stupid question, like everything she’s been doing the past few hours, but she didn’t expect an answer like that, much less for it to hurt so much.
She’s grateful when the elevator doors finally open and the outside air disperses the tension they’d built inside.
"Remember, if they ask you something, keep it brief. Don’t ramble and, unless you’re not interested in signing with them, leave the rest to me," Abigail says, striding across the freshly polished floor as if she hadn’t just split Taylor’s heart in two.
Taylor doesn’t answer; she isn’t going to let her cruelty get to her. She wants to go in, hear what they have to say and, if possible, walk out with a recording contract under her arm.
"Ms. Stone," a receptionist Abigail clearly knows from before greets her. "Mr. Morrison is expecting you."
"Thank you," Abigail replies, without a trace of the coldness she just used on Taylor.
The conference room is as imposing as the rest of the building.
There’s a dark wood table in the center, surrounded by black leather chairs and, at the far end, a huge screen.
Morrison, the vice president, greets them with a smile Taylor doesn’t entirely like.
He’s a man of about fifty, with gray hair combed to one side and a suit that must cost more than Taylor earned all year at her parents’ bar.
Beside him is Sara Olman, the marketing director, and on the other side, Mario Olivares, the executive producer.
"Always a pleasure, Abigail," Morrison says, shaking the executive’s hand while giving her a brazen once-over that she chooses to ignore.
It bothers Taylor so much she can barely return the man’s smile when he greets her.
"I’ve heard very interesting things about you, young lady," Morrison tells her. "Shall we sit?"
The three label reps sit on one side of the table, while Abigail and Taylor sit on the other.
"All right," Morrison says, folding his hands on the table. "Let’s get to the point, because none of us here likes to waste time. We’ve reviewed the demos you sent us, Abigail, and I must say Taylor’s talent speaks for itself."
"And?" Abigail doesn’t beat around the bush either.
Morrison smiles, cutting a glance at Sara to give her the floor.
"She has an extraordinary voice. The texture, that wail..." Taylor stiffens. "Honestly, it’s not something you hear much in our market. We consider Taylor’s voice a niche voice, and that limits us."
Niche. To Taylor it lands like a slap, the same as when her brother called her ethnic, just like Demian did yesterday.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Abigail asks with a calm that pisses Taylor off more and more.
She wants her to pounce like a lioness the way she did with Demian yesterday, to defend her wail and her essence, but Abigail seems completely unbothered; she hasn’t even looked at her.
Mario leans forward to speak.
"We think Taylor has the potential to become a star, but she needs a few adjustments. We have to soften that flamenco lilt her tone carries—not annihilate it, of course, but polish it a bit so it’s more accessible to the general public."
Taylor feels anger scalding up her throat.
She straightens in her chair; she wants to get up and tell them where to shove their opinion, that she isn’t changing a damn thing, but Abigail is right beside her, the woman she trusts, and she hasn’t slammed a hand on the table like Taylor expected, so she’s very confused.
"I see," Abigail says, chewing each letter, "although I also thought you prided yourselves on launching artists who break the mold, not follow it."
Morrison nods at Abigail’s first barb. Taylor goes still, not sure what to think.
"Of course, but we also need those artists to sell records. "
"I think you’re misjudging Taylor’s talent by classifying her solely by one feature in her voice," Abigail murmurs, sounding so calm even Morrison is getting nervous. "I can understand that commercial success requires a certain strategic flexibility, but..."
Taylor stops listening. Strategic flexibility—Abigail is willing to give? Is she punishing her because she tried to kiss her?
"Maybe we could hear Taylor. Would you sing a little for us, right here, right now?" Sara asks.
Taylor has missed part of the conversation, but she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t look at Abigail now. This wasn’t something Abigail prepped her for; she didn’t tell her what to do if they asked her to sing—and she doesn’t care.
She simply stands and starts to sing a cappella, flaunting that wail in all its splendor, staking her claim, making it clear that this is her voice and she isn’t changing it.
Her voice breaks at the exact moments, and that ancestral wail rises from the depths of her throat like a warrior. She moves as she sings, with that unconscious sensuality that makes the air vibrate around her.
When she’s done, the silence is absolute, except for Abigail’s prolonged sigh.
"Wow, that was intense," Morrison says, stunned by what he’s just witnessed.
"It sure was," Sara agrees.
"You’ve got undeniable talent, Taylor," Morrison continues, exchanging a look with Mario. "We’re going to need a few days to reconsider the direction of this collaboration."
Taylor looks at them, not understanding, but Abigail stands and grabs her phone from the table.
"A pleasure, Morrison. Mario, Sara, we’ll be in touch," she says, then turns to Taylor. "Let’s go," she growls, leaving a trail of icy air as she sweeps past.
They reach the elevator, but this time there’s someone waiting and, when the doors open and Taylor tries to step in, Abigail stops her and waits for the one next to it, because now she definitely wants to be alone with her.
"Get in," she growls again when the other car arrives.
Taylor practically jumps into the elevator and presses her back to the rear wall, bracing for the storm.
"What the hell did you just do?" Abigail explodes as the doors close.
"Sing?" she shoots back, with a hint of irony that only infuriates Abigail more.
"Sing? Fuck, all I saw was you belting your lungs out, letting loose one wail after another. What the hell were you thinking?"
"About my voice, for fuck’s sake," Taylor snaps. "They want to change it. And you were supposed to defend it, but instead you were sitting there like you couldn’t care less and just wanted to be done. You’re supposed to want me for my authenticity."
"I love you..." Abigail rubs her temples. The floor tilts under Taylor’s feet at the phrase, wondering what would have followed the words Abigail cut off. "Oh my God..." the executive sighs, trying to focus. "I was negotiating, Taylor. To get them to do what you want, you have to let them think they’re the ones who made the final decision—only you’re the one who led them there without them realizing it. But what the hell would you know? If you don’t have the patience to keep that big mouth shut for half an hour, it’s going to be very hard to negotiate you a decent contract. "
Taylor goes still, suddenly feeling stupid. She’s like a spoiled kid, the small-town girl dropped in the middle of the city and overwhelmed. She wants everything and she wants it now, and she can’t see past what’s right in front of her.
"Can you fix it?" she murmurs.
Abigail exhales slowly; she needs a patience she doesn’t exactly have to spare right now.
"Maybe, but not right now," she says, softening her tone. "We have other options. Let’s give them time to forget your little stunt. From now on, you’ll keep your mouth shut and only open it when I tell you to."
Taylor wants to wrap her hand around Abigail’s throat and squeeze—but not to hurt her. She wants to pin her against the elevator wall, cut off her air a little, and hike up her dress to fuck her while Abigail watches her and tries to breathe, moving those thick lips Taylor wants to bite.
"Okay," she says, and the elevator doors open.
"See you tomorrow." Abigail storms out of the elevator.
"Aren’t you coming to the studio?" Taylor asks before Abigail gets into her Mercedes.
"No. I think you can manage without me for a day," she answers before sitting down and closing the door.
"Everything okay?" Adam asks, appearing at her side.
Taylor shrugs, not sure what to say. Nothing feels okay lately; she’s frustrated and confused, and there’s a deep ache under her ribs.