Chapter 36 #2
The line keeps looping in Abigail’s head.
Maybe it’s just for Ethan, but it also fits exactly what she’s done.
Because what Abigail has felt from the beginning is nothing but fear—that’s what kept her from getting close to Taylor.
Fear that her flames would burn her up, fear that Taylor would discover she can devour the world when it comes to business, but that the world devours her when it comes to feelings.
Fear she’s not enough, that she won’t know how to give Taylor what everyone says she needs from her and that Abigail can’t even define.
"That’s it for today," Demian announces, ending the session. "Good work," he says, congratulating Taylor as she comes out of the booth.
She smiles at him and heads straight for Abigail, who blinks, disoriented for a moment.
"Did you read it?"
Abigail’s gray-green eyes lock on hers as if they’ve just fallen off a mountain. Taylor feels a current shoot up her spine, making her straighten suddenly.
"Yes," Abigail answers in an icy whisper.
"And?"
Abigail wants to say a lot of things, but her mind is still a mess.
"Do you have music for it?" she asks instead of answering.
"Yeah," Taylor replies, twisting that smile that’s becoming devastating for Abigail. "Do you want to hear it?"
"Yes," another icy whisper.
"Do you want to come over to my apartment this evening," Taylor ventures, "after the meeting? Or later—I’ll be there writing."
Abigail nods slowly. She doesn’t even know if going to Taylor’s apartment is a good idea. She could ask her to sing it now—they have the space and the guitar the singer needs—but for Abigail this is personal, and she doesn’t want an audience.
"All right," she replies, closing her laptop.
Three hours later, Taylor is seated next to Liam across from Abigail in the executive’s office. The three proposals are spread out on the desk in three simple sheets listing the most important points of what each label is offering Taylor in the contract.
"Well," Liam says, folding his hands on the table. "Golden Music is offering the biggest advance but with less creative control. Black Universal gives you total freedom to choose your tracks and collaborations, but the advance is smaller. And Meridian Music..."
"I’m ruling Meridian out," Taylor interrupts, looking at Abigail, who has to work to keep from smiling. "After what happened in that meeting, I don’t trust them to respect my style no matter how much you’ve gotten them to put it in writing."
"Works for me," Abigail says, proud of the confidence Taylor shows, as she grabs the Meridian proposal, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it in the trash.
"In that case, we’ve got two options left," Liam continues. "At this point, you basically have to choose between money and creative freedom, because for everything else, both offer you the same," the executive sums up.
Taylor looks at the two proposals, then at Liam and, finally, at the one person she trusts with everything despite what’s going on between them.
"What would you do?"
Abigail laces her fingers on the table the same way her partner did, looking at Taylor intently.
"I’m only here to guide you, not to impose anything," she answers in a silky voice that makes Taylor shiver. "The only advice I can give you is to choose the offer you think you’ll feel most comfortable with, the one that lets you be yourself."
Taylor knows there’s a double message there and she gets it right away. It’s the same one Abigail has always given her. Her first priority is herself—her voice and her essence—and she shouldn’t do anything that limits her if she doesn’t want to lose herself along the way.
The singer is very aware that Abigail is working against her own interests; as an agent, she’d prefer Taylor to choose the contract that brings in the highest fee because her commission would be bigger, but Abigail keeps putting Taylor first. She has from the beginning, and Taylor values that in a way that’s hard to put into words.
"Black Universal," she says without hesitation. "I want creative freedom."
Abigail makes another ball of paper with the remaining proposal, and Liam smiles and stands to congratulate Taylor.
"I’ll talk to Harris this afternoon," Abigail says, making a note in her planner. "We’ll have it ready to sign tomorrow."
"Great," Liam says, giving Taylor a squeeze on the shoulder before leaving the office.
The meeting between them goes on a few more minutes while Abigail explains some contract details, but Taylor barely pays attention. All she can think about is what comes next—Abigail in her apartment listening to her sing and the conversation she intends to finally have with her.
"Do you have any questions?" Abigail asks, holding her pen over her planner as she crosses one leg over the other, showing off her heels, a pair of Louboutin with those red soles that make her seem even more imposing than she is.
"None," Taylor smiles, watching her with those huge brown eyes wide open.
"Good," Abigail nods, "then that’s that. I’ll call Harris and try to get the draft contract to me first thing tomorrow so I have time to review it carefully."
"I’m sure nothing will slip past you," Taylor says, standing. "What time will you come by?"
Abigail’s neck stiffens all of a sudden.
"I don’t know—I’ll let you know when I leave here. I’ll try not to be too late."
Taylor leaves the office and leaves her there, wrapped in a trail of her soft perfume.
Abigail is aching to smell that same fragrance mixed with Taylor’s post-singing sweat again.
She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs; lately she’s been ambushed by too many memories like that.
Taylor sweaty. Taylor naked. Taylor onstage, looking only at her.
Taylor’s laugh. Taylor’s dark eyes. Taylor’s teeth sinking into her flesh.
Abigail’s throat goes dry.
At eight in the evening, the executive rings Taylor’s bell. She’s traded her suit for dark pants and a white shirt—Erin’s advice to come off a little more informal—though whatever she puts on, Abigail still carries that razor-sharp elegance that defines her.
The door opens so fast the executive takes a step back, surprised. Taylor is in jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt so tight her small breasts are perfectly outlined through the fabric, making it very hard for Abigail to keep her eyes anywhere else.
"Come in," Taylor says, gesturing into the apartment.
The first thing Abigail sees is the guitar leaning against the sofa, an open notebook on the coffee table with the page completely scrawled over, and several crumpled wads of torn-out paper scattered across the table.
"Looks like you’re very creative this week," Abigail murmurs.
Taylor walks past her and lifts the pen in her hand as she shrugs.
"I guess I’ve been thinking a lot lately."
Abigail gets the message. There’s no reproach in Taylor’s voice, but it’s obvious the singer is angry with her too.
"Aren’t you going to sit down?" Taylor asks, picking up the guitar.
"I’m good here," Abigail says, leaning against the living room cabinet.
"Sure," Taylor nods.
At this point, nothing about Abigail’s behavior surprises her.
She’s used to her coolness and her walls, to seeing her permanently on edge, and above all to this: the woman in front of her can’t quite feel comfortable in spaces that don’t belong to her because she can’t control them, and that makes her nervous.
"Should I start?" Taylor asks.
"Yes, whenever you want," Abigail answers.
Taylor starts to play. The opening chords are a melody as dark as it is powerful, and when she opens her mouth and begins to sing, her voice pours out with all the emotional intensity Abigail read in the lyrics.
As always, Taylor’s voice breaks in the right moments, and that Andalusian wail that defines her comes and goes like an ocean wave.
Abigail feels every note pierce and electrify her, stealing her breath.
It’s like going back to those first weeks in Smithville, when everything with Taylor was easy and listening to her sing was the closest thing to a religious experience Abigail has ever had.
I am ashes and iron
Pain turning into steel
Abigail grips the cabinet behind her. The song is simply brutal and devastating at the same time.
It’s like taking a hit that leaves you disoriented and needing a few minutes to recover when it’s over.
The song ends and the silence between them stretches heavy.
Taylor sets the guitar down and watches Abigail, who is still motionless by the cabinet, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Taylor was willing to force a conversation tonight, to finally lay things out, to accept that Abigail doesn’t want her and move on if that’s what has to happen.
But Abigail looks overwhelmed right now, and Taylor knows what will happen if she pushes when the woman in front of her probably feels vulnerable or cornered.
She’ll unsheathe her claws, spit ice from her mouth, and things between them will get worse.
The singer decides she doesn’t need to talk today; she can wait until tomorrow, maybe after signing the contract.
"What did you think?" she asks softly, rising from the sofa to walk toward Abigail.
The executive stares at her, gripping the wood so hard her fingers hurt.
She needs to explode; she needs what’s inside her to come out.
It’s like an orgasm you can’t reach—when all the pleasure is there, vibrating in your belly waiting to be released, but it dissipates because you can’t find a way to guide it where it should go.
That’s how Abigail feels with her pain and her feelings.
She doesn’t know how to let them out because she never has, and she’s furious with herself.
"Brutal," she replies, her voice rough with a sincerity that leaves Taylor speechless. "Like everything you do."
The singer smiles, that crooked smile that complicates Abigail’s life.
"Thanks," she says, not knowing what else to add.
Abigail pushes off the cabinet and steps closer. She presses her body to Taylor’s, and Taylor goes stock-still when the executive sets a hand at her neck and kisses her temple. A warm, lingering kiss—something completely unusual in Abigail.
"I have to go," she whispers without letting her go.
Taylor hears the slight tremor in her voice, feels the tension in her body, as if Abigail could split in two at any moment.
"But we need to talk," Taylor murmurs, laying a hand over Abigail’s.
"Yes, but not today," she replies, brushing her lips over Taylor’s cheek with a tenderness that makes Taylor feel like she’s about to combust under Abigail’s warm breath.
"Okay," the singer agrees.
Abigail inhales the scent of her hair as if it were the fuel she needs to keep going and steps back, walking to the door.
"Abby," Taylor says before she leaves.
The executive stops, but doesn’t turn around.
"Tell me," her voice is a contained whisper that makes Taylor want to hug her, but she stays where she is.
"When you’re thinking about what you’re going to say to me when we talk, keep in mind that I’m in love with you. I think I have been since the first time you smiled at me. That’s when I realized your ice can always melt with a little patience—and I have it, Abby," the singer says.
Abigail swallows and nods. Her eyes just filled and she’s more scared than ever, so she leaves and shuts the door a little harder than she meant to, hurrying toward the street in search of air that will help her lungs start filling and loosen whatever is clamped around her throat.