Chapter 40
Taylor walks into the Stone she almost has it, she just needs a single verse that fits and bridges to the second chorus, but she’s stuck there, and it’s driving her crazy.
She reaches Abigail’s floor and heads straight down the hallway without stopping. At this hour Patricia is already gone, so Taylor doesn’t have to announce her visit. She doesn’t knock, either—she opens the door and sees her there, and her bad mood evaporates the moment she hears her voice.
"I don’t care what the contract says," snaps Abigail. "My client isn’t going to accept those terms, either they change, or we find another promoter for the tour."
Abigail is standing, the handset of the landline pressed to one ear and her cell in hand as she looks out the window.
Taylor watches her with an amused smile.
She loves every version of Abigail, but this one fascinates her above all the rest. It was the first she met: the fierce, intimidating woman who can make anyone bend with a single roar. She made Taylor yield in bed.
"A week is too long; they have one day to respond," she concludes, hanging up with a hard slam.
"Hi," Taylor says from the doorway.
Abigail spins around and sees her there, looking at her with that wild, mischievous air that sometimes makes her head swim.
"Rough day?" Taylor asks, moving closer to her.
"The promoter’s trying to renegotiate some of Isabella’s tour dates, and the label’s legal team is acting like a bunch of fucking amateurs," Abigail sighs.
"And they ran into you," Taylor laughs, running a hand along her neck, sliding to her nape before kissing her.
"Yeah." Abigail smiles, a wicked glint in her eyes; deep down, she loves fighting those kinds of battles.
"Shall we go? I’m hungry," Taylor says.
Abigail looks at her desk—she still has work to do—but she closes the laptop, slips it into its sleeve, and grabs all her things to leave with Taylor.
She’s still getting used to a lot of things, but walking out of her office at a more decent hour is one of the easiest, even if she brings work home and keeps going there.
"How was your day?" Abigail asks after Loretta drops them at the executive’s apartment.
Erin left a little over two months ago, so most of the time, it’s Taylor who visits.
The singer doesn’t mind; she fits easily into Abigail’s space, but Abigail still looks like a spinning top when she stays at Taylor’s, moving from one side to the other as if she can’t quite find her place, and Taylor has simply concluded that Abigail feels insecure in spaces that aren’t hers, especially after a couple of weeks ago she finally told her about her parents.
Now Taylor understands a lot. Abigail’s father forced her to live in a house where he made her feel like she was in the way, and her mother threw her out of hers when she decided to be honest and tell her she was only attracted to women.
Every space where she should have felt safe ended up a bad memory for her—until she had one of her own, a place where no one could mistreat her or kick her out at the drop of a hat—and Taylor sees no need to force Abigail to be at her apartment, trying to survive an unease she can’t control, when they can be at the executive’s.
"Exhausting, but productive," Taylor answers while she takes some ingredients out of the fridge and lays them on the marble. "I also talked to my sister; she’s taken a couple of weeks off next month and she’s coming to see me."
"That’s good," Abigail says, setting a bottle of wine on the island and taking the opportunity to kiss the top of Taylor’s head as she passes by.
The singer goes still, smiling like a fool.
Abigail sometimes has these unexpected gestures that warm her chest in an inexplicable way.
From anyone else they might be ordinary and easy; from Abigail they’re so much more.
She’s still learning to express herself physically in ways that aren’t just sexual, and she does these things with Taylor more and more often: a stolen kiss on the lips, a gift of one at her temple, a soft stroke down her arm or thigh, or lining up behind her when they’re waiting at the supermarket and sliding an arm around her shoulders while she breathes in her hair.
In a little over three months, Abigail has come a long way for Taylor, even if to everyone else her expression is still stone, her answers curt, and her gaze lethal.
"I’m glad she’s coming to see you," Abigail continues, filling their wineglasses. "Did you ask about your brother?"
Taylor nods. She appreciates that Abigail always asks about him despite the animosity she’s always felt toward Ethan.
"He’s the same as ever, doing his thing, acting like nothing happened, but pretending I don’t exist." Abigail cuts her a sidelong glance.
No matter how much time passes, Taylor can’t get used to the new situation with Ethan. Every time they talk about him, her face twists into a tense grimace as she tries and fails to look normal, especially in front of Abigail, who’s starting to know all her reactions by heart.
"Tiffany says he still hasn’t mentioned me. Not once since he left the hospital, Abby. And she admitted she got up from the table and walked out when my mother told him I’d signed the contract. I don’t expect him to call and congratulate me, but pretending I don’t exist?"
Abigail comes closer, spins the stool where Taylor is sitting, and steps between her legs, looking her straight in the eye as she places both hands on her cheeks.
"Listen to me, Ethan will get over it, Tay," the executive says. "You two may never get back to the relationship you had before, but at some point he’ll mature. He’ll meet some girl or some guy, he’ll get married, he’ll have kids, and when his priorities start to be different, then he’ll realize he’s behaved like a damn asshole.
In the meantime, you exist for the rest of your family and your friends, but most of all, you exist for me.
" Abigail leans in very slowly and kisses one eyelid, which makes Taylor sigh; then she brings her lips to her ear, grazing her nose and dragging her lips over it, "and I love you, too, baby," she whispers very softly.
The singer feels everything spin around her until it fades and leaves her alone with Abigail. She’s always known Abigail loves her, but she didn’t hope she’d ever say the words out loud, let alone as sincerely as she felt in that whisper.
Taylor throws her arms around her, sobbing as hard as the day she signed the contract, but for different reasons. Abigail keeps her there, pressed to her body, soothing her with that calm she knows how to give her—something she’s truly good at.
"Better?" Abigail asks when Taylor pulls back.
"Yeah," she answers, wiping away her tears with her hands.
Abigail—still standing between her thighs—props an elbow on the marble as she watches her with narrowed eyes.
"You’re very sensitive, you know? You don’t project it, but you are," Abigail says with a soft smile.
"And is that bad?" Taylor asks, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
"No," Abigail answers, straightening as she runs her thumbs over her wet cheeks, "for you it isn’t. It only makes you even more beautiful than you already are."
"Then who is it bad for?" Taylor asks, confused.
"For anyone who hurts you, because I’ll want to gouge their eyes out with my own fingers and make them swallow them. Then I’ll pack their empty sockets with salt and vinegar, but I won’t feel satisfied until…"
"Stop," Taylor says, first laughing her head off, then catching her lips in a burst of kisses that fall on Abigail in little flurries.
Her look changes completely as she locks her legs around Abigail’s waist and presses against her.
"I thought you were hungry," the executive murmurs against her mouth.
"Now I want to eat something else," Taylor blurts, biting her lower lip hard.
Abigail moans and tenses at the same time, puts her hands on her ass, lifts her from the chair, and walks with Taylor wrapped around her waist until they reach the sofa, where she sets her down right in front of it and stares at her while she touches her swollen lip with her fingers.
"Take your clothes off. All of them," the executive orders.
Taylor lets out a smile. Her eyes, usually dark, now look like two bottomless wells. Abigail starts undressing along with her, but never stops looking at her and, when they’re done, she slips her own shirt onto Taylor, leaving it open.
"Sexy," Abigail says.
Taylor looks at herself; she not only feels sexy in Abigail’s shirt, she feels powerful. She takes Abigail’s hand and gives a hard yank, catching the executive off guard as she pulls her flush and slides a hand over her cheek.
"You’re going to sit on the sofa and spread your legs wide for me," the singer murmurs while her other hand fully covers one of Abigail’s breasts.
"Why should I?" Abigail challenges her, eyes so wide Taylor can make out those gold flecks in her iris she only catches sometimes.
The singer buries a hand in Abigail’s hair, closing her fist around a thick lock that makes her moan at the tug, and slides the fingers of her other hand over her slit, soaked through. Abigail growls.