Chapter 41 #2
"Stop looking at me like that and go get ready," she orders in that tone that sometimes snaps like a whip. "We start in an hour."
"Will I see you before I go on?" Taylor asks, narrowing her eyes.
"Of course."
"Okay." Taylor turns and runs to the dressing room while Abigail watches her, but when she’s about to open the door, the singer sees Erin with Liam and stops short. "Erin," she calls, gesturing to her.
"I thought I’d see you after," Erin says, hugging her.
"She shouldn’t be out here," Liam complains. "You should be in makeup," he adds, checking his watch.
"I’m going in, but I wanted to introduce Erin to my sister," Taylor says in her defense.
"Where’s Tiffany?" Liam asks.
"Inside, in my dressing room," she answers, pointing at the door.
Liam groans, exasperated.
"Tell her to come out, and you don’t move from in there until they’ve finished with you or I’ll have to tattle to Abigail," Liam warns. "I’ll do the introductions."
"Bore," Taylor mutters before going into the dressing room.
Erin stays by the door with Liam when Taylor disappears, but the executive’s phone starts to ring and he walks off down the hallway, leaving her alone just as the door opens again and out comes a blonde girl with blue eyes who leaves Erin taken aback.
"Are you Tiffany?" the art restorer asks.
Tiffany looks at the woman in front of her—dark, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, a bright expression, and a relaxed posture.
"You cannot be Abigail’s sister," she says, so surprised that Erin can’t help her smile from spreading.
"I can’t say you look much like Taylor. Abby told me you were blonde, but I was at least expecting the same wild look in your eyes," Erin says.
"Disappointed?" Tiffany asks.
Erin shakes her head, her shoulder-length hair swaying with the movement.
"Not at all. I’m more into calm gazes. If I want chaos, I’ve got my sister. Nice to meet you, and yes, I’m Erin," she says, offering her hand.
Tiffany smiles, feeling a little disoriented, and shakes Erin’s hand harder than she intended. The contact lingers as they look each other in the eye—maybe weighing whose are bluer—until Liam arrives.
"Ah, you’ve already met. Great," he says, distracted as he checks something on his phone. "Have you seen Abby?"
"No," they both reply at the same time, dropping each other’s hands as if they’d been burned.
"Okay, I’m going to find her. You’ve got reserved seats in the second row; you can head in whenever you want," Liam says, walking past them and disappearing down the hallway.
"Shall we sit?" Erin asks.
"I’ll wish my sister luck and be right there," Tiffany says.
"Great."
The dressing room has turned into something like a war zone. Makeup is working on Taylor’s face while hair battles with her unruly mane. They dress her in black leather pants and a sheer blouse that reveals a lace bra in the same color.
"Five minutes," someone announces over the intercom.
Taylor looks at herself in the mirror and smiles, satisfied and calm. She feels so powerful she just wants time to fly so she can jump onstage and roar as loud as she can.
She leaves the dressing room and walks straight to the wing. Abigail is there, standing next to Liam, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the impatient crowd.
"There she is," Liam says, relieved to see they’ve finished with Taylor in time.
Abigail turns, and her pulse stalls when she sees her walking toward her in that sheer blouse. The singer is elegant and sexy at the same time, a sophisticated version of the rebellious Taylor who conquered the Smithville festival.
"Ready?" Abigail asks, going tense when she realizes Taylor doesn’t seem inclined to stop.
"Almost," the singer replies and, without warning, presses herself to Abigail and kisses her.
It’s a brief kiss, but intense, charged with all the anxiety and excitement Taylor feels in that instant. She does it in front of several techs and company support staff, who are left gaping—Liam included—at the sight of the unflappable Abigail Stone being kissed by one of her artists.
Abigail goes still for a second, surprised, but she doesn’t pull away; on the contrary, she slides her hand along Taylor’s cheek and kisses her back.
Although at Stone beyond that, no one has ever seen them kiss.
"Sorry," Taylor whispers with a smile, still very close to her mouth while her hands clutch Abigail’s waist. "I’m more nervous than I thought."
"Fantastic, now you’re both nervous," Liam shoots back, amused by his partner’s stunned face.
"Ignore him," Abigail says, pulling herself together. "You were born to be up there, sweetheart," she whispers to Taylor. "Go up and make it clear to everyone."
"Will you be here when I finish?" Taylor asks, eager to start.
"I’m not moving."
The lights dim and the intro music starts. Taylor takes a deep breath and walks onto the stage. When she steps into the lights, the roar of the crowd hits her, knocking the wind out of her. Two thousand people on their feet, waiting for her to open her mouth.
"Good evening, New York," she says, and her voice resounds with that confidence that seems to possess her when she steps onstage.
They start with Wildfire and the crowd howls almost as much as she does.
Abigail watches her without moving, feeling every note that leaves Taylor’s throat arrow through her as if it were charged with electricity.
The second song is about rising from the ashes, and Taylor dedicates it to everyone who’s ever been told they couldn’t do something.
The concert continues and Taylor sings as if it were the last time she could, flooding the entire theater with passion before an audience completely at her feet. Then comes Lengua de fuego and Taylor steps up to the mic with a mysterious smile.
"I dedicate this song to someone who taught me that ice and fire can coexist," she says, turning to the right to pin Abigail with her dark gaze. "Someone who showed me that being vulnerable doesn’t mean being weak."
The first chords ring out and Taylor gives it her all. Her voice breaks into those Andalusian laments, soars to impossible heights, and whispers confessions that only one person in that entire theater can fully understand.
Abigail can barely breathe. She feels dazed and dizzy, as if her ears were stuffed with cotton and she heard everything that wasn’t Taylor’s voice through a buffer. When the song ends, the audience erupts in a deafening roar, clapping and whistling as if their lives depended on it.
Taylor bows, face shining with sweat and a huge smile that reaches her eyes.
When she turns to leave the stage, all her attention is already fixed on the person who matters most. Abigail is where she said she’d be, applauding like the others, only she isn’t smiling with her lips; she’s smiling with that gaze—normally icy—now melted.
The singer couldn’t care less that the area is packed with people now, among them music journalists. As soon as she’s in front of her, she jumps onto Abigail, wraps her legs around her waist and her arms around her neck, and kisses her again.
"That was breathtaking," Abigail murmurs when Taylor smiles, her forehead resting against the executive’s.
"Really?"
"You know it," Abigail replies.
A flash blinds them as one of the photographers captures the image. Then another, and several more after that. Neither of them cares in that moment, though Liam knows Abigail will probably stress if the photos get published.
What follows is a small party in a VIP room full of industry heavyweights where everyone wants to meet Taylor. Abigail and Liam move among them naturally, introducing the singer, steering conversations, and protecting her from awkward questions.
The party goes on for several hours, but eventually people start to leave and Abigail and Taylor manage to be alone in the dressing room, where Taylor drops onto the small sofa with a sigh that dances between exhaustion and satisfaction.
"Tired?" Abigail asks, leaning on the vanity.
Taylor gets up as quickly as she sat, moving toward her.
"Very," she admits. "I can’t wait to get home, take a shower, and crawl into bed."
Abigail smiles and brushes several strands of hair from her face.
Home. That home is Abigail’s apartment in Manhattan, where Taylor fully moved in two months ago.
Now it’s not just Abigail’s things perfectly ordered in closets and on shelves.
Now Taylor’s are there too—her guitar left anywhere in the living room, where she likes to write; notebooks, pens, and markers scattered everywhere; her leather jacket on the back of a chair instead of the coat rack; her keys on the table and not in the dish where Abigail leaves hers.
Sometimes the mess unsettles her, but if she imagines not having it, she feels on the verge of a panic attack—so to that, she adapts.
"All right, grab your things and let’s go. Loretta’s already outside," Abigail says.
Taylor pulls a sweatshirt on over the blouse, grabs her bag, and heads for the dressing room door, where Abigail waits with it open.
"Ready?" the executive asks.
"Yeah," Taylor replies.
Abigail turns off the light, slides an arm over her shoulders, and draws her close as they walk down the hallway, not knowing that tomorrow’s music magazine headlines will talk about Taylor Davey—her extraordinary voice and magnetic presence.
They won’t talk yet about her possible relationship with Abigail Stone because Liam has managed to delay it by calling in a few favors, but it won’t be long before that relationship, fed by ice and fire, becomes public.