Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  Rick opened his mouth to speak, but only elicited a pop as his jaw cracked out of alignment again.

  “Jeez, is that your mouth? You’d better have that looked at. Sounds like TMJ.”

  “I just came off the road and we’re in the studio for the next two months. It can wait a little longer.”

  “You look ropy. Carrying all your tension here.” Paul rubbed the back of his own neck. “When was the last time you had a massage?”

  Rick gave a laugh. Women from every arrondissement in Paris were clamoring to touch him just a short while ago. Did that count?

  “Seriously. Have you ever thought of taking yoga?”

  “Okay. Now I think you’ve been talking to Kat. She’s into all that poxy new age mumbo jumbo, too.”

  “So try it. Here.” Paul pushed his faculty ID across the table. “Ilana swears by these classes at NYU. She says people line up around the block during the semester, but I’m sure you’d have no problem getting in during the summer. But you have to be faculty, staff, or alumni. I won’t need this back till September.”

  Rick practically choked on the last swallow of coffee from his mug. “You want me to impersonate you?”

  Paul gave his father a piteous withering look. “No, I want you to fit in with all the nanobots self-replicating down at the Commons as they perform their DoS attack in pursuit of total mass exercise ecophagy.”

  “Eco-what?”

  “Ecophagy,” his son repeated. “As in consumption of the entire ecosphere.”

  “Nanonerd humor. Nice.”

  “Just swipe the card at the door for entry. You probably won’t even have to interact with another human.”

  “It’s not one of those fire-and-brimstone classes, is it?”

  “Hot yoga, you mean?” Paul laughed. “The only thing hot will be the scenery. That might do you some good, as well.”

  Rick ran his index finger with its permanent E string groove around the laminated edge of Paul’s ID card. “I’ll have a go,” he said finally.

  “Give it hell, Riff!”

  Now it was Rick’s turn to throw a look of mock disdain, just as he threw bills down on the table for the check. “Riff Rotten gives as good as he gets.” I’m in hell now, he thought. So what more do I have to lose?

  “Hey, where’s Rivington Street?” he thought to ask.

  “Lower East Side. But up-and-coming. If you see a bail bonds place next to a pho restaurant, you are probably in the right place.” Paul gave a laugh.

  Father and son exchanged a real hug back on the street. “By the way, your grandparents gave me some of your mom’s old LPs last time I saw them. Any interest?”

  Paul threw up an apologetic hand. “I don’t even own a CD player anymore, Dad. Let alone a turntable. MP3s are where it’s at.”

  “Think your brothers would like them?”

  “Dad. They probably don’t even know what LP stands for.”

  Rick watched as his son strode off, Greece putting an extra spring in his step.

  “Yo, yo, on your left!”

  Rick managed to sidestep last-minute to avoid being taken out by the blond guy on a bicycle that looked like something straight out of a Terry Gilliam movie. It appeared to be a high-performance mountain bike retrofitted with antique parts, capable of flattening random passersby and the occasional stray dog. A box attached to the back towered with paper sacks. “Thanks, man!” The blond boy gave a wave and a honk from an old brass bicycle horn as he sailed effortlessly into the intersection and disappeared into the sea of taxis.

  Rick just shook his head, feeling ancient. Retrofitted into the modern-day metropolis. There had been a time when New York felt like it belonged to him. Was it in the seventies, when he first met Simone here? Or had it been in the eighties, when he decimated it with rock and roll? Talk about ecophagy. Either way, too many decades had piled on since then. He walked slowly, trying to find his bearings and the correct subway line to get him back to Manhattan. Pre-production work in the studio was almost complete. Time to start chipping away at the rock.

  Sidra

  Propositions

  “Just the girl I was looking for!”

  Sidra didn’t look up from the register tape in one hand or the pile of cash in the other. Charlie’s hair could be on fire, for all she cared. She and Mikey shared a cash register, and each week she reconciled her books.

  “Favor to ask you, Sid.”

  “Shush. Counting.” Seven-eighty? Or was it . . . Shit. She crushed the tape in her hand. “What. Do. You. Want.” Each word suffered between her clenched teeth. Two more weeks, she told herself. Two more weeks until he’s out of the borough, out of my sight.

  Charlie stood directly in her line of vision, hips cocked. His hair was not on fire, but spiked as prickly as Sidra’s mood had turned at the sound of his voice.

  “It’s not me. It’s Banana Louie. He misses you.”

  Sidra shoved the money into a paper bag. There was no way she was going to be able to count straight with her ex-boyfriend leaning over the counter and giving her the sad eyes.

  “I’m not watching him while you’re on the road, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Charlie pulled his six-feet-two frame over the counter instead of walking around it like a normal person. The chain leashed to his wallet rattled like a ghost’s shackles as he went. “Come on, Sid. It would only be on the weekends.” He followed her into the back room. “Reggie just landed a sweet deal on a Fire Island summer share.”

  “Reggie’s taking care of him during the week?” There was one person on the planet who detested Charlie’s new girlfriend even more than Sidra, and that was Reggie. Sidra was surprised to hear their mutual friend was involving himself. “At his apartment?”

  “Are you kidding? His girlfriend would kill him if he tried to bring Louie in there. No, at my place.” His place.

  Charlie’s place was Evie’s place. Sidra could barely walk into Alphabet City; just the thought of the two of them cohabitating within a four-block radius made her throat form a sickly lump and her palms sweat profusely. “I can’t,” she said weakly.

  “You can’t. Or you won’t?” Charlie plucked the bag from her hand and nimbly worked the safe tucked between Mikey’s desk and the wall. Sidra helplessly watched his fingers, so capable of quickly manipulating the dial while hers just fumbled under pressure.

  There were days when she thought Charlie was just a senseless oaf, incapable of realizing the torment he put her through. And then there were the days when she realized Charlie knew precisely what he was doing. The safe sprang open at his bidding.

  Sidra bent to collect her yoga bag. “Tell me Evie really wants me in her apartment.”

  “She’d rather have you in there than a smelly dead iguana.” Charlie grinned, tossing the money in and securing the steel door with a clunk. Sidra wished she could lock up her heart and her feelings as easily.

  “I’ll think about it. For Louie. Don’t ask me again in the meantime.”

  “Excellent!” Charlie reached to give her shoulder a squeeze, but she turned quickly with a shrug, causing her yoga bag to knock his hand away. “Oh, and before I forget . . .” He bounded back to the counter and began rummaging through his messenger bag. “For the show next week,” he said, handing her a satin stick-on pass. It was just a house pass, generic to the venue. Someone had added the date of the show in Sharpie. “It’ll get you in the door without being hassled.”

  Sidra nodded, slipping it into her bag. “Gotta go. Class.”

  Rick

  Blank Pages

  “You boys ready to make a piece of music history?”

  Rick cast a quick glance up at Thor. Their producer was rubbing his hands a bit too maniacally to be taken seriously. The album was a piece, all right. Of what, Rick wasn’t quite sure. But his gut told him it wasn’t quite right. Any old dinosaur could leave a fossil behind; they needed to leave a legacy. The rest of the band was having lunch and listening to the playback, b
ut Rick had lost his appetite four tracks ago.

  “As soon as Sam devours that U-boat, I’d say we’re good to go,” he murmured, dropping his gaze back to his notebook.

  Rick wasn’t used to blank pages.

  The band had spent the past week live tracking in the studio. They had the basics of ten songs nailed down. But Rick wasn’t convinced they were the right ten for the project. Yet he could tell Thor’s brain was working five paces ahead, his sights already set on overdubbing. Rick wasn’t in the mood for another battle of wills. He was still smarting from yesterday, after Thor suggested he try the growling approach to his vocals popular with the newer screamo and grindcore bands. “Where are those brass balls of yours?” the producer had razzed. “You used to be such a beast back in the day.”

  Rick knew he was having trouble nailing some of the high notes, but he had no desire to sing in what he called “Cookie Monster tones.” “I’m a vocalist,” Rick had informed him. “Not a bloody Muppet.”

  Thorton Young III was no young upstart in the business. In fact, he had spent years in the trenches with Corroded Corpse, back in the eighties when they were spinning their souls into platters of gold. But Rick knew the tides had turned in the business. It wasn’t just about album sales; not when bands like Radiohead were practically giving away albums in a pay-what-you-want environment and unsigned acts were getting five million hits on their YouTube videos.

  It was about relevance.

  The band could no longer just keep singing about Vikings and rats and pillaging, the fodder that had made them famous in the eighties. Mythology and history were not as progressive or cool as the new dystopian view. Kids these days wanted to hear about surviving the zombie apocalypse and landfills in the sky, doomsday stuff. It should be a no-brainer, since the Rotten Graves Project was descended from doom metal royalty.

  “Heavy is the head that wears the metal crown, eh, Rotten?” Thor’s voice niggled.

  Rick tapped his pen against the empty page, staring absently at his bandmates. The King of Doom had been cursed with silence, a writer’s block that was growing roots and thick, thorny vines that snaked up the walls of the fortress he had built. Luckily, the jesters holding court were full of ideas.

  Speaking of mighty Norsemen . . . Sam was wrestling with a submarine sandwich, his Viking beard catching bits of lettuce as they dropped. Although not the most serious musician, he had at least managed to keep the rust off his bass strings during the band’s hiatus by doing session work with just about half of Los Angeles. To his right sat Jim, looking just as redneck American as Sam appeared red-cheeked British. The lad didn’t seem to own a shirt with sleeves. Rick stared at the colorful creatures inked around the drummer’s bulging biceps. It was as if the three-eyed Fujins, Asian devil dragons, and Kabuki demons had been summoned to spur Jim on like a man possessed when he stepped behind the kit. He was the only member not original to the lineup, having been plucked from the helm of his own successful group, Dead Can Dream. He set the pace for his idols, refusing to let the moss grow under their aging feet. Jim’s own feet were in constant tapping mode, and his hands were rarely without sticks. Currently, he was keeping time on an empty pizza box balanced atop Thor’s swivel chair.

  And then there was Adrian. His skid-row sensibilities made him every metalhead’s man. Even with his Madison Avenue wardrobe. He had the knack of making music effortlessly, fluidly, yet with a passion that was enviable. And he had figured out how to hang his cap at the end of the day, switching from one world to the other. Which was very enviable. With his reading glasses perched on his nose and his Fluevog motorcycle boots propped up, Rick’s lead guitarist was immersed in the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, oblivious to the din around him. Adrian defied logic, God bless him. The former loose cannon of the band had achieved a Zen-like balance. Meanwhile, Rick had achieved bloody little since the regrouping. Maybe it really was time to try a yoga class. He felt—

  “Well, spit it out, man.”

  “Come again?”

  “I figured you must have it, since you’ve been staring at me for an age.” Adrian pulled off his glasses. “The opposite of ‘prolific.’ Eight letters, ends with t.”

  Rick cleared his throat. “Impotent.”

  Adrian raised a brow and placed pen to paper once more. He clucked amusedly before smacking the paper down triumphantly. “First time for everything!”

  “What, is that the first time you’ve ever finished a puzzle?” Sam mocked, pulling a slimy tomato from between the bread and flicking it onto Jim’s pizza box. All drumming stopped abruptly.

  “The puzzle. As in the Sunday puzzle. In pen.”

  Jim whistled his awe before popping out for a cigarette break. Sam simply hoisted himself out of his chair and announced, “Finished the U-boat. Now time to drop a missile.”

  “Keep that bit of intelligence to yourself next time, Summerisle!” Adrian groaned.

  “Hey Riff, I wanna show you something.”

  Rick dropped notebook and pen and approached the control board. Thor had what looked like blueprints up on his laptop screen.

  “I’m tired of renting a chair under my ass. Or rather, having you or a record label rent it for me. I’m thinking of opening my own recording studio. Was wondering if you’d want in?” Thor stroked the keyboard, and the screen filled with thumbnail images of commercial properties.

  “You mean investing?”

  “Yeah. I’ve found some spaces that have real potential. This location here would be a steal.” He nudged the screen with his knuckle. “Old dry cleaning business, Lower East Side.”

  Rick studied it doubtfully. “Looks like it should be condemned.”

  “Scaffolding,” Thor scoffed. “That’ll be gone in a New York minute. Probably just some facade work.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Rick replied, sensing Adrian at his shoulder. “Might be cool to have a stake in some Manhattan realty.”

  “Your own floor to kip on, at least,” Adrian joked.

  “What do you think, Dig?” Rick wanted to know.

  “No way. I think Kat would kill me.” He just shrugged as the other two made whip-cracking noises. “I’ve got a wedding to think about, guys. And school tuition.”

  In other words, a life, Rick thought darkly. “You know what?” he blurted. “Hell, I’m in.” Who cares what Adrian thinks? Thor asked me, not him. Rick took a bit of perverse pleasure in that.

  “Really? Sweet!” Thor slapped the Mac closed. “I’ll set up a meeting with the other guys on board. Mostly suits. But they’re cool. They’ll be psyched to have an artist on board.”

  “Set it up,” Rick agreed. He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got an appointment; mind if I roll?”

  “What about the overdubs?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Rick promised. Right now, he thought, there’s a first time for everything.

  Sidra

  Seeking Sanctuary

  Sometimes it was better to get out of your own way, thought Sidra, and your own studio. In fact, there was a reason she held no classes on Thursdays. There were times when she liked to practice yoga alone, and other times when she needed someone else’s prompts and cues in her head. She headed toward NYU. Her friend Gretchen ran a serious class that people clamored for. She wanted to be worked hard, forced to concentrate on poses so that all else left her mind.

  Of course Charlie assumed she would take care of the iguana. Wasn’t she always there to take care of everything? To take the brunt of everything? She remembered all the times she’d come home after a grueling day of exams, just longing to crawl into her pajamas, eat a can of soup, and fall asleep, only to find starving musicians had emptied her entire kitchen. Couldn’t they have ordered a pizza? Then there was the time Charlie let some dreadlocked ska band crash at her place. “It’s only for one night,” Charlie had said. Yeah. And the band only gave the two of them, and her pullout sofa, a horrible case of crabs. It took her weeks to get rid of those unwanted guests.
>
  She had long suffered as the girlfriend of a musician. Supporting his dream. Being used. Being made a fool of. As if the creative life gave him license to fool around. She should have kept walking that day she saw him in the rain. She was still paying for it now, unable to say no to him. No more, flat out.

  Charlie and his freaking passes.

  She remembered the first real gig the Bold O’Danahys landed in New York, at a hip club now long gone. Charlie had made laminates for the band members and their girlfriends, and Sidra remembered the thrill of winding through the crowd importantly, that all-access pass hanging from her neck. Silly, but it finally felt like all the time she had invested in Charlie’s dream had paid off. She loved gliding past the bouncers, behind the velvet rope, backstage. Many eyes were on her as she passed by, checking out the wardrobe she had cultivated over the course of the weeks leading up to the show. She was impeccably, stylishly “with the band.” Her man was the main man on stage, she thought proudly. And she was his sexy muse. How lucky was she?

  “How fuckable is he?”

  “Who, the lead singer? Totally.”

  Two girls swayed their hips to the music by the balcony rail, blocking Sidra’s view and talking about Charlie.

  “Even with that banjo he’s playing,” the first girl drawled loudly, buzzed on her drink. “He can pluck me any time!”

  “Electric banjo!” Girl number two laughed and curled her tongue to capture the lone ice cube remaining in her cup. “Too bad he’s taken.”

  “Seriously?”

  Damn straight, Sidra felt like saying. But the music was too loud and she was feeling too good to care. Charlie was hot, banjo slung low on his hips and looking as cocky and confident as any rock star. Girls could look at the menu all they wanted.

  “Jenny’s working coat check tonight. She said he snuck in there with the fiddle player during set break!”

  “Eww, I hope they weren’t grinding all naked on my coat!”