Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  “Jenny said he was totally fingering her up that short skirt.”

  Sidra was in a tunnel, the music now far away. She was alone on a balcony full of people. Laughter and talking and singing and drinking and dancing were no longer within her realm of possibility. She stood frozen, staring at the stage. Seeing, as if for the first time, the chemistry on stage between Evie and Charlie.

  “We needed a new fiddle player.” Charlie loved to defend his lineup choice to anyone who asked. “So might as well get a smoking hot one! Maybe more people will come see us.” To Sidra he’d assure, “She’s just like one of the guys.”

  Evie was a great draw. She wore crazy high heels, adding to her already Amazonian stature, and played the fiddle like she played the entire audience. She’d bounce one knee, her slim thigh quivering beneath her impossibly short skirts and tight dresses, and smirk a pretty little smirk as she pointed her bow in the direction of every guy and girl in the front row. Her nose would wrinkle and then she’d shake her hips to the beat. Now she was arching her eyebrows, dyed fiery red to match her mane of hair, in Charlie’s direction as they both fingered their respective string instruments in perfect unison to wrap up their last song in their set. Fingered. Sidra felt nauseated.

  Charlie had called a band meeting backstage after the show, their most successful gig yet. Drunken fans hollered for one more song as security began to do a sweep, moving people out into the frigid Manhattan night. A couple of A&R guys lingered, hot to talk to the band about representation. Sidra pushed her way into the tight back room. The air in there was claustrophobic, thick with smoke and sweat and tired laughter. “Hey, we’re in the middle of— Oh, it’s okay, it’s only Sidra. Hey, doll.” Charlie reached for her with a hand already clasping a bottle of beer.

  “Yep, only me,” Sidra said loudly. She spied Evie sitting on a couch next to their drummer, Justin. A beer was poised at her mouth, a smile playing on her beautiful lips over something Justin was saying. “I’m just like one of the guys.” Sidra grabbed the beer from Charlie’s hand and took a swig. “In fact, let me smell your fingers, Charlie.”

  Charlie opened his mouth, and the room grew quiet. “What the fuck, Sid?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go to hell.” She catapulted the remaining beer across his chest and then dropped the bottle to the floor, where it smashed at his feet. With her heart in smithereens, she fled.

  “Watch your step, miss.” A voice brought her back to the here and now. The mile walk had barely registered with her, she had been so caught up in the memories.

  “Thanks.” In her fancy new shoes, Sidra dodged shards of glass littering the sidewalk in front of the Gallatin building where a bottle must’ve broken, and nodded at the passerby who had issued the warning. She could smell the aroma of wine staining the pavement as she bowed her head and ducked into NYU.

  Rick

  New Guy on the Block

  Ah, spandex the way God intended it. Or better yet, mused Rick, the devil. In every direction, girls dotted the landscape like gumdrops in their shiny, colorful exercise garb. Paul had been right about the scenery, Rick thought. He didn’t remember university looking this appealing. Then again, he hadn’t lasted long in higher education, trading the books for baby nappies and band commitments.

  He waited patiently in line to scan Paul’s faculty ID card and gain entrance into the inner sanctum of supposed yoga nirvana. The modern expanse of glass and chrome within the whitewashed lobby was in severe contrast to the view outside on Washington Place. A sudden summer storm had shaded the sky as gray as the pavement, and rain looked imminent.

  “Hi, here for the six thirty?”

  A nubile blonde encased in a sexy black tracksuit addressed him from behind the front desk. In her hand, she wielded a scanner gun that would either allow him to proceed or would Taser him senseless on the spot.

  “Indeed. Hi.” Rick gave his best winning smile. He felt underdressed in his football kit, consisting of a pair of West Ham shorts and collared player’s shirt.

  “What do you teach?” she asked, her eyes on the plastic faculty card as she scanned it.

  “Currently,” Rick murmured dryly, “I’m trying to teach an old dog some new tricks.”

  The blonde cocked her head. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Considering I’m the old dog . . . it’s pretty crap.”

  She laughed as she buzzed him through. “Enjoy the class.”

  * * *

  He could stride onto legendary stages before throngs of screaming thousands without a second thought, but the utter silence of the small, windowless yoga room gave Rick pause. It was unsettling. He observed two dozen or so participants, mostly women, sitting rod-straight on mats, some with their buttocks resting on colorful bricks. Not an open eye among them. The instructor, a wisp of a woman with an umbrella of kinky ginger curls cascading from the crown of her head, motioned him toward the general vicinity of where the mats and blocks were stockpiled. Her body reminded Rick of rubber bands, shapely but taut, not an ounce of fat to be seen.

  “Have you practiced yoga before?” she whispered as he passed her.

  He surprised himself by giving her a noncommittal shake of the wrist, as if to say, Oh, a little here, a little there. He had toured Southeast Asia extensively, had visited Buddhist temples in Japan, and had certainly observed yoga. Then there was that bird from Australia who had roped him into some Tantric sexual escapades for a brief spell. But “practice” was something that implied eventual perfection to Rick. And he didn’t want to admit he wasn’t perfect at something.

  He settled onto a block in his best cross-legged pose, allowing his eyes to close. The only sound reaching his ears was the second hand sweeping in five-second, hushed intervals on the wall clock high overhead. This could pass for relaxing, he thought. Then he chastised himself for thinking; if yoga is about clearing the mind, have I already failed the test? Soft air and the scent of sandalwood breezed by; the instructor had moved to turn on the stereo. Commencing airy-fairy jingle jangle. New age flute and sitar filled the room.

  He stood and followed the others as gracefully as possible into his very first Swan Dive, and the instructor began to work them through some sun salutations. Moving without the customary eight pounds of guitar hanging from his neck felt foreign, like one of his limbs was missing.

  From there, they moved into a position true to its namesake, Awkward Chair. He felt like a royal twonk, trying to balance in his wee invisible chair. Thankfully, the instructor cued them into what she called ‘the first Down Dog of the day.’ Rick was perfectly content to hang out here for a while. It felt legit.

  “Wag your tail, lift your sit-bones high. Shoulders down.”

  Rick felt like an obedient doggy indeed, only to be rewarded by the torturous Plank. Good God! His abs launched a shaky protest, but he held strong until he was told to transform into an ark-load of other animals: Cobra, Locust, Cat, Cow, Dog, Pigeon. Internally, he cursed Kat and Paul. Infernally. How on earth had they convinced him this would be good? This was hell.

  He shook out his limbs, willing himself not to glance at the clock. Soon it will be over and I never have to come again.

  “Standing Half Lotus,” the rubber band lady commanded, and the entire room bent their right legs like hypnotized storks. Rick followed suit, cheating with his hands in order to prop his foot firmly upon his opposite thigh. He achieved balance, slowly stretching out his arms.

  Yes, master of the bloody universe.

  He had no problem following the instructor’s cue of focusing his gaze on one spot on the floor, as the view was exquisite. The girl positioned on the mat in front of him had an ass that could stop traffic. Her tiny black yoga shorts hugged its ripe curves and ended spectacularly, showcasing her smooth tan thighs. Her top, a pale pink spandex contraption that crisscrossed along her shoulder blades, did not betray an ounce of excess body fat along her torso, and he marveled as he noticed the way she tucked her tailbone at t
he instructor’s cue. The thought of that slight pivot in her hips almost caused Rick to groan aloud. He wanted to run his fingers down her spine; it was perfectly aligned, like the fretboard of his favorite guitar.

  Focus, ruddy focus. You pathetic geezer. She’s probably half your age.

  “Very good. Let’s bring our right hands to the center of our chests in Anjali Mudra. Yes, that’s half prayer position. Now bring your left hand to meet your right, pressing your palms together. Don’t drop your right foot!”

  Rick was lost. He held his current position, silently praying to God above or the devil below to keep him upright. He did not want to fall on his arse in front of—or behind, for that matter—this lovely creature. She was like Devon cream tea, he thought stupidly. A memory surfaced of his aunt Bootsy pouring out a lovely cup of tea using her best china. The sweet stickiness of fresh apricot jam and dollops of clotted cream came to mind as he considered this yoga girl’s flesh. I’d like to split her scones and cream them.

  “Bring your awareness to the center of your body,” the instructor was saying. No bloody problem there. “Think of the vertical line that runs directly through the center of your head, neck, and torso. If this is your limit and your comfort zone, stay here.” Rick wanted to laugh, but he was too uncomfortable to do so. “If you’re more advanced, slowly move into Ardha Baddha Padmottanasana.”

  He watched in amazement as half of the class, Miss Cream Tea included, proceeded to reach for the sky with their right hands. With a deep breath and fluid movement, the girl lowered her hand behind her back until she was grasping her left elbow. “Create that bind and connection,” the instructor breathed, winding through the class to observe their progress. Rick concentrated on keeping the sole of his foot facing the sky, locking his gaze on the girl ahead. She, of course, was oblivious to him.

  From there, she glided her fingertips down her left forearm. Rick felt a shiver, watching what seemed like such an intimate gesture. With the assistance of her left hand, she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around her toes where they were still perfectly balanced on her left hip. Her right shoulder pulled back, giving him a stellar view of the swell of her breast. He swallowed hard. Calm, clear mind. God, she is beautiful.

  Her left arm went up, straight as an arrow to the sky. Just when he didn’t think her body and his imagination could take any more, she exhaled audibly, hinged from the hip, and bent forward, slowly, mindfully, until her left fingertips were touching the floor. She kept folding her body, torso lowering farther and farther, until she was staring right at him from upside down with eyes startlingly light, flecked with golden jasper and bits as dark as black hematite.

  It was the one-shoed bagel girl from the lift.

  Rick gave her his most charming smile, then toppled unceremoniously like a felled spruce.

  Sidra

  Imported Goods

  Sidra had tucked her issue with Charlie under the yoga mat for the session, but the new guy behind her had made it difficult to concentrate. And once she bent over, ass in the air, and realized who he was? Impossible.

  What the hell was Mr. Import doing here?

  He had no business even attempting the Half Bound Lotus Forward Bend, and Gretchen should have modified the pose for him. Anyone could tell he was as green as new bamboo. If this were her class . . . Ah, but that was the beauty of it. She just had to follow instruction. It was nice to be led down the path without having to be the ever-vigilant guide, with someone else pointing out the beauty and the dangers nature presented along the way. Sidra knew the pitfalls surrounding Ardha Baddha Padmottanasana were ego and greed, pushing too far too fast. Yoga students, often so eager to master the pose, blew out their knees before even getting a proper chance.

  Gretchen was a good instructor, but she was definitely from the school of competition and comparison. Yoga was a tough market in Manhattan, just like everything else. All the crazy fads, from aerial yoga to naked yoga to dog yoga, had many scrambling to find the next hot thing, and it was every yogi and yogini for themselves out there. Gretchen had built her popular adjunct yoga classes at NYU into something along the lines of a Cirque du Soleil training camp, a precise and exotic blend of cutthroat yoga. It definitely wasn’t newbie territory. Sidra gave the guy mad props for even trying.

  How the hell did he end up here?

  “Nice shoes.”

  Sidra pushed her feet into the sandals he had gifted her. “Thanks. Nice mat technique.”

  He was adorable when he blushed.

  “It gets easier.” Gretchen had purred up alongside him like a cat in heat and placed a hand on his chiseled biceps.

  Typical. Sidra had witnessed firsthand Gretchen’s propensity to treat yoga class as if it were speed dating, especially when eligible men were at stake. Whether this guy was eligible or not still wasn’t readily apparent. He wore no ring, but that meant nothing in yoga. Or in other social situations. Sidra thought of the Celtic knot ring she had given Charlie, but didn’t want to think about where it had been during the night of Evie and the coat check wall.

  “And there are easier classes, too,” Sidra felt the need to add.

  “Sidra, your Monday night class would be perfect for him! Season him up . . . then toss him back to me,” Gretchen joked.

  Season and toss him? He’s not a meatball, Gretchen. Sidra cringed at the way her colleague was drooling over him like he was.

  “Here.” She fished a card for Evolve from the pocket of her mat bag. “It’s a great way to start the week. Five p.m. And the first class is always on me.”

  Oh jeez. Like that didn’t sound like a come-on. But Mr. Import just smiled, fingering the card and flipping it over.

  “Don’t let the address fool you,” Gretchen supplied. “Sidra’s the real deal.”

  “Thanks, then. Cheers.”

  Sidra watched as Gretchen practically peed her Lululemons and melted to the floor at the sound of his voice. And then they both got to watch him from the back view as he left.

  Gretchen squeezed Sidra’s arm with both hands now in a vise grip. “Holy hotness, I’m a sucker for those curls. And that accent! Where did he come from?”

  His presence was definitely the most intriguing thing to hit—literally—the dojo floor in a long time.

  Gretchen didn’t wait for her to answer. “Let’s ask Beth!”

  Sidra trailed behind Gretchen in her quest to the front desk, where the pretty grad student was scanning IDs. “Oh yeah, he was funny,” Beth recalled. “His ID was faculty. PhD, I think.”

  Ah. Mr. Doctor Import, Sidra thought triumphantly. She’d been half right.

  “Think he’ll be back?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t think he’ll last a week in yoga,” Gretchen said with a laugh. “If he’s a creeper, he picked the wrong class. He’s going to try Sidra’s Kool-Aid next.”

  “Perhaps he was at yoga for yoga, not to pick up women. When your practice goes well, it removes gender and lets you see people for who they really are.” It was a high and mighty stance to take, but Sidra thought it was especially fitting here. Seeing as Gretchen had practically thrown herself at her supposed “creeper.” She yanked her umbrella from the mesh pocket of her yoga bag. “See you next week.”

  “Look at you, Miss Prepared! I think I’ll stay in here till it lets up.” Gretchen shivered. “The forecast didn’t even say rain today.”

  “I always have one.” Sidra gave a half smile and wave. She had gotten caught out in the rain once. Never again.

  Rick

  Karma Calling

  Led Zeppelin’s “Fool in the Rain” came to Rick’s mind as he sloshed through Washington Square Park. Breathless, smiling, curls plastered to the side of his face—who cared? He knew it was only a business card in his pocket, but it felt like a connection.

  That yoga class had been bloody awful. Perhaps it was karmic justice for making fun of the airy-fairy music and salivating over the eye candy earlier. He had felt like a piece of meat. An uncoor
dinated piece of meat, more specifically. That rubber band of a woman had been no different than a chick front row at a show, eyeing his crotch and flubbing all the lyrics. Thank goodness for the other one. Miss Cream Tea. What had the instructor called her? The real deal.

  Sidra.

  The rain had soaked his Hammers shirt from claret to black. It clung to his skin and he remembered the warmth of Sidra’s smile as she handed over her card. She taught yoga, too? He laughed out loud, realizing he just got the punch line to her joke about not needing shoes for work.

  The thought made him want to stop in his tracks and . . . sing.

  “Thor.” He sheltered his mobile from the downpour with his hand. “It’s Riff. You still at the studio?”

  “No. But I can be there in ten minutes. Why, what’s up?”

  “I’m ready to nail that verse from yesterday.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. You up for it?”

  “I’ll see you in ten.”

  Grinning, Rick ended the call and began to jog up Fifth Avenue. He was bound to find an available cab at some point, but for now he didn’t mind running in the rain.

  Sidra

  Roll Call

  Sidra popped out of bed early on Monday morning. First day of camp! she thought happily, as eager and excited as no doubt hundreds of waking children throughout Westchester County. It was a perfect summer day, too. Not too warm, yet the sun was already soaking the streets with bright light as she bounded down the steps of her brownstone with her yoga mat, bag, and a fresh new book to read on the train.

  When the conductor announced Lauder Lake, Sidra lurched her way to the front of the car to exit. The slumped form of a man sleeping in a backward-facing seat caught her eye, making her think of her father. His head was pressed against the window and his hand clutched a small brown paper bag. Sidra wondered if the guy had already slept through his stop, or if his intentions were just to ride until he slept the drink off.