Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  Adrian was the strongest man he knew.

  The nurse hadn’t lied; the doctor was indeed with him in a minute, filling the room with his large presence and the scent of antibacterial soap as he quickly pumped Rick’s hand. “Richard Rottenberg! Another member of the tribe?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Rick studied the man’s name tag—Phillip Rosenberg, MD—as well as the heavy gold Star of David pendant that hung from his neck. New York Jews were fiercely proud of their tribe, it seemed. More Jewish here than in many other parts of the world.

  “I’ve got one for you,” Dr. Rosenberg said, reaching for the blood pressure cuff. “Jewish guy and a Chinese guy walk into a bar. After a few drinks, the Jew hauls off and punches the Chinese guy. ‘That was for Pearl Harbor,’ the Jewish guy announces. ‘But the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,’ says the Chinese guy. ‘I’m Chinese!’ ‘Oh, Chinese, Japanese . . .’ says the Jew. ‘You Asians all look the same.’”

  The doctor paused to listen to Rick’s pulse as it pounded beneath the strangling cuff before continuing. “So they keep drinking. When all of a sudden, the Chinese guy wallops the Jew and knocks him off his stool. ‘What was that for?’ the Jew demands. ‘That was for the Titanic,’ says the Chinese man. ‘Iceberg, Goldberg . . . You Jews are all the same.’”

  Rick burst out laughing. What a difference an hour made.

  “Blood pressure is perfect, now let’s give a listen.” Dr. Rosenberg dropped the Mel Brooks act and set his stethoscope with a no-nonsense thump onto Rick’s chest. “Don’t hold your breath, it’s okay to breathe normally.” He moved behind Rick. “So . . . you married, Richard? Now a deep breath, please.”

  Rick drew in as much air as he could muster. “Widowed,” he expelled with a hefty sigh. The doctor slid the stethoscope to more areas of Rick’s back, as if contemplating moves on a chessboard. Rick continued to inhale deeply, exhale fully, and answer his questions. Where’s home? Hawaii. Kids? Three boys. Ages? Twenty-five and the twins are twenty-one. Rick wished they would stop with the small talk. How on earth was this man supposed to detect possible abnormalities or arrhythmia if he wouldn’t shut up?

  “And you’re here in New York for work?” Dr. Rosenberg tilted Rick’s head gently and set his stethoscope on the side of his patient’s neck. Rick didn’t want to speak, and he couldn’t even nod. Luckily, the doctor answered his own question. “I’ve been Adrian’s doctor going on ten years now. I see other musicians, too. Carpal tunnel, pinched nerves, bulging discs, tendonitis. Not to mention the hearing loss. It’s a hard life, rock and roll.” He draped the stethoscope around his neck, apparently finished with it. “You guys make it look easy. It’s not. I give you all a lot of credit.”

  “Thanks,” Rick said, feeling humbled and undeserving. Here was a man who studied to save lives, acknowledging the lowly profession of rock musician.

  “Your heart sounds fine. Strong. Healthy. I’m going to do an EKG just to make sure, but I suspect it will be normal.”

  Relief flooded Rick. The same nurse brought in a cart, and together, she and Dr. Rosenberg began sticking patches on Rick’s arms, legs, and chest.

  “Sorry, not exactly dressed for this,” he mumbled. Although he had removed his leather motorcycle boots, his jeans were second-skin. The nurse shimmied them up his calves just the same.

  “Shirt off, if you would.”

  Rick peeled the black T-shirt off. He saw the nurse’s eyes flicker over his body art before she strategically placed the sticky discs.

  “Now lie back and relax, but stay as still as possible,” the doctor said as his nurse began to wire Rick to the machine, clipping the leads to each patch.

  “Will this hurt?”

  “Asks the guy with the body piercings and tattoos?” the doctor said with a laugh. “Worst part will be pulling those electrodes off at the end.” He winked.

  The EKG machine hummed, and Rick attempted to relax.

  “Perfect, perfect.” The doctor consulted the computer screen, clucking happily. “All done.” Just as systematically, the nurse unhooked each wire and pulled off the patches.

  “That’s it?” It seemed too easy. “Don’t I need a stress test, too?” Rick pulled his damp T back over his head.

  “Certainly not today; can’t have you running on a treadmill in boots. I can write you a script for one, but honestly, I don’t think it’s necessary at this point.” The doctor patted Rick’s knees. “Your heart appears healthy. You gave us no history of heart disease in your family. Stress and anxiety can wreak havoc on your mind and your body, I’m not downplaying that. I can give you something to take the edge off—”

  “No. No drugs, thank you.” He pulled on his motorcycle boots resolutely.

  “Are you exercising, off-stage?”

  “Yoga.” Rick said the word with such conviction that he actually startled himself. He expected the doctor to raise a brow or roll an eye. Instead, he gave a curt nod.

  “That’s a great start. Take some time for yourself. Here’s one: A yogi walks into a bar, orders a drink, and slaps a twenty down. The bartender brings him a drink and pockets the twenty. ‘Hey,’ says the yogi. ‘Don’t I get any change?’ And the bartender replies . . .” Dr. Rosenberg paused for effect, eyes twinkling. “‘Change must come from within . . .’”

  Sidra

  Done Deal

  Contrary to his threat, Mr. Import did not come back for Sidra’s Tuesday classes. He wasn’t the first to come in with all guns blazing, only to fire blanks by the second round. Sidra worked her regulars through sun salutations, trying to pinpoint the nagging sensation at the base of her brain. Was it disappointment? Relief? She knew yoga wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Still. She enjoyed the challenge and the opportunity to work with students new to the practice. But it was, in the end, a practice that depended entirely on the individual. And if he wasn’t willing or ready, that was no reflection on her.

  She barely remembered the asanas that brought the last class to their final relaxation. “Thank you for allowing me to lead you in your practice,” she said, a bit guiltily. “Namaste.”

  As her students echoed back reciprocal valedictions and began to file out, she heard one “Namaste” that stood out from the others. Mr. Import leaned in the doorway, watching her. Fully clothed and with shoes on his feet. With not a trace of respect or humility, his utterance of the word completely voided its meaning.

  “A little late for class, don’t you think?”

  “Or just insanely early for your next one.” His smile was disarming.

  Or just insane, period, Sidra thought. She bent and began winding the yoga straps used in class into tight coils.

  “I had all good intentions. Long day at work. Bloody unending.”

  “Yeah, well. Tomorrow’s another day.” She brushed past him into the now empty lounge. “Did you get a punch card yet?” She called over her shoulder.

  “Come again?”

  “Ten class punch card. They’re sold up front in the record store.” When she was met with silence, she grabbed a card to demonstrate. “See? Card. Ten classes, a hundred bucks.” She inserted it roughly. “You won’t find a better deal in Manhattan,” she assured him, allowing the clunk of the machine to punctuate her sentence.

  “What, you running a bloody factory?” He cast such a look of distain that Sidra wanted to smack him with the card, but refrained. “I can’t be bothered with that.”

  “I am the farthest from a factory that you will find in the city, and believe me, there are plenty of them. If you are looking for the girls in the hundred-dollar yoga pants, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you can’t be bothered with my system, or even getting here on time, then I suggest you practice somewhere else.”

  “Is yoga always this hostile?” he snarled.

  “No, but you have a knack for insulting it!”

  She expected a snappy retort or a lame excuse. But instead, all she heard was the flat smack as his credit card hit the low table between th
e two couches.

  “Name a price. Charge me however you want, and let me come to any class I want. All of them. And some private sessions.”

  Fury broiled in her core. Hours of good yoga therapy were undone within just a few short moments in the presence of this prick and his Platinum card. It was like Jack starting a tab at the bar and acting like he owned the place. “I run fifteen classes a week. That’s sixty in a month. No offense, but you aren’t in any shape to handle sixty classes a month.”

  “I’m in no shape, full-stop. I need to force myself . . .” He paused. “To slow down and relax. Before I have a bleedin’ heart attack. If I know I have a place . . .” His voice drifted as he gazed around. “A place like this, with someone who won’t blow smoke up my arse and will just teach me how, I will pay and do whatever it takes.”

  Sidra stared hard at him. She already had her father to deal with. And Seamus. And soon, the freakin’ iguana. Did she really need one more body to take care of? “I’m not a therapist,” she mumbled.

  “And I’m not a head case. I’m just really, really stressed. And even after taking just one of your classes, I can tell . . . this grounds me. It helps. So what do you say?”

  Take his money. That’s what Mikey would say.

  “Six hundred a month. Unlimited group classes.”

  “And one-on-one?”

  “Double it. And I’ll give you three private hours a week.”

  “Starting now?”

  “Starting Thursday. But I can’t do days.”

  “And Sunday nights? Reentry is tough.”

  “Come for class at seven and we’ll work together for an hour after that. And Tuesday nights at around this time.”

  He didn’t smile, nor did he thank her. But he nodded in such a way that told her he was serious about this, and grateful.

  “Let’s go see Mikey up front.” She nodded toward his credit card. “He’ll set you up.” And if he’s in a good mood, he’ll probably bust your balls, she almost added, but didn’t.

  “Brilliant.”

  Sidra didn’t feel brilliant. She felt desperate. Her cousin’s decree had been to drum up business in order to save both of their enterprises. She didn’t realize it would mean selling her soul and giving up what was left of her pathetic social life.

  * * *

  “T-shirts! Getcher ice-cold T-shirts here!” Seamus would’ve made a great hawker selling peanuts and beer at Yankee Stadium. He was on fire behind the merch booth in the lobby of Irving Plaza, flattering and flirting with the ladies and making deals with the men. Sidra sat on the edge of the table, making change and people-watching. She had breezed through the venue earlier to say hi to a few friends before the Bold O’Danahys went on, and the room had already begun to reach sweatbox conditions. She could only imagine what it would be like once Anam-Atman took the stage.

  “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Seamus called to her, flipping a medium ladies’ tank top up and presenting it with a flourish to a girl who was clearly in denial that her boobs needed a double XL.

  “I don’t mind.” Sidra could hear the muted set from where she was. The band was currently plowing through half of the Irish traditional ballad back catalog, singing a rousing version of “Johnny Jump Up.” She didn’t need to see Charlie and Evie making music together. It wasn’t that their songs were romantic; the closest the Bold O’Danahys came to a love song was “I Only Tell You I Love You When I’m Drunk,” and the only odes were dedicated to the many kinds of whiskey Charlie loved to sing about. No, it had more to do with Evie having a piece of Charlie that Sidra never truly had: the piece that lived on the stage. And now Evie had it all.

  Oh never, oh never oh never again. If I live to be a hundred or a hundred and ten . . .

  Sidra raked a hand through her thick mane of hair, shaking it out along with all thoughts of the two lovers on stage.

  “Girl, you are looking F-I-N-E fine! Whatchu hidin’ out here for?”

  “Hey, Reggie!” Sidra hopped off the table, tottering on her wedge sandals. She and Charlie shared custody of the six-feet-three teddy bear of a best friend who was, as Seamus liked to say, “the whitest black guy you’ll ever meet.” Reggie’s embrace practically swallowed her, but her hug in return nearly knocked him over.

  “You should be on the dance floor in those dead-sexy shoes, not hanging with your brother. He’s cramping your style.”

  “Please. I’m the one scaring all the girls away from him.”

  Seamus laughed. “Take her, man. I keep telling her.”

  Reggie didn’t need to be told twice, nor did he listen to Sidra’s weak protests. He was a Wall Street trader by day and a boogying funk machine by night. He never needed an excuse to move. “Let’s go get jiggy wit’ it!”

  Sidra squealed as Reggie practically carried her out into the hot, dark room. “At least get me a drink first!” She let him muscle through the bar crowd three people deep while she hung back, watching Charlie work the crowd. She had to admit, he still had it. Charlie was like a different person when he took the stage. He became everyone’s best friend, everyone’s protector, everyone’s lover. Perhaps that had been part of the problem.

  Something icy nudged at her breastbone. “Thanks, Reg.” She accepted the clear plastic cup and gulped until she felt the sweet-tart burn. Red Bull and vodka. It was the drink that said Reggie meant business; he planned to dance all night.

  They wormed their way toward the front, where the crowd had broken into small clusters. This was normal for a Bold O’Danahys show. There was the usual female pack that swayed with their drinks, staring up at Charlie and hanging on to his every word. Shain, the bass player, had his loyal posse who pogoed and managed to spill beer on everyone, and Justin’s huge family was usually off to one side, craning their necks to proudly beam at their drumming wonder. A generic smattering of those Sidra called “Plastic Paddies” formed tiny groups, dancing up a storm with their Guinnesses in hand and singing every word at the top of their lungs. Similar to those who became instantly Irish every St. Patrick’s Day, they used a Bold O’Danahys show for a Wearing o’ the Green and a Getting o’ the Drunk.

  And then there were Evie’s followers. They formed an eclectic mix: art students, models, tiny Asian girls in head-to-toe black garb. Frat boys and pierced punk chicks. Guys in suits and lumberjack lesbians. God only knows where she had collected them along the way. She was like the Pied Piper with that fiddle and bow, Sidra thought darkly. Tonight she wore a big fake rose in her hair, its ruby red clashing with her fading russet-dyed updo. A strip of leopard-print fabric was her dress choice for the evening, barely covering her cooch. Classy.

  The Plastic Paddies glanced suspiciously at Sidra and Reggie as they claimed a prime spot for dancing. “We’re making the white folks nervous,” she yelled in his general direction.

  “Who? Us darkies? No!” Reggie had been soft-shoeing to the sound of Charlie’s music way before any of these fans had discovered him. Back before Reggie wore a size fourteen shoe, and back when the only instrument Charlie could play was harmonica. The two boys had been friends for twenty-five years. Similarly, Sidra had danced her way through her first Feis in Irish ghillies way before any of these posers had even heard of Michael Flatley. While the unlikely pair may not have looked the part, people stepped aside when Sidra and Reggie started to step dance.

  Charlie reached down to fist-bump Reggie with a grin before resuming his mad strumming on “The Hero of Happy Hour,” a song Sidra was pretty sure Charlie had penned after spending a booze-soaked weekend with her father last summer while she was away on a yoga retreat. Jack’s benders made for good song fodder. Sidra drained her drink and did a good job of ignoring Evie as she aimed her bow at Reggie and winked theatrically. There was no love lost between the pair, but performance was everything. Reg made a ‘talk to the hand” gesture in the fiddle player’s general direction and grabbed Sidra around the waist. She swung her dark curtain of hair and laughed as they began
to move. Fiona deserved a medal, Sidra realized. The expensive black jeans Fi had convinced her to buy, with their signature silver-stitched wings perched above her ass, were dynamite. Sidra kept her back to the stage as she danced, giving both her ex and his fiddler a stellar view. She loved the silky feel of her handkerchief top gracing her skin as she lifted her arms and all her gold bangles shifted. She and Reggie had the floor on fire when some bimbo from Evie’s corner started yelling, “‘Ring the Bells,’ Charlie! ‘Ring the Bells’!”

  She was either drunk or she was a troublemaker. Most fans of the band knew Charlie had written “Ring the Bells” for a girlfriend. And not the new one sharing the stage with him. No, he had written it for the one dancing in the crowd. And it had been dropped from the set list right around the time that Charlie dropped Sidra.

  “You broke up with him, remember?” Reggie’s warm breath was on her earlobe, as if reading her thoughts. The yelling crowd had reached deafening proportions, but it was as if his whisper was the only sound in the room. “He’s an idiot, Sid. I love him, but he never deserved you.”

  Up on stage, Charlie’s chin jutted and his eyes betrayed nothing. Evie was playing the modest mouse, with a Shucks, that little ol’ song? look upon her face. Sidra wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Evie had put the girl up to it, instructing her to yell out for the song if Sidra came within thirty feet of Charlie.

  “Play it, Charlie! I really don’t give a shit,” Sidra called between cupped hands.

  “This one’s called ‘Third Stool to the Left,’” Charlie mumbled instead, and Justin counted off the beats. It was a newer song, Dropkick Murphys–style, played at breakneck speed. Sidra felt diminutive as people began to pogo and slamdance around her.