Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  “Let’s get out of here,” she hollered to Reggie. “I don’t want to be showered with beer.”

  Reggie parted the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea, providing Sidra safe passage back to the bar where it was at least ten degrees cooler. Fresh vodka–Red Bulls were procured before pushing back out into the lobby to see how Seamus was doing.

  “Is that Ravi?”

  The lead singer of Anam-Atman was in the merch booth with Seamus, his dark head bent toward Seamus’s blond top in serious discussion. Sidra broke into a smile.

  Ravi was asking Seamus to play. She could tell by the look on her brother’s face.

  Anam-Atman’s manager was leaning on the table as well. He had waited tables in Sidra’s grandparents’ restaurant for years before his foray into music management. Now he dressed a bit like a gangsta rapper, or as Seamus liked to call it, an ABCD: “American-Born Confused Desi.” Manish had done pretty well for himself, but Sidra would always think fondly of him as the boy who fetched the bread.

  “What’s up?” Sidra sidled up to Manish and bumped his hip.

  “Our drummer got delayed out of town,” he answered gruffly. “I remembered Seamus played dhol.” Manish’s begrudging tone also conveyed he remembered Seamus courting his twin sister, Manisha, incessantly during the summer of 1999.

  “What about the merch?” Seamus thought to ask.

  “I got you covered, bro.” Reggie slid behind the table and clapped Seamus on the shoulder. Charlie was going to have a freak attack when he realized his merch boy was up on stage with the headliner, Sidra thought with glee.

  “Our merch guy can help, too,” Ravi said. He flashed a dazzling Bollywood smile Sidra’s way. “We need you, man.”

  Sidra saw Seamus flex his left hand, as if already feeling the curved wood of the dagga stick in it. “Lead the way.”

  Sidra waited for the three of them to head backstage before cheering and jumping up and down with excitement. “I’m going to get a good spot up front, okay?”

  “Dance your ass off, and dance for me, too!” Reggie called.

  It was set change. The house lights had come up, making it easy for Sidra to locate Mikey and Fiona and some of their friends. “No shit?” Mikey exclaimed when Sidra told them of the lineup addition. While the Plastic Paddies had receded back to the bar and Evie’s groupies trouped backstage, the bhangra contingent moved up. It was like Old Home Days for Sidra, seeing school friends and cousins on her mother’s side that had turned up for the show, along with neighbors and vaguely recognizable musicians from around the East Village. Anam-Atman was that kind of band, respected by both fans and the industry alike. To be asked to sit in with them was an honor, and Sidra trembled with anticipation, sending out good vibes for Seamus.

  The lights went down and the crowd began to chant.

  Anam-Atman was a feast for the eyes and the ears. Indian dancers in colorful saris and Bollywood dancers with bare midriffs floated across the stage as Ravi began to sing a cappella over the roar of the audience. Their fiddle player started up, making Evie look like a country bumpkin, and the women really began to dance in a Celtic-bhangra blend of flashing feet and fluid hand motion. Sidra loved the global lineup Ravi had assembled, which included an Asian chick who just smoked on electric sitar and guitar, Sarah, who was straight from County Cork and sang backup, a Jewish fiddle player, and now, as the strobe lights began to flash, Seamus.

  Her brother strutted out, beaming from ear to ear. Seamus was still wearing his street clothes: a pair of tattered, faded jeans, Birks, and a Bold O’Danahys T-shirt. And he was whacking the bass side of the dhol with the dagga, keeping the beat, while his right hand provided a funky higher-pitched rhythm so fast, making the chanti stick a blur. Sidra and Fiona screamed like it was Beatlemania and began to dance. Mikey was doing a crazy dubstep pogo around them as the music heated up.

  Sidra closed her eyes, smiling and letting the music course through her. This was her world, her sound track. The fiddle made her feet fly, and the sitar made her heart sing. Ravi was all over the stage, rapping to the crowd, doing call-and-response. His shoulder-length dreadlocks were tucked neatly behind a black bandana, and girls in the audience were already flexing their hands like pincers, ready to catch it when he whipped it off and threw it like he always did when he got heated up.

  Sidra twisted her hands, imitating the mudras the dancers on stage were gesturing with, when she felt a strong arm around her waist. Shain, the Bold O’Danahys’ bass player, began to spin her this way and that, then entwined his fingers with hers, pulling both their arms up in a bridge at shoulder height.

  “What, are we going to céilí dance in the middle of Irving Plaza?” she hollered.

  “Sure, why the hell not?” Shain yelled back, and began to do the traditional jig-step of the Irish folk dance. Mikey and Fiona joined in, laughing, and the two pairs went around and around to the crazy Celtic-Punjabi funk happening on stage. “Seamus sounds great! I’m so happy for him,” Shain confided. “Too bad they don’t need a bassist; I’d be all over that.”

  “Don’t let Charlie hear you say that,” Sidra warned as they side-stepped together.

  “Don’t think Charlie doesn’t already know,” Shain scoffed, and moved to grab Fiona as Mikey came to call for Sidra and they began another round.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sidra noticed Charlie, watching from side-stage. His arms were crossed and his eyes were fixed on Seamus. She trailed her own eyes to where her brother was now perched behind the tabla, a pair of low, lopsided drums similar to a bongo. He used his fingers and the heel of his palm self-assuredly to tap out a complex solo, but you could see the music run through his whole being in the way he moved his shoulders and his head. He was totally in the zone. Sidra flicked her eyes back to side-stage. Charlie was now staring at her.

  Fiona was reaching for Sidra now, and they crossed wrists and linked hands, laughing tipsily as they danced and hopped through the rest of the song. Mikey had disappeared and reappeared with fresh drinks, and they stayed front and center for the rest of the blistering set.

  “Gimme ten,” Seamus called down from the stage after the band played their last encore. “I just have to settle out the merch.”

  “And you’re having a celebratory beer with us, right, bhaiya?” Ravi slung an arm around the man he had just called brother. Sidra watched Seamus’s eyes, just as dark as Ravi’s, widen in response.

  “Hell yeah!”

  “I need air,” Sidra complained, fanning her face with her hands. “Meet me out front when you’re done.”

  The night air wasn’t much cooler, but it beat the stale, sweaty venue. Sidra lingered under the marquee but inched her way off to the side as the smokers puffed into the warm sky.

  “Sid, come on!” Fiona called, yanking the door of a cab open.

  “Go ahead, I’m waiting for Shay.” Sidra gave a tired flip of her wrist. Damn, it was late, and she had had one too many VRBs. She tried not to think about having to face a long day at camp come morning. Lifting her heavy, damp locks off the back of her neck and leaning back against the building, she willed her brother to hurry the hell up.

  Rick

  On the Corner, Out of Context

  Rick had finished his sushi twenty minutes ago, and had had it with the conversation ten minutes before that. Thor had insisted they meet the other studio investors at Yama, a tiny basement sushi bar near Gramercy Park. Rick played nice for a while, answering questions patiently, posing for photos when asked. Being the only musician involved in a music-related project funded by money-making money guys was a bit unsettling. Thor was ass-kissing and talking a little too much about the Rotten Graves Project’s current studio trials and tribulations, as if its bandleader weren’t sitting two feet away from him.

  Rick checked his phone, feigning interest in an imaginary text message before begging off. Handshakes and slaps on the back ensued before he was able to escape up the stairs and out into the humid evening. Finally, he thoug
ht, and thanked God he didn’t have to do bloody boring business like that for his livelihood.

  Building a studio from the ground up was exciting, and he was eager to help make a place that musicians would find sanctuary, different from the ordinary lockout room. His dollars were going toward customization, dictating what the facility needed on a first-hand basis. Thinking about owning a tiny piece of Manhattan kept his mind off the small chunk of Kauai that bore his name, now sitting empty.

  He knew Union Square was somewhere close by, with a train line that would take him back to Adrian’s apartment. Taxis were cued up around the corner, but an event must’ve just let out. People were pouring out building exit doors and into yellow cabs. Realizing he was headed in the wrong direction, he spun on the heel of his shoe to backtrack toward Yama again.

  “Oh, hey. Hi!”

  His yoga teacher was propped up against the side of the corner building, one knee bent in front of her. The gold bracelets circling her arms mingled with the midnight tangle of her hair as she held it up off her neck to keep herself cool.

  “Fancy running into you,” he murmured, feeling warmth spread from the pit of his stomach. It was not the customary prick of panic that often originated there, but a much more pleasant, comfortable feeling. “Outside of yoga,” he added.

  Sidra snorted. “I’m not a cloistered nun, you know.” She pushed off with her foot against the brick to approach him. He’d only ever seen her in workout wear, he realized. Tonight, she balanced in impossibly high sandals, and, with tight black jeans, she looked leggy and divine.

  “Were you at the show?” She stumbled and reached out to use him to steady herself. Quick reflexes forced his hands under her elbows before he even realized it was happening.

  “No, just . . . out to dinner.”

  He thought she’d pull away, but instead she surprised him by melting a little closer.

  Hmm, was Miss Cream Tea a little tipsy? The engaging warmth of her was a nice distraction from the humid Manhattan air.

  In the yoga studio, he was used to seeing her arms and shoulders bare. But tonight, something about the way her silky top dipped at her cleavage and its ribbon straps cut across her bronze skin left him speechless. “You look . . . fun.” Maybe it was all the sake at dinner, but he couldn’t find the words. “Like you’re having a lot of fun,” he quickly recovered.

  “Oh my God, the best!” she gushed, whipping her head back toward the door of the club. She turned to him again, tilting her head. “You.” She dropped her palms against his chest in emphasis. “You look important, Mr. Import.” She eyed his crisp, white dress shirt and loose trousers of black linen. “But I like you in your gym clothes the best.”

  “Thanks.” It was hard to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Likewise.”

  A side door burst open down the block, and a boisterous blond fellow sailed out yelling her name. He looked vaguely familiar. Like a fisherman in New York’s sea of faces, Rick cast out a line for a memory, but reeled in a blank.

  “I’ve got to go! You’re coming to the studio tomorrow, right?” she hollered back to Rick as the bloke draped both his arms around her neck.

  “I’ll be there,” he called, and caught one last smile from her, dazzling him from halfway down the dark block, before she grabbed her companion around the waist and they merrily stumbled away, bumping hips.

  Sidra

  Hanging Tough

  “Lemonade . . .” Clap clap clap.

  “Crunchy ice . . .” Clap clap clap.

  “Sip it once . . .” Clap clap clap.

  “Sip it twice . . .”

  Sidra rubbed her temple and sunk a little lower in her camp bus seat. She wished she had had the brains last night to drink lemonade instead of Reggie’s lethal speedball concoction. Nothing was worse than doing yoga while hungover . . . except doing yoga with a bunch of children in the hot sun while hungover. The camp day had felt endless.

  “Turn around, touch the ground . . . kick your boyfriend out of town!”

  Sidra smiled, listening to the chant dissolve into giggles. Charlie was taking his band on the road that night, down to Philly and then on to DC. They’d come back through New York for a week before heading up to Boston and beyond. This thought made the day seem brighter, despite the faint throbbing in her head from dehydration and all the clapping.

  “Miz-ess, why aren’t you singing along?”

  Sidra glanced up at the cute head full of curls that was hanging over the top of the high bus seat. “I don’t know the clapping part on this one, Abbey.”

  “I can teach you, come on!”

  The girl’s enthusiasm was irresistible. Sidra swung her feet into the aisle and joined the other counselor and several campers as they ran through the rhyme again. “Lemonade, crunchy ice. Sip it once, sip it twice . . .” Abbey sat across the aisle from Sidra, clapping her small hands down onto Sidra’s upturned palms.

  Sidra sang along. “Kick your boyfriend out of town—FREEZE!”

  She made a crazy frozen statue face, arms up, and all of the girls followed suit, laughing hysterically.

  “Again, again!” they begged her until she relented.

  “You’re a good singer, Miz-ess.”

  “Thank you, Abbey. You too!”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Abbey wanted to know.

  “Nope.” Kicked that boyfriend out of town . . .

  “My uncle sings good, too. Well, he’s not my real uncle, but I call him that. Maybe you can meet him some day. He comes from Hawaii.”

  “Maybe.” The bus was swinging down the gravel drive for its final stop at the Lauder Lake train station. “Hawaii is pretty far away.”

  “He can sing the Queen’s Bone Man Rap,” Abbey hollered over her shoulder as she hopped down the bus steps. “Mamma Mia, Figaro! All the parts!”

  Just what I need, Sidra thought. A surfing opera singer boyfriend.

  “Hey, Sidra!” Karen called as her son, Jasper, piled a week’s collection of arts and crafts creations—sand-art bottle, tie-dye T-shirt, mysterious spray-painted tinfoil structure—on her like she was his own personal Sherpa. “Mitch is home with Mina today. Want to grab a coffee?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got a private session with a client,” Sidra called back as she searched her bag for her Metro-North monthly pass. “Maybe next week sometime?”

  Private client, she thought, settling into the next padded seat in her daily commute. One-on-one session with the prof. The throb in her head was gone, replaced by a pancake flip in her belly. She hoped she hadn’t come off like an idiot in front of him last night, all hyper from Red Bull and fuzzy from the vodka. Not a good impression for a supposed yogini to make. Good thing Seamus had rescued her from that street corner, or she might still be standing there with her hands on his chest. Ugh . . . Sidra rolled her eyes at her reflection in the train window. She got a little touchy-feely when she drank, that was all. So what? Mr. Import still had a lot more redeeming to do than she did.

  * * *

  “What in green hell are you doing, Seamus?”

  “What does it look like?” Seamus punched into his oversize army duffel bag and came up with a fistful of sock rolls. “I’m unpacking.”

  Sidra glanced in dismay at the disarray that had leaked from his bedroom into the living room. T-shirts that had been packed neatly for the first quick leg of the tour were now taking up residence on the couch. CDs were stacked precariously on the desk, and at least five different pairs of shoes were scattered like breadcrumbs on a trail. She had almost tripped twice on her way through the apartment to find her brother.

  “You’re exploding.” She swiped the pile of jeans from his hands before he was able to deposit them on the floor. “Slow down. No, actually . . . stop. Stop!”

  Seamus gripped the zipper of his now-deflated duffel and slipped down to sit on the floor. “I can’t go, Sid.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s your time to tour, butthead. Hanging with Anam-Atman every nig
ht,” she reminded him. More than just hanging. Seamus would be playing every night with them; it turned out their drummer had been more than just delayed out of town. More like arrested and in jail down South for a bag of Viagra and an underage girl in his car.

  “I can’t leave. Liz is pregnant.”

  “What?”

  “Not by me,” Seamus added hastily.

  A car alarm whooped outside. Sidra merely stared, waiting for him to go on.

  “Kevin’s the father, I assume. You know, the guy who lives out west, but he’s kind of out of the picture now. She doesn’t talk about it. Not with me, not with anyone, really. But some of her high school friends came in and confronted her, and she’s . . . she’s going to keep it. I guess it’s his, but . . . I gotta be there for her, Sid. I can’t leave her in the lurch.”

  “Shay, she’s a grown woman with her own business, her own life. Her choices. It’s not your duty—”

  “I can’t just abandon her, Sid!”

  Sidra heard his tears as a tremor in his voice; she felt his anger as a memory blew a hole through her heart. She fell to her knees and saw her brother as a boy before her, forlornly clutching his army duffel bag.

  While other kids his age were making out their lists for Santa, Seamus was busy circling various sleepaway camps advertised in the back of the New York Times Magazine. Year after year he approached their parents with the fervent wish of being allowed to attend, and year after year he was met with opposition. He was too young. The camps were too expensive. Their locales were just so far away. Finally after much bargaining and begging, Seamus got his wish. Sidra remembered the drive to the Catskills, where Seamus’s ultra-nerdy science camp was located. Their parents sang along with almost every song on the car radio. “Just think,” their mother had said, leaning over the seat. “This is one of our last road trips as a foursome.” The seat belt had stretched comically over her large belly.

  “I think we’re going to need a bigger car,” their father had deadpanned. And they all had laughed, since it was Uncle Sully’s Volkswagen Jetta they had borrowed for the ride.