Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  Who had picked Seamus up?

  Someone had brought him home in time for the funeral.

  “I’m not going,” he whispered.

  “Yes, you are.” Sidra took his hands. “She’ll be fine.” She didn’t want to utter the words, but he needed to hear them. “Women have babies all the time just fine.” Her own voice sounded foreign to her, preaching some gospel she knew she didn’t believe in.

  “You’re right. I’m being dumb.”

  “That’s the last thing I would ever call you, you nutball.” Sidra kissed his crazy blond locks to punctuate each sisterly sentence. “Now, go decimate Philadelphia.” And Charlie’s ego. “Then conquer the District of Columbia.” And your fears. “You’ll be back up here before you know it.”

  “But then the real tour starts. Cross-country. And I won’t be back till August. A lot can happen in two months.”

  “But nothing can happen if you sit here, watching the dust bunnies under your bed grow.”

  Rick

  Mermaids of St. Marks

  Although Rick himself had asked for it, the thought of a private yoga session sent him into heart palpitations come Thursday. His mouth got dry and his palms sweaty as he considered the lengthy questionnaire Sidra had wanted him to fill out before commencing, needing an in-depth medical history, symptoms, etc. He could barely talk about them, let alone commit them to paper.

  This isn’t going to help, he thought. I was delusional to even think it would in the first place. Then he remembered the way she had smiled at him last night on the street. She struck him as genuine, even when they were butting heads the other day. And last night, that smile channeled happiness. Tipsy or no, she had been happy to run into him.

  He wanted to show Sidra he was serious about their deal. At lunch, he sent Thor’s assistant out to buy him a yoga mat. “What color, Riff?” Mason had asked nervously.

  “The most manly, metal color you can find,” was Rick’s response.

  Mason returned with a mat slightly thicker than the ones at the studio, in a slate gray. “The salesperson assured me it was the top pick for men,” Mason relayed. “It’s longer than average mats, and thicker.”

  “It’s not a penis, or a representation of my penis, Mason!” Rick exclaimed. “It’s a ruddy rubber exercise mat. It’ll do.” Luckily, the rest of the band was in the live room at the time.

  He wasn’t able to escape their eyes before leaving for the day, however. Adrian had given him the squinty once-over. “Something different about you, mate.”

  “Bah, go ahead. Pull the other one.”

  “Just don’t start wearing Jesus sandals next. I won’t be able to bear it.”

  * * *

  Rick delayed and dawdled, rambling down Second Avenue, then across St. Marks. His first visit to the East Village had been in the 1970s, and each decade brought more change and less familiarity. His feet slowed as he admired a pair of stone statues flanking the doorway of one building. They’d certainly stood the test of time. Noting architecture was an old habit, born from having renowned art historians for parents. Ornate caryatids, mermaid-like and legless, looked down upon him. Each figure held the same feminine and timeless pose: One hand hovered near its small stone breast, while the other arm was flung overhead. The hint of humor in their smiles reminded him of Sidra’s. With thoughts of her, he let his feet beat out a path toward Houston.

  But as he rounded the corner onto Rivington, he began to have doubts once more. Visions of the blond bloke wrapping both arms around Sidra’s shoulders from behind and the sound of their drunken happy laughter stopped Rick in his tracks. Why do you care? What are you trying to prove? He cursed himself. Are you trying to achieve inner peace, or just trying to get in her pants? Have you learned nothing?

  The now familiar, but certainly not welcome, tingling began to radiate into his brain stem. Shit, shit, shit. It clouded his thoughts and fed his fears, moving up to the tips of his ears and down to the base of his spine, paralyzing him with indecision. Stay or go? Fight or flight? He needed to salvage a good memory, a comfortable thought.

  The vinyl.

  He moved past the sign blinking O-P-E-N, open-open-open, breathed deep, and reached for the doorknob just as it was being yanked from the inside.

  “Yo, Fi! I’m cutting out early, gotta head down to Philly.” The culprit responsible for practically ripping Rick’s rotator cuff didn’t acknowledge him, nor did he apologize.

  “Mikey say you could?” The girl who Rick had talked to earlier in the week cracked her gum and smiled big.

  “Mikey said I stopped getting paid yesterday, so yuh-huh. I guess so.”

  Rick nodded toward the guy’s hard-shell case. “What’s your weapon of choice?”

  “What?” He grimaced, as if Rick’s words were a fly to the face.

  “Your axe.”

  “I haven’t heard that term since mideighties MTV!” the guy crowed. His laugh was as cringeworthy to Rick as screeching feedback from a stack of Marshall amps. “It’s a Takamine.”

  “Electric-acoustic?”

  “Yep.” The guy jutted his hips forward in a cocky stance.

  Rick gripped his strap, but then remembered there was a flimsy rubber mat on the other end rather than the solid body guitar he was used to slinging. “Nice, mate.”

  “One of Sidra’s followers, I guess?” The guy gestured at the mat. “I could never quite get behind her that way.” He gave another cackle, obviously impressed with his attempt at a witty double entendre. “But the view is great, regardless. Have fun, man.” And with that, he breezed out the door.

  “Ladies and gents,” the salesgirl boomed into the store intercom, satire mixed with static, “the ego has left the building.”

  Rick laughed.

  “Don’t mind Charlie,” she said, off-mic. “He’s got a bad case of LSD. You know, Lead Singer Disease. It runs rampant in the East Village.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not catching,” Rick said slowly. Could he possibly be a carrier?

  “If you experience swelling of your ego, difficulty working well with others, or similar megalomaniacal symptoms, you’d better run for the hills.”

  Or grab a yoga mat, thought Rick. He gave the girl called Fi a two-fingered salute before ducking down the corridor toward the studio.

  The door to the cavernous space was open. Drums were beating a rhythm way too lively to be yoga music. He peeked in, and there was Sidra. She was holding what looked like a pretty complicated pose, on the floor with one leg tucked close to her body and the other bent up so that her foot fit into the crease of her elbow. Her gaze was upward as she gracefully held herself still. One arm was arcing over her head, hand clasping the opposite one behind her head. Like a majestic caryatid come to life. Rick must’ve been holding his breath, because the sigh that finally escaped was potent enough to announce his presence.

  Sidra

  Slow Start

  “You’re on time.” Sidra looked up expectantly. “Did you bring your intake form?”

  “One out of two isn’t bad.” His brow half crinkled, but his voice didn’t sound apologetic.

  Unbelievable, Sidra thought. So much for redemption. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. Get it to me tomorrow. Okay?”

  “All right. Can I, erm, ask you a favor?”

  Already with the favors? “What?”

  “Can I store my mat here? I’m afraid it’s a bit . . . distracting to my coworkers.”

  “What are they, Neanderthals?”

  “In some ways, yes.”

  “All men?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Mat envy. I’m serious,” she insisted when he just sputtered a laugh. “Roll that bad boy out.”

  He wrestled with the straps of his obviously new, deliberately expensive-looking mat until he had it under submission.

  Sidra gave it an exaggerated once-over and an approving smile. “Up there”—she pointed toward the front of the building—“it’s all guy
s. And none of them have the balls to admit they could benefit from a little time on the mat. You’re here. And you are attempting it. You’re open to it. That’s good.”

  Her words coaxed a broad smile out of him. “But wait. I’ve noticed a girl behind the register.”

  “Oh, Fiona. She’s like one of the guys. Don’t get any ideas about her. She’s taken. Very taken.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said hastily. “Lovely, but . . . not my type.”

  The words hung in the air of the studio, buzzing with a voltage that vied with the serene vibe of Sidra’s workspace. She wondered what his type was. Being a professor, he probably preferred young blonde coeds, or quickies in the faculty lounge. Or he was having a torrid affair with the whiskey bottle, like her father.

  “And yours?”

  “My . . .” Sidra shook her head. Her thoughts were both racy and fuzzy, and this time she didn’t have vodka–Red Bulls to blame. “My what?”

  “Your type.”

  “That has no bearing on your practice.”

  “Just trying to get to know my teacher.” His smile was little-boy mischievous, while his eyes conveyed weariness well beyond his years. “Unless you’ve filled out an intake form yourself?”

  He was either attempting to flirt with her or mock her. Either way, he was doing a piss-poor job of it. On her clock, and on his dime. Sidra crossed her arms and waited.

  “Let me take a guess. Blond? Strapping? Prone to public displays of affection on street corners?”

  Sidra snorted. “With a killer tan? You’ve just described my brother. Seamus.” No one ever assumed they were kin at first glance. “I would’ve introduced you two last night. But I was drunk. And obviously forgot my manners.” She waited for the customary reaction of surprise and confusion, but neither came.

  “Your manners were impeccable, if I recall.” Recognition lit his eyes. “As were your brother’s, actually.” He squinted and nodded as a memory dawned. “He thanked me after almost flattening me with his bicycle in Williamsburg last week.”

  Sidra laughed. “Yeah, that’s my brother, all right. Seamus is hell on wheels in all five boroughs. Watch out.”

  He swallowed hard. Was that a sign of . . . nervousness? Relief? The talisman on the leather choker he wore shifted. Had he been wearing that the night before? If so, her fingertips had just been inches from it when she had teetered drunkenly against him.

  Her heart sped up to match the double-heeled drumbeat of the song at the thought of his hands catching her.

  “All right, shall we start?” She moved to change the music in the player to something mellower.

  “Wait, don’t. What is that?”

  “They’re called Delhi 2 Dublin.” Sidra was delighted he’d noticed. She was very proud of her unique Indrish heritage, and happy there was a genre of music out in the world that reflected it perfectly.

  He approached the stereo, squatting down near the speaker. “I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like . . . like a . . .”

  “Like a jig and a bhangra rolled into one?” Sidra laughed. “Oh, if only you walked by Irving Plaza an hour earlier last night. You could have heard my favorite band, Anam-Atman. When they play, it’s like a dance party.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound like yoga music.” He took the liberty to adjust a few of the tiny knobs Sidra never knew what to do with. Instantly, the song sounded more vibrant to her, more alive. And the wistful smile on his face made it feel like she was hearing the music’s magic for the first time. “Your midrange was a little off. That’s the heart of the music.”

  Something tugged inside her. It made her want to move closer, where his fingers were still hovering near the knobs. “Any music can be used for yoga, I think. As long as you like it and it moves you.”

  “Even heavy metal?” he joked.

  “Sure, I guess! It doesn’t all have to be birds and waterfalls.” She smiled. “I just figure, for the masses, mellower is better.” A laugh escaped. “Can you see Gerta headbanging?”

  “Which one is Gerta?”

  “She was right up front, with the gray bob. Tiny. Guess how old she is?”

  “I don’t know . . . eighty?”

  “Ninety-three,” Sidra revealed, watching the wonderment cross his face. “Yoga. Pretty amazing stuff.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “On that note . . .” Sidra kneeled at the end of his extra-long mat and pointed to the other end. He joined her, sitting on his knees, facing her. “I think you need a mantra.”

  “Bloody hell. Really?”

  “Really. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. People think they need to memorize Sanskrit or pick something spiritual. But all words are energy-based. It can be one simple, meaningful word to help you focus.”

  He was silent a moment, lost in thought. “One word . . . wow. Sometimes it’s harder to extract one word than to blurt a whole sentence of them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I feel like a right twonk.” He closed his eyes, and Sidra saw for the first time what perfect dark eyelashes he had. It wasn’t something she usually noticed on a guy.

  “Come on, I’ll do it with you.” Heat infused her cheeks at her suggestive choice of words, causing her to hastily add, “Chanting helps remind us we are all together in this process.”

  “Okay. I’m going to go with . . . dove.”

  Her heart reacted like it did when Seamus used to practice his marching bass drum in the house. “Dove?” How? “Did you say dove?” How could he know?

  “Yeah. Silly?”

  “No.” Her word barely made it out past a whisper. She swallowed. “Okay. Let’s use dove.”

  She chanted it softly, stretching the word out. Hesitantly, he echoed her, before falling in unison as she repeated it. She smiled as his voice soon became the stronger of the two. “Feel the vibration?” Eyes still closed, he nodded. “The repetition can be stimulating, yet it can also be calming. And distracting.”

  Sidra watched the way his top teeth made gentle contact with his lower lip as he pressed out the final consonant of the word. Distracting, indeed.

  “A mantra forces your mind to think about it, and only it. Leaving less mental energy to think about the things that stress you out.”

  “It’s calming,” he agreed. But his hands, curled to tight fists in his lap, weren’t very convincing. She had a feeling he had a lot more going on than what her simple intake form was going to reveal. He needed his head on the mat. Big-time.

  “You know Child’s pose, right? A great pose for stretching the quadratus lumborum muscles in your back. Prayer stretch is similar. Since you’re already on your knees . . .” She demonstrated the pose, talking her way through it. “Rest your butt on your heels, spread your knees wide, if you can, with big toes touching. Forehead to the mat. Arms out in front of you, as far as they can go.” She slowly rose to watch him assume the position. “How’s the breathing down there?”

  “Different.”

  She gently pressed his shoulders. “Armpits down; drive them toward the mat. I know it feels weird, but it will become more natural as time goes by. Spread those fingers. Wider.” He had beautiful hands, she noticed. With long, elegant fingers. Skilled was the word that came to mind. Sidra felt a blush creep up under her hair and was thankful her student was facedown, ass-up on the mat.

  He’s your student. Do not contemplate his ass. Even if he noticed yours.

  As if on cue, a jarring ringtone emanated from his back pocket.

  “Are you kidding me?” she sputtered as he disrupted his perfect prayer stretch to reach for it. “Gimme that.” With her hand firmly on his back to keep him in place, she plucked the phone from his pocket. “You’re on my time right now.”

  “What is this, tough love yoga? At least have the courtesy to tell me who it is.”

  She noticed he dropped his h sounds when he was worked up. “I’ll tell you “oo it ’tis,’” she imitated, glancing at the caller ID. “It’s some
one named Thor.”

  Every one of his vertebrae stiffened under her touch. “Then it’s very important. Give me my mobile, please.”

  “I don’t care if Zeus or every other Greek god is on the line; no phones in my studio.”

  “Fine,” he barked resignedly, and she felt his back lower in defeat. “Norse.”

  “What?”

  “Thor is a Norse god, not Greek. He’s the god of thunder.”

  “Well, whatever.” She silenced the ringer and set the phone aside. “You’d think he’s got more important things to worry about, then, than not being able to get a hold of you.”

  “You’d think so,” came a mutter from the mat. It almost made Sidra laugh.

  “Okay, let’s shake it out. Downward Facing Dog.”

  She talked him through Dog and into Plank, down through Chaturanga and up to Cobra, then back to Child’s pose, reminding him to breathe all the while. It was enjoyable, actually. To work one-on-one with someone and to watch their demeanor change. Mr. Import had been wound tighter than an old bicycle chain from her uncle’s shop when they had begun, and she had him stretched on the floor and moving fluidly by hour’s end.

  “That pose you were doing earlier, when I came in,” he commented as he slowly rolled his mat. “That was . . .”

  “Mermaid.”

  He smiled and gave a slight nod, as if she had confirmed something. If he tries to compare me to Aphrodite or some other goddess of the sea, she silently vowed, I’ll slug him.

  “Stunning.”

  Sidra traded him his phone for his mat. “See you Sunday.”

  Rick

  Fire Up the Core

  Warrior Stance, Fierce pose, hissing breath, Fists of Fire—it turned out yoga and heavy metal shared a lot of similar imagery. Powerful, primal. Rick moved mindfully, fluidly through the group session. He enjoyed the preciseness, the balance, and the control. Especially when he felt he lacked those qualities off the mat. Sleep had been troubled and elusive lately. Progress in the recording studio was stalling. The last time he asked Isabelle if the label had scheduled a street date for the album, she’d quipped, “Yeah, right after you shit but before you get off the pot.” Her way of trying to light a fire under him, but it wasn’t helping. Yoga was quickly becoming the only place he felt like he had license to truly be himself.