A sense of peace, well-being, and power overwhelmed him as he revolved into Extended Side Angle. Maybe it was being surrounded by so many people from the different paths of his world. Maybe it was Black Sabbath’s “N.I.B.” being played in a smoked-out, South Asian downtempo and breakbeat rhythm. Maybe it was Sidra. He loved her for choosing music that his people could relate to, yet for introducing it to them in a style that meshed perfectly with what she was teaching them.
He loved her.
“Let’s nestle down to a small seed and grow our tree from there.”
Freud would have a field day with him; Rick had read enough psychotherapy books to know the term transference. Sidra and her yoga teachings had helped him immensely. But this was way beyond her throwing him the life preserver, and he knew he would defend his feelings until the ship went down and he sucked his very last breath of air.
This was transcendence.
He blossomed from a compact seed, a slow, steady balance up to a strong, high tree, and for the first time ever, he was able to lift his eyes to the sky and find stillness in the infinite possibility.
Sidra
Oneness
“How many girls have you been with?”
Rick’s warm fingers paused a moment, then gently continued massaging out the knot in her lower back. “Enough.”
“Come on. Ballpark?”
“No, not enough to fill a ballpark,” he murmured, stifling a laugh against her bare shoulder.
Sidra turned, meeting his eyes just inches from hers. “I’m serious.”
They were sitting lotus-style on pillows in front of that fabulous Central Park view once again, their Mediterranean feast spread across the coffee table now abandoned as they watched the sky reverse its colors from the morning. From unseen speakers, Jeff Buckley filled the spacious room with his cherubic voice and crystal clear guitar.
Sidra had sworn to herself she wouldn’t pry, but Sam’s comment after their yoga session had been echoing off the canyon that housed her better judgment ever since.
It used to take far less clothing, copious amounts of T&A, and a grow house of quality cannabis strain to get Riff Rotten this euphoric.
“You first.”
Fair enough. “I’ve slept with five men before you. And I ended up breaking things off with each of them.”
“Why?”
She took a deep breath and a sip from his wineglass. “Four of them I just knew I didn’t love, would never love. Great guys, loyal guys. Not their faults.”
“And the fifth one?”
“I fell in love with the fifth one. And he broke my heart.”
Rick continued to rub small circles on her sore back, and Sidra leaned back, allowing him to claim the spot as his. No more Reclining Hero Pose for her. She wished she had the patience to wait for him to speak. “So,” she prompted, wincing. “Your turn.”
He reached for his wineglass. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
“So many you lost track?”
“I never wanted to keep track. How can I impress upon you—”
“This is never going to work.” Sidra moved to stand, but Rick pulled her gently back. He kissed her cheekbones sweetly, touched a ripe Greek olive to her lips. The briny taste burst on her tongue, as salty as the tears that were threatening to spill any moment as he touched his lips to her neck.
“I can tell you . . . I married the first girl I slept with. And I loved her very much.” He relayed this truth so softly against her skin. “Despite the craziness my life required, I am a forever kind of guy.”
Enough, she chastised herself. Stop, do not ask him. “Where is she now?” She hated herself for not being able to keep herself in check around him.
Rick sat up, drained his wine, and stared into the empty glass. “Brooklyn.”
Sidra felt a queer mix of jealousy and dread rise. So close . . .
“Salem Fields Cemetery.”
Now she really hated herself. “Oh Rick.” She reached for him, and he let himself be gathered. “I’m so sorry.” She was. Sorry for his loss, sorry for asking, sorry for making him talk about it.
“Thank you,” he said simply, and kissed her temple.
At some point during their conversation, dusk had crept in. Darkness had settled into the treetops, causing Sidra to contemplate the secrets that possibly lurked beneath them. She hadn’t ever asked Rick about the root of his panic attacks; come to think of it, he had never turned in that silly intake form she had given him for their private yoga sessions. She could only assume his loss gnawed just as hard at the raw and vulnerable corners of his consciousness as her own loss did.
She had once told him, like she instructed all of her students, to “stay in the present moment,” yet her mother was never far from her thoughts as she journeyed from one pose to another, to another. She strove to master her practice with evenness and precision, yet coming to peace and stillness about her mother’s death always seemed just beyond her reach. Who was she to teach, to try and bring others on a journey to awareness and healing? She could think of at least a dozen heart-opening poses when it came to yoga, but when it came to her own heart . . . ?
“I’d better go.” She moved to stand. “Day job. And all that.”
Rick’s mouth opened, then he bit his lip thoughtfully, his eyes dancing questions that shot heat right down to her pelvic floor. It would be so easy to fall back on the couch with him and resume their play from the morning. But she would eventually have to leave, and he would inevitably want to know why.
He had obviously absolved himself of his earlier transgression, but that didn’t mean she was ready to confess all her secrets to him. Where would she start? I have to teach yoga to spoiled rich kids upstate all day for an obscene amount of money? I have to make sure my father doesn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep? I have to iguana-sit on the weekends for my ex, in the apartment where he screws the girl he left me for? I have to figure out how to stop my uncle from pimping out the one place in Manhattan where I feel the world makes sense?
“Sidra.” Rick’s voice pulled her from her reverie. He stood before her now. Gathering both her hands in his, he lifted them together to his chest and dropped his lips to rest on them. “Namaste,” he whispered.
“Namaste, Rick,” she replied softly.
Rick
In Deep
“So Romeo,” Thor’s voice came through Rick’s monitor crisp and clear. “I’ve been doing a lot of legwork while you’ve been out a-courtin’.”
Rick jerked his head up so fast that the headphones nearly came off. After spending the entire day in the isolation room, laying down vocals, he had gotten used to hearing only the sound of his own voice. In fact, he would go as far as to say it had induced somewhat of a meditative state. He readjusted the headphones as Thor continued his intimate invasion.
“It’s the perfect space. I’ve made an offer on it.”
“Mazel tov,” Rick baritoned fluidly into the mic. “Where is it?”
Thor twirled in his chair behind the mixing board, looking pleased with himself. “Lower East Side. The street’s a little sketchy, but this property, mmm-hmmm.” He pushed his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss toward the glass wall separating them. “Cathedral ceilings, hardwood floors . . . the acoustics will border on orgasmic.”
Lower East Side . . . closer to Sidra. “Orgasmic?”
Thor goofed around with the input channel, sending reverb into Rick’s monitors so the word ping-ponged between his closed cans in a never-ending echo.
“Oh yeah. Remember the place I showed you, with all the scaffolding? She cleaned up nice. Owner is hot to unload. Got a couple family businesses in there, but nothing that can’t relocate. I’m telling you, this building is the gem of—”
Rick had ripped the headphones off but could still read Thor’s lips as he stormed out of the isolation room and into the control room. “Rivington Street? You’re joking, right?”
Thor seemed taken aback. “I’ve scoured
the city, Riff. Studios are a dime a dozen in Midtown, Chelsea, Brooklyn. The price is right; it’s a dream spot,” he rambled as Rick took a closer look at the external shots, blueprints, and paperwork Thor had scattered across the console. “Just hit the market with two adjacent storefronts on either side. It’s destiny.”
Dreams, Destiny. Now it was Sidra’s voice reverberating in his head. Two things Mike Sullivan does not believe in. “You need to pull your offer.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I know that building. I know the people.” He swallowed hard, biting back the panic that threatened to rise and strangle him. He closed his eyes and saw Mikey’s Open sign flashing; he felt his hand make solid contact with the doorknob leading into Revolve Records and Evolve. Sidra’s space. He remembered her hands on his rib cage, adjusting his pose on the night of the brownout, and his hands finding her body later, unassisted by his blindfolded eyes. He saw the yoga studio full of new bodies, heard that old lady Vivian in his head, calling him a mensch, a good person, telling him he did a mitzvah by bringing so many people to class. “It will hurt a lot of good people.”
“Please.” Thor scoffed. “If it’s not our money this week, it will be Trump’s money next week. That area is ripe for the taking. What’s your problem, man?”
Rick had problems, plural. But since meeting Sidra and stepping into her yoga studio, he had hope as well. “Either pull your offer, or I am pulling out my money. I’m serious, Thor.”
“Dude. I’ve already spent the hundred grand in seed money you paid in. Surveyors, architects . . . it’s a sure thing.”
“I don’t care about the seed money.” A hundred grand was a small price to pay to begin to wash the blood from his hands.
“You’re crazy.” Thor’s eyes blazed as he yanked the papers off the console and gathered them to his chest. “You don’t know a sure thing when you see it, and you’ve fucked up every good thing that’s ever come into your life!”
Rick wanted to yank the blueprints from Thor’s grasp and rip them to pieces; he wanted to smash the console with the smug producer’s ugly face. Instead, he squeezed his hands into Fists of Fire and inhaled a cleansing breath. “Do it. Or I’m out.”
He wasn’t going to fuck up a good thing this time.
* * *
Rick headed downtown, not really hearing or seeing what was around him. Fucking Thor. The last thing the band needed was bad blood in the studio, messing with their creative process. But Rick wanted to tear the guy limb from limb.
One phone call to the label. That’s all it would take. Thor would be out on his ass. But that still wouldn’t solve the problem. In fact, it could potentially make it worse. Having to scrap their project, or shelve it until they could find a new producer, might drive the final nail into the coffin. And it would only leave more free time in Thor’s hands to ruthlessly pursue his real estate venture, regardless of Rick’s involvement.
He was damned either way.
He strode across street after street until he hit the wide expanse of Houston. Then Delancey. The Lower East Side patiently took him in. He was hours too early for yoga; Sidra wouldn’t even be there. But he didn’t care. Where once he was uncomfortable off the numbered grid, now he relished it. While waiting for a light to change, he stood and breathed deep, tilting his head ever so slightly to the sky.
A complicated maze of string and wire stretched overhead, encompassing the telephone and light poles and snaking their way downtown.
“That’s an eruv.”
Rick glanced down at the voice that addressed him. He realized that while he had been staring up, the light had changed and the entire crowd next to him had moved on. Except for the young man who had spoken. He had long brown curls, like Rick’s. But while the rocker had many, this boy only had two. One on each side of his head. Payot, Rick realized. Besides the long sidelocks, only the kippah perched low on the back of his skull and the fringe of the prayer shawl peeking out at his waist gave away his faith. Otherwise, he appeared to be an average teenager, earbuds and all.
The lad pointed up to the enclosure. “It’s both conceptual and physical, you see, in our community. It allows us to accomplish certain activities that Jewish law would otherwise restrict on the Sabbath. We can carry our house keys, deliver food to the elderly, and push our babies in carriages within the eruv.”
Rick noted how the young man had stressed the pronunciation, ay-roov, and carefully explained its purpose to him, the outsider. Yet his use of our, us, and we were not lost on Rick. He remembered his grandfather, who would not so much as flick on a lightbulb from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday. What had been important, had been law, to the old man had made little sense to the impatient young man that Rick had been. Friday nights were gig nights, after all. Dosh in the pocket.
Now Rick saw there were ways to respect, and adapt to, your environment. There were ways to get around things without destroying them completely.
“Well, that’s a beautiful quality,” Rick murmured to the boy, and to himself. Together, they stepped off the curb, and Rick reached for his mobile.
“Ay up, mate?”
“Favor to ask, Dig. Gloria . . . that friend of Kat’s. Could you get her number for me?”
Rick could almost hear Adrian pondering in silence on the other end of the call.
“Really? I thought the holy grail had been found.”
“Yeah, well. I’m on a new crusade now.”
Sidra
Soften the Steel
“Hold the pose, not the drama. Lose the drama.”
Sidra delighted in the myriad of protests and grumbling. For the second straight week, her classes were wonderfully, happily filled to capacity. Like a chain reaction, the PAs from the label and the secretaries Rick had enticed to come brought their significant others to class. The publicists showed up with dates they wanted to impress. And the roadies, surprisingly enough, had fans and followers of their own, just as loyal and eager as groupies. Pixy brought her mother, who was an older, just as adorable version. Blue hair and all. And Deuce brought himself, faithfully, every other day. He was already standing taller, his skin was brighter, and he was able to go deeper into his spinal twists in record time.
She wound through the students, observing their progress. “No matter how awful or awkward it feels, you need to find stillness in this pose.”
No question: They were giving it their best effort. Concentrating, focused, serious. “I know you hate me when I say it,” Sidra said with a grin, “but smile. It’s yoga for your face, people.” That got a few laughs.
While it wasn’t possible for Rick to attend every single class with his charges, Sidra couldn’t help but think of him each time she stepped under the ner tamid, ready to teach. And with each final relaxation pose, he drifted to mind.
She was smiling a lot more during class these days, too.
At the session’s end, she had them cross their arms and pull down on their shoulders. “That’s a hug from me,” she said happily, then instructed them to open their arms and cross them again, opposite arm on top this time. “And that’s a hug from you. Thank you for sharing your practice with me.”
The collective “Namaste” that emanated from her students was music to her ears. High fives and fist bumps abounded.
“Girl, the energy in your studio could power half the borough!”
Sidra grinned; that was high praise coming from a powerhouse yogini like Gretchen. Like Sidra, she often craved a change of scenery from her own practice once in a while. Evolve’s gentle Hatha Flow class provided the perfect counterbalance. “I want to bottle it up and bring it over to NYU,” Gretchen continued. “Where did all these people come from?”
The time machine gave its double clunk: Rick was punching in for his session. He teased her about sticking to formalities at this point, but she wanted to track his progress like she did everyone else’s.
“Sorry, Gretch . . . no time to chat. Private client comi
ng in.”
“Anyone I know?” Her tone was casual as she deftly rolled up her mat, but Sidra was well aware that the yoga grapevine was just as juicy and tangled as any other profession. No water cooler was needed to spread gossip; it hopped from mat to mat.
“I think he took your class once,” Sidra allowed, keeping her voice just as controlled.
“Omigod, the hottie with the accent?”
“Shhh. Yes, he’s my client, and he’s right behind that door.”
“How long have you been keeping him all to yourself?” Gretchen mock-pouted and rearranged her prAna top just so. As in “just so” her boobs would spill out. Sidra took her gaze up to the rafters. “So is he single? Just kidding, Teach. I’m sure you don’t go there in conversations with your students. Except for me, but I don’t count.” She giggled.
Sidra was allergic to giggling. It took all her energy to not thwack Gretchen with a yoga strap on her scrawny ass.
“Sorry I’m late; I had to change. Am I interrupting?”
Gretchen discreetly eyed Rick up and down and smiled like she wouldn’t change a thing about him. “Good to see you again,” she gushed. “I hear you’re good. I mean, you’re getting really good at yoga.”
“A reflection of a good teacher,” he said, moving past her to roll out his mat. With barely a glance at Sidra, he did a Swan Dive and a Deep Forward Fold. He was done talking.
Gretchen shot Sidra a glance, then shrugged.
“Here, I’ll walk you out.”
In the small waiting area, she noticed Rick had left his guitar case propped in the corner. It was too big to fit in any of the lockers. Sometimes he brought “work home from the office,” and Sidra loved when he’d play for her after their sessions, the sound ethereal as it floated up to the high beams of the old building.
A buzzing sound stopped both women in their tracks. Rick had left his cell phone out, too, on the low table under the time clock. Sidra caught a quick glance of the incoming text before the screen went black. The display showed two missed calls, plus a text from someone named Gloria.
Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) Page 22
