My pleasure . . .
Before Sidra could even comprehend the first, another text sparked up the display. Same number, same name. Gloria. Like a deer in headlights, Sidra couldn’t look away.
Great to see you again. I’ll be in touch.
“Well,” Gretchen said with a smirk. “I guess that answers my question. Looks like he’s got ladies blowing up his phone. See ya, babe.”
When Sidra turned back to the phone, it had faded to black. She felt her vision tunnel to a pinhole as well. Thoughts of Charlie pried their way in. How he had suddenly developed a habit of carrying his phone everywhere in their tiny apartment, even into the bathroom when he took a shower. Strangely possessive of it, sneaking glances and smiling when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Let go of thoughts that do not serve you.
Gloria could be anyone. Her “pleasure” could mean anything. Sidra was done thinking about it. For now.
Rick was still in his inversion and stayed there, even after Sidra had closed the door firmly behind her and they were alone. “Hey,” she started softly. With his head hanging, the curls cascaded down and almost touched the floor, and she couldn’t see his face. “Hard day at the office?”
It was a lame joke at best, but she didn’t expect it to fall so flat.
“Yes.”
“Do you—”
He straightened, flipping his hair back with help from his hand. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I was going to ask, do you want music tonight? Or not?” She turned on her heel and moved to the stereo. What the hell? Gretchen’s obnoxious behavior had snipped her fuse short, and now Rick’s tone took a match to it.
“No. Thank you. I’m surrounded by noise all day.”
Oh, this is going to be fun. “Fine. Turn your awareness inward . . .” And see how you’re acting like a total prick to me. Her face burned at the thought. It shocked her, really. Yoga was neutral territory. No room here for lovers’ quarrels. Especially one that came out of nowhere. She shook her own head, trying to unload the personal junk. Take an inventory, clear your mental in-box . . .
Who the hell was Gloria?
Pushing her hands firmly in prayer position in front of her chest, she began again. “Let’s set our intentions.”
Oh, he did not just roll his eyes at me!
She dropped her hands.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m feeling a bit off.”
“Well, yoga does not have an On/Off button. Focus, okay? How about some intentions, like gratitude, forgiveness, guidance—”
To her surprise, he seized her by the elbows, crushing her against him as he kissed her. It was all fire, no heat. As if he had something to prove. She broke away, furious.
“If all you intend to do is get in my pants by the end of the night, why don’t you leave now!” She had half a mind to yank the mat out from under him and send him on his way.
“Christ, Sidra. I had a rough day. Okay? Am I not allowed to be in a shitty mood? Holding it in is what started the panic attacks in the first place.” The talisman at his throat shifted on its tight cord. “I haven’t had one since you came to the apartment that morning.”
All at once, Sidra felt a myriad of emotions, from longing to dread to tenderness to shame.
“Then maybe we’re done here.”
Gretchen was right. She shouldn’t have “gone there”—she shouldn’t have gotten close to him, learned of his problems, opened her own . . . or looked at his damn phone.
“What the fuck does that mean? We’re done with yoga? Or we’re done?”
She stomped over to the corner and began to straighten the foam bricks, angrily shoving them into place.
“Are you breaking up with me, like you did those other blokes, because you don’t think you could ever love me?”
Sidra bit her lip and kept stacking. No. I think you’re going to be like the other one. You’re going to break my heart.
He grabbed the bricks out of her hands and let them drop. “Don’t shut me out!”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” She kicked the fallen blocks at his feet. “Building the walls of your lonely castle right back up? I don’t know what you want, Rick!”
“You. I want you. And this.” He gestured, hands up in supplication. “I want us. Here.” His voice was a throaty hush, and his eyes deepened into even darker pools than usual. “Forgive me.”
It was a whisper so low, it could have been a vibration, as nebulous as a chant of Om in the empty room.
For what?
“Who’s Gloria?” The words were out, and she couldn’t pull them back. “You left your phone out.” She swallowed hard. “A text came through and it . . . it was hard to not see it.”
Rick bent and swept up a brick with a heavy sigh. “She’s doing some research for me.” Sidra took the brick he offered, but he didn’t let it go right away. “Sid . . . You don’t have to worry about Gloria.”
“I’m sorry.” Again, the brick tumbled to the floor as she fell into his arms. “It’s just, jeez, Gretchen was all judgy about you being my client, and then she pissed me off by flirting with you herself, and then the text came, and—” For the first time that evening, Rick chuckled. His breath warmed her neck and infused her with relief. “—and Charlie . . . my ex. He cheated on me with his bandmate Evie. Giving a whole new meaning to the term ‘fiddle player,’” she muttered.
Rick clasped her hands and brought them to his chest. “I’m not Charlie. You’re not Gretchen. And Gloria is not a threat.” He tucked his chin and ducked his head to the side so he could seek out her eyes. “Okay?”
“So you want this to be . . . Are we . . . exclusive?”
“Nothing would make me happier. And contrary to my foul mood tonight, I haven’t been this happy in a long time. I’m finally able to live in my skin again. Because of you, Goddess. Because you’ve given me a chance.”
His voice melted her heart, and she softened against him, like dissolving into a pose. He sighed and pulled her closer. It was as if they had both reached their edge, and then took things deeper. Settling into what was. Not worrying about the “what if” and “if only.” They managed to soften the steel they’d both girded themselves with, systemically, for so long, and stepped into the process of letting themselves be vulnerable. It was okay to be vulnerable sometimes. It was strangely liberating, and powerful.
“I do think we need to make a slight change to this dynamic, though,” Sidra admitted.
Rick pulled back to regard her.
“I can’t take your money for unlimited classes anymore . . . or the private sessions. It’s just a little too . . .” Okay, she wasn’t going to go there. “I don’t need your money, Rick. Not anymore. We can still practice together. Same times and everything. But honestly, with Pixy, Deuce, and all the others, you’ve brought more business and loyalty to the studio than I could’ve ever hoped to do on my own. Thank you for taking that gamble, for me.”
He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her close once again. “The wisest investment I’ve ever made,” he murmured against her hair.
Rick
Discovery and Denial
She was velvet personified. From the inky drape of her hair as it pooled over his bare shoulder to the softness of her earlobe as he caught it lightly between his teeth and right down to her inner walls, guiding his every move, gripping him and making him feel like a fucking Adonis. Good God, she was the lushest thing he had ever experienced. Rick wanted to shout to the rafters, but he kept his praise private, his breathing measured. Sidra was nestled in his lap, her exquisite spine pressed in perfect alignment against the misericorde tattooed down his chest. They were on the step leading down from the former bimah, pillows bolstered behind them.
Every evening they somehow ended up like this, together, after the final yoga class. They knew they must have been violating some sacred order in doing so, desecrating the Savasana as they reached for each other, stripping clothes a
nd licking skin. They didn’t care. His desire would build, slow and strong, during class as he concentrated on nothing but his breathing and his body to the sound of her voice. Like waves out in the distant sea, his passion churned until he had her alone, the doors locked behind them. Then she would join him, as warm and as yielding as the sand, and they’d meld together as he crashed against her, becoming one.
Other times, she was the ocean demanding his attention, teasing and lapping at him as he lay in exhilarated exhaustion. Then pulling away from him like the tide and letting him pursue.
Her shoulders now trembled as she bucked and buried him to the hilt. “Rick,” she gasped, his name like chocolate melting on her tongue as she panted. His thumbs circled along her lower back and she arched forward, relinquishing all power to him. He eclipsed her firm breasts with his large hands and held her as he began to meet her pleas with measured thrusts.
She reached her first pinnacle, quaking under his hands as he began to catch up to her. She felt so amazing to him, she felt—
No. Not now. This can’t be happening.
“Sidra, oh luv . . .” His hands were still cradling her breasts, his lips frozen between her shoulder blades.
“Baby . . . what?” They were so new, yet he knew she could sense the subtle shift in his demeanor.
“Luv, I . . . I’ve found a lump.”
Sidra
Surreal Reality
Sidra felt the tremor in her hand as Rick guided it to her left breast. He gently lifted, then pressed a spot underneath. Her fingers pushed his out of the way, needing to palpitate the place herself. Her breasts were small, and something she barely gave a thought to each morning as she squeezed into a sports bra or ensconced them in a tank top.
There. Yes, he was right. Her fingers rolled over a marble-size hardness.
“How long do you think it’s been there?”
“How the hell should I know?” She was up and moving away from him, yanking the lace of her panties into place. No one else had touched her since Charlie, and she hadn’t ever thought to self-examine. The thing would’ve probably grown to the size of a golf ball if Rick hadn’t come along.
She frowned at her breasts in the mirror along the side wall, running her hand over the spot again. Beyond her shoulder, Rick’s reflection was pulling up boxers, gaze on her.
Perhaps . . . ? No, there it was again. A knotty nodule. Rick’s mirror image grew larger, but her eyes were quickly filling and blurring him out.
“For fuck’s sake, Sidra! With all the wellness and self-awareness you tout? You could’ve checked yourself—”
“When? Yesterday? Last week? Tomorrow? Who cares? It’s there!” It was her body, and he had the nerve to get angry? “Just leave, okay? Go. I don’t need you, your sucky bedside manner, or your lectures!”
His face contorted before quickly steeling itself. “If you need someone, I’ll be there, Sidra.”
Sidra trembled, white-hot, as she stared him down. How could you be there? her mind screamed. You’re already a million miles away.
“Sid? You still here?” Mikey’s voice sounded dangerously close.
“Shit. You’d better—”
Rick dropped a kiss on her lips. His jeans and shirt littered the path to the rear exit, but he was back in them and out the door before her cousin rattled the doorknob.
“Just a sec,” she called, shimmying back into her yoga pants and reaching for a hoodie she kept on a peg by the door. She couldn’t bear to bind herself back into a sports bra tonight. She zipped the sweatshirt up over her bare chest and opened the door.
“What the hell?” Mike stood, massive hands on hips. “You shouldn’t lock yourself in here.”
“I was changing,” she mumbled. “What’s up?”
“My dad wants a meeting.”
Rick
Tough Love
Rick made it as far as the Bowery before he lost it, retching in the gutter like some homeless bum on a bender. Bile replaced the sweet taste of Sidra in his mouth as he choked on the bitter thought of his discovery.
Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s probably nothing.
Yeah. Right.
Simone’s “nothing” was stage four by the time it was discovered.
A car horn blared, sending his heart into slingshot mode as he reeled off the curb, trying to get his bearings. He propelled his feet forward, not caring if he headed north or south. Anywhere, away from the hell that was going on in his mind. Streets intersected at odd angles, and Rick expected to meet his Maker at the crossroads, any minute now.
A young street musician paced the corner with his guitar, strumming away on the battered acoustic despite his meager audience. Rick allowed his feet to slow and willed his pulse rate to match the chord progressions. The kid was good. He reminded Rick of Adrian, loaded with talent and not a pot to piss in, as evident from the open guitar case at his feet. Three dollars, give or take, was scattered in coins across the threadbare velvet lining.
But he also reminded Rick of himself. The dark, rebel hair. The strong jut of his jaw as he sang about life passing him by, eyes burning with a cause.
Rick scrounged in his pocket and threw a bill into the case. Ten dollars didn’t seem quite enough. In went a fifty. That didn’t feel sufficient. Two crisp hundreds. The busker’s eyes widened, but his fingers never broke contact with the strings. Remember being that pure, that driven? That devil-may-care?
“Your cell phone’s ringing.”
It took Rick a moment to distinguish lyrics from layman’s terms. Fantasy from reality. He focused on the device clutched in his hand. Isabelle.
“Not a good time.”
“When is it ever, Riff? I swear to Christ. While you’ve been living out your Slumdog Millionaire fantasies in yogaland, I’ve had to play nice with the label heads. They aren’t happy with the rough cuts Thor sent.”
Rick closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. Not tonight. “That’s why they’re called ‘rough,’ Iz. They’re nowhere near done.”
“How did they put it? Oh, yeah. ‘This album might be too complicated to market through traditional label means.’ Translation: The Daddy Warbuckses up top have no qualms about orphaning your ass and abandoning this project, Rick.”
“Can you stall them?”
“No amount of record executive dick sucking is going to make the album sound better! It’s all on you.”
Busker boy was playing to beat the band, but there was no escaping the publicist’s verbal assault. Had it been this bad with Wren? It had been different, Rick reasoned. He’d employed a wholly original brand of tough love.
“For fuck’s sake, Iz! A little lip service doesn’t require you to suck anything. Can you get behind me, for once?”
“A is for effort, honey . . . not for amateur hour.” Her murmur led Rick to believe she was lighting one cigarette off another, chain smoking while tightening the noose around his neck. “You’ve been shooting blanks since you got into the goddamn studio! And butting heads with Thor, when he’s only trying to help. It’s not going to be perfect, so get over yourself. God, you’re impossible. I don’t know how Simone lived with you.”
She didn’t.
Perhaps that was Isabelle’s point.
Rick bit his lip. He contemplated the guitar case once more, with its purple threads of velvet. Frayed, like his nerves, as she laundry-listed the consequences of delivering a dud. He was tempted to drop his phone in, to dump the whole lot—the record contracts, the merch licensing, the tours—but at this point, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“You’ve made yourself clear.”
“Well, you’d better make it your priority.”
The young man doffed his hat as if bidding Rick adieu, or paying his respects. Hell, Rick thought, slowly lowering the phone, maybe he was offering his condolences.
Dead man walking.
“Any advice for someone like me, just starting out?” the bloke asked, scraping up the cash and coin and pocketing it before h
is next song. They were, after all, still on the sketchy side of Lower East Manhattan.
“Here’s my real tip: If someone like me offers you a million dollars to trade places with him . . . don’t.”
Sidra
Expectations
“He said what?”
Liz punched the register keys angrily and thrust change at the hapless customer who dared interrupt Sidra’s story. The Naked Bagel, it turned out, wasn’t just down a man with Seamus gone. Sidra’s brother had done the work of three people.
“It wasn’t so much what he said. It was how he said it,” Sidra mumbled, straightening the tip jars on the counter. Today they were labeled Dumbledore and Gandalf. Sidra would’ve gladly paid off either fictional wizard to rid her of any feelings for Rick. “He barked at me.”
Like a dog.
“He sounds like a dick, from what little you’ve told me. You’re better off without him.”
“You’re right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’d be better off with one of those tumor-sniffing dogs.”
“Oh, Sid.” Liz’s brow wrinkled sympathetically. “It’s probably not . . .” She couldn’t seem to voice it. “Probably not anything serious. A cyst, perhaps? You’ll get it checked out. It’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“Any family history . . . ?” Liz trailed off.
Sidra shook her head no, but what she really meant was she didn’t know. Her mother died young. Who knows what may have developed over time? An aunt had it—but wait, no, that was an aunt by marriage. Her mind swam laps around her family gene pool.
A gentle hand eclipsed her wrist. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Sidra backed away. She didn’t like the thought of Liz and her baby bump anywhere near her potentially poisonous self. Or the toxic radiation from machinery the doctors would use to confirm or refute her fears. “I’ll get Fiona to go with me.”
Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) Page 23
