Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (20 page)

Sidra wished she could back up all the way to the front door, when she said she usually didn’t make house calls.

“I’m minding the flat for a friend. This place isn’t mine . . . It isn’t me. And you.” He pulled the mat from her hands, squeezing it into a tight, neat roll. “You are not just a charge on my credit card. Your classes . . . I’m going to go as far as to say I think they’ve saved my life. So tell me how I can help you,” he finished quietly.

Emotion swelled to a lump in her throat. Was it her pride lodged there? she wondered. Or her doubt? Could she trust another musician with her hopes and dreams? Charlie hadn’t just broken her heart. He had put it in a blender and pulverized it.

“You tell your students to open their hearts,” he chided, barely above a whisper. “Time to practice what you preach, teacher.”

“You can’t
manipulate
a heart to open,” she insisted. The words sounded lame, even to her ears.

Rick’s fingertips tilted her chin, and his stare became her personal
drishti
. Her eyes threatened tears as she locked her focus, losing herself in his gaze.

“But you can allow it to open, under the right circumstances.”

Deep within the embers of his pupils, she saw a spark as he spoke those words. It reminded her of the yoga lamp, like a light that never dimmed, no matter what it had been through. And surrounding the light, Sidra saw a tiny part of herself reflecting back.

Sullivans didn’t go down without a fight. But they also rarely called for backup. She didn’t even know where to begin.
Try me,
the light seemed to say.

“My uncle”—she swallowed hard—“wants to sell the building. It’s been in my family for three generations, but he doesn’t think yoga, or music, are worthwhile pursuits. Make that
lucrative
pursuits.”

“What about your dreams? What about destiny?” Rick wanted to know.

“Two things Mike Sullivan does not believe in, I’m afraid.” She allowed herself to be gathered, to be held. His touch had a way of making her feel like a precious thing, even though his earlier words had hit a sore spot.

“Let’s show him lucrative.” Rick kissed her forehead. “I know some people. We’ll bring in more business. Make it happen.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“And just so we are clear, I’m a new believer in destiny.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It hit me the first time you looked my way in class.”

“Hit you like a ton of bricks, huh?”

“Yeah. Why else do you think I fell on my arse?”

Honor Thy Commandments

Rick’s mobile rattled across the glass coffee table, jarring him awake. He had collapsed on the couch after Sidra’s departure, naked but for his shorts, and had slept like the dead. His thumb brushed against something silky as he sat up.
What on earth . . . ?
Threaded through his fingers was the bit of orange ribbon Sidra had tied her hair up with. He must have found it in the cushions and grasped it in his fist during slumber.

Ten thirty-five. Thor was calling.

Thor could wait.

Sidra.
Just like the ribbon, she had woven through his dreams.

Leaning back against the couch, Rick let a ragged breath go. Furling and unfurling the ribbon, he thought about the morning’s events. Her look of delight upon seeing the rising sun, the confidence in which she had glided through her salutations, her silhouette as she presented herself to him . . . all gifts. And then he had opened her up; that had been the best gift of them all. The way her body had delicately shaken above his and then had melted over him. Dynamic tension surrendered.

Why, then, did he open his great gaping gob and insult her?
Couldn’t have just let her gracefully go, now could you? Abandonment issues? You feckless weakling.

He had never touched rosary beads, but he could understand the fervent handling, the tactile desire. Sidra’s ribbon was comforting as he worked it between his callused hands with mantra-like devotion.

He remembered watching his grandfather wrapping tefillin every morning, mysterious little boxes with connecting leather straps for Jewish prayer. As a young boy, he had been fascinated, yet afraid, an outsider looking in. Like any ritual, Rick supposed. Yet when the time came for him to learn the mitzvah, he still felt like an outsider. Different. Or perhaps “indifferent” was a better description. Embarrassed to don such crude-looking items, to bow and sway in prayer. Resentful.

Rick looked down. Without even realizing it, he had wound the ribbon three times around his middle finger—once above his knuckle, twice below—and around his left palm and thumb, bound and tucked neatly. He flipped his hand over, marveling at the fact that he still remembered how.

He stood and stretched, remembering Sidra’s backbend. Adrian had three guitars on stands by the window.
Pick a Les, any Les.
He grabbed a late seventies Gibson Goldtop and threw the strap over his bare chest. Standing at the tall window with the noon sun baking down, he began working out a heavy, bluesy riff. It scorched like his body had under Sidra’s touch, blazed like the fiery sun through her hair, and then it wound down into melancholy minor notes as he saw the hurt in her eyes. Rick was tired of hurting others; he was tired of hurting himself.

He obeyed different commandments than his forefathers. Rock and roll was his religion and his law. Yet, in theory, it was similar; he was connecting his mind and his heart with his hands. His fingers formed bar chords, and he could feel the ribbon as he lingered on certain notes. The satin, matte on one side and shiny on the other, was surprisingly strong.
Like her.

Gazing through the glass, he thought about all the trains that wound above and below the city, and wondered which one had taken her. And where she had had to go, and why.

He supposed he should get over to the studio, try to salvage a few hours of work. But first, he had a few phone calls to make.

Supply and Demand

The camp day flew by, and the rowdy bus ride felt like a dream. Sidra barely remembered her Metro-North ride.

Rick. Destiny.

Could she get on board with that? Even if she got over the fact that he was a musician, he was her student. Verboten conduct, as far as much of the yoga community was concerned. And Sidra had always been a poster child for keeping her boundaries very clear.

So much for celibacy. And
brahmacharya
for the summer.

As she unrolled her mat in the solitude of her studio, patterns of light fell from the
ner tamid
, reminding her of the morning’s practice. Of basking in the sunrise, and in Rick’s gaze.
Focus,
she chided herself. Since beginning the private sessions with him, she hadn’t had a chance to attend an NYU class or spent time on her own mat work. She planned to use every minute of the free hour before her first class wisely.

Her thoughts, however, couldn’t be contained, no matter how deep and deliberate she went in her poses. Rick was ingrained in her vinyasas; she felt his presence shadowing her as she flowed. Each time she turned her gaze up to the sky, he occurred to her.

She planked for a good four minutes or so, her ego playing drill sergeant to her id.
Drop and give me twenty, sailor. You’re spineless and weak.

He had made her tremble, and the thought almost flattened her. Determined, she rolled swiftly into Side Plank.
Vasisthasana
required all her focus. She performed a mental checklist, making sure she was in perfect alignment as she stacked her legs, flexed her feet. Wrist balanced directly under shoulder. Sagely, calmly, she mastered the pose.

What had brought him here? Loneliness?

Taking a deep breath, she transferred her weight to her right hand, rooting herself to the earth. His tiredness worried her.
Had he finally been able to sleep?
She closed her eyes and raised her hips. She saw Rick’s face, so serene below her as they had reached their release. They had both, for a moment, been rendered speechless, the sun beating down on them as they had come tumbling down.

She flipped herself up, left foot planting down, and offered her heart up to the sky.
Wild Thing.
She dropped her head back in the full expression of the pose, her left arm extended from her heart.
Freedom. Power.
She felt the
ner tamid
shining down its eternal light on her.

You’ve got flames in your hair, my golden goddess.

Rick’s words stayed with her as she brought herself slowly back to center, then over to her left-side plank and performed Wild Thing pose once more. She felt so free and weightless, freed from chains that had long tethered her.

Sidra moved into Reclining Hero pose, on her back. All thoughts had been released, her mind was clear. Voices emanated from down the long hall, but she paid no attention. Her body hugged the earth, through the floorboards down past the concrete and into the Manhattan bedrock, but her spirit felt higher than the rafters. As much as she loved to teach in it, she loved having a place like Evolve all to herself.

“And the true gem of the building is right this way.” Her uncle was bullshitting his way down the corridor. Sidra extended her arms out above her head to intensify the stretch, but otherwise didn’t move.

“She’s a jewel, all right.” The chuckle on the tail end of the statement was deep and throaty. Sidra opened her eyes to see Sully standing over her, along with another man. The stranger’s face, lined but handsomely rugged, leaned down. He was dressed business casual, but Sidra could smell “buyer” from a mile away.

“Oh, that’s just my niece, Sidra. She runs a little exercise thing out of here. As you can see, it’s a room that can lend itself to all kinds of purposes.”

“Perfect for our purpose,” he said admiringly.

Sidra popped out of Reclining Hero, which was not the easiest nor the safest thing to do. She felt a hitch in her lower back, but there was no time to counterpose. “Uncle Sully, I have a class coming in fifteen minutes.” She hoped her class constituted more than just Morty, Benny, and Vivian tonight.

“Your uncle was just giving me a little tour of the property, and you were our last stop. Hi.” He stretched out his hand. “Thorton Young.”

Sidra briefly pressed her hand into his. “Sidra Sullivan. Welcome to Evolve Yoga.” His shoes looked too clean for New York, and his sleek ponytail of blond hair had years of sun streaks running through it. If she had to venture a guess, she’d say California. Maybe she’d have a chance in hell of staying open, even under new ownership. “What exactly
is
your purpose?” She crossed her arms.

He barked another raspy laugh. “It’s more a vision than a purpose, darlin’. And not just mine to share. I was hoping my investment partner could make it down to see the place as well, but I couldn’t reach him. He’s in entertainment, keeps odd hours. Today was an exploratory visit, more than anything. Just wanted to get a feel for how things were situated, that’s all.” His icy blue eyes trailed over her prAna tank top and hovered somewhere around her hips in their tightly clad yoga capris. “So much more than meets the eye from the exterior.”

The first punch card of the day registered just outside the door. “My students are arriving,” Sidra said flatly.

“I’ll walk you out.” Sully held up an arm. “Three fire exits, as you can see, and more storage back here.” He kept up a running monologue, but Sidra could see Thorton Young’s attention was up in the rafters.

He wanted her space.

* * *

Sidra watched, amazed, as her studio began to fill with faces she had never seen before. The first group of women who appeared were expensively highlighted and manicured and made themselves right at home on the yoga mats. Next came a rougher looking bunch, biker chick types. They were slightly less at ease, but nonetheless smiled and grabbed bricks, mats, and blankets. Then a trio of guys in Carhartt strode in and instantly fell in line between the biker girls and Sidra’s regulars.

“Hi, wow, some new faces. Have any of you taken yoga before?” A smattering of hands went up. She heard the steady
kerthunk
of class cards being punched. More men were coming through the door, hipster types thumbing at their iPhones as they made one last contact with the outside world before succumbing to gravity and the silence of the yoga studio.

In walked Rick, causing Sidra’s tummy to do a Wild Thing flip-flop. He was flanked by a tiny punk chick with hair the color of a blueberry sno-cone and a guy who looked as if he had traded in his leather Hells Angels jacket for the day in favor of a tracksuit. Tattoos blossomed from his tree trunk of a neck, and his knuckles were dusted with skulls of silver. His gray beard was split into two braids, and he had a bandana with flames tied pirate-style to his shaved head.

“I hope you don’t mind; I brought a few friends,” Rick said with a grin.

“I see,” Sidra said slowly, handing over his mat to him. “I think I’m just about out of mats.”

“Load in, guys,” Rick called. A half dozen more wandered in, lumberjack-large, and unrolled mats of their own.

“I’m Pixy,” said the punk girl. “And that’s Deuce. We run catering and hospitality over at the Garden.” She waved to the tough-looking chicks.

“The Local 1,” Rick explained, raising a hand in greeting. “And the Local 4. IATSE.” Her blank look prompted him to add, “International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees.”

“Stagehands,” the Carhartts interpreted, waving back.

“And electricians. And these are the publicists from the label.” Rick nodded toward the hipsters, who were beginning to show signs of smartphone withdrawal. “And personal assistants.”

“Hi, Riff,” the pretty girls chorused.

“And a few of my favorite roadies, whose bands happen to be in town this week.” He pointed down the line of the lumberjacks. “Blondie, Social D, Avenged Sevenfold, and Springsteen.” Each guy raised a hand in turn. Rick turned to Sidra with a grin. “I told you I knew people.”

“Well, let’s get started then. How about we begin today in Child’s pose? Big toes touching, knees apart. Forehead to the mat.” Rick gave her one last smile and a wink before lowering his head, and she felt her knees literally wobble. His hands, which had ignited her this morning with their very touch, were now flat on the mat, fingers spread as wide as he could take them. “If the earth isn’t close enough, you can bring your forehead to a block if you’d like.” She wound through the fresh crowd, distributing blocks as needed. “Great form, everybody. I want you to think about how your breathing changes while you’re down here.”

Sidra moved fluidly over to the bimah and touched a button on her stereo. Opium Jukebox covered Bhangra versions of everything from the Sex Pistols to the Rolling Stones. She wondered what all these grizzled working guys and rock chicks would think of her music choice. Assuming the position on her own mat under the
ner tamid
, she quietly talked them through filling their belly first, then chest, then neck with their breath. The entire room did a collective inhale.

“Room for one more?”

Sidra lifted her head at the sound of the heavy British accent. The first thing she saw were mammoth bare feet, followed by solid calves. One was decorated with a large Celtic cross tattoo, the other a fire-spitting dragon. Sidra came to a kneeling position and noticed Rick had, too.

“Put him next to me.” Rick shifted his mat to make room. “I don’t trust this one as far as I can throw him.”

The blond guy grinned from beneath an ample beard and lumbered over next to Rick. Sidra brought him her last available mat. “Thanks, gorgeous.”

“Be respectful, Summerisle.” Rick turned to Sidra. “My bandmate,” he explained. “Sam.”

“Otherwise known as Samson Steel, at your service. Had to come see what all the fuss was about.” The Viking-size guy gave a lick of his bottom lip as he stole a glance at the personal assistants’ spandex-clad bottoms resting on their heels. “All the fuss, indeed,” he murmured lasciviously.

Sidra put her finger to her lips in warning and pointed down to the mat. Sam obeyed like a big furry dog that was eager to play, but bound to please.

“Please set your intentions for the day before coming out of Child’s pose and into the first Down Dog of the day. No lofty goals, no . . . Just a silent little reminder to yourself of what you want to release or bring, right here and now, into your life.”