Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (26 page)

“Here we go, one more,” Rick joked, and held the bouquet of roses he had kept in his hand the entire time up to their chins. The Mohawked man beamed like he’d won the lottery, and Sidra could hear the rings in his bottom lip hit his teeth.

“Are these your kids?” Sidra asked as she handed him his phone back. Two brown-haired beauties smiled sweetly on his wallpaper screen.

“My twin girls. They just turned fifteen.” He held the display up with shaking hands. “Proud of my girls. Honor students. This one is Siren, and this one is Simone.”

Testing, Testing, 1-2-3

Rick waited for the dread and bile to rise. It didn’t. He braced himself for the prick of panic that primed his nerves for the attack, but it never came. He expected anxiety to flatten him right there on St. Mark’s Place like a hit-and-run. He thought the world would freeze to a stop with the incantation of his late wife’s name.

From the corner of his vision, he caught the slow, steady movement of the Cube he had helped push earlier. It was being rotated again.

The world still turns. Life goes on.

Fancy that.

The fan profusely thanked them; his day had been made. Both parties moved on. With his arm slung over Sidra’s slim shoulders, Rick felt like his own day was brave and new. Sidra’s fingers roped through the belt loop that rode low on his hip, her steps in synch with his.

Red lights were an excuse to let his lips linger on her temple, her lips, her neck. The blaze of the afternoon sun was a reason to tangle up together under the shade of Washington Square Park’s trees. They talked and touched, watching people squander their hours happily near the fountain. Sidra shared memories of her mother bringing her and Seamus to the park when they were little. Rick told her about each of his boys. And about Simone.

“So, that fan?” Sidra puzzled over the new bits of information. “He named one of his daughters after . . . your wife?”

“No. He named
both
of his daughters after songs.” Songs Rick had sung so often that their words no longer had meaning. They had never been his words, anyway. “Do you want to come up to the studio? I want to play something for you,” he heard himself say.

* * *

Dream Depth Music Studios emptied out early on Fridays, save for a few engineers tweaking knobs on deadline. Adrian had already trekked up to the lake house; they’d traded a few texts and Rick had begged off joining him, Kat, and Abbey for the weekend. Thor was thankfully nowhere on site.

Sidra marveled at the live rooms and consoles, taking it all in with the wonder of a foreigner in a new land. She admitted that even with a brother who was rarely without drumsticks in his hands, she had only witnessed music performed live, never in the process of being recorded. With his permission, she ran her hand over Jim’s snare, tapping it with the pads of her fingertips.

“It’s got to be like . . . like childbirth, bringing something totally new into the world like that. Isn’t that scary?”

Rick contemplated her comparison and she waited, watching him with those incredible eyes, both dark and bright. “Yes, in a way it’s bloody terrifying,” he admitted. The creating and the coaxing, making sure what you envisioned in your head translated into reality and not just a shadow of itself. “But the excitement and exhilaration trumps the fear.” He popped a pair of headphones on her ears and backed out of the room with a grin.

Behind the console, he flicked switches, adjusted levels, and pressed the talkback button. “Pay no attention to the man behind the glass,” he whispered, but Sidra’s broad smile told him the console mic had sent his fluid murmur to her ears crystal clear.

She tentatively tapped the double-mesh screen of the microphone in front of her. “But don’t you worry, once it’s out in the world . . . what everyone thinks of it? Of you?”

“I used to get caught up in it. But you’ve just got to trust and make peace with the fact that you put in—and put out—your very best effort.”

The track he chose for her flowed not only through her headphones, but the speakers of the console in front of him as well, its beat and melody causing the indicator lights to jump and fall in time. Sidra’s eyes closed and her frame rocked slightly.
To me,
Rick thought.

That’s my music, moving her.

It was the piece he had composed after the first time they had made love, high over Central Park. He’d wound her ribbon through his fingers and had let her bind around his heart. He didn’t have all the words yet, but they were coming.

They would be his very best effort.

“That sounds incredible. That’s you? The guitar?”

He isolated his own playing, separating it from Adrian’s staccato arpeggio. Glass-like chords formed his rhythms, but he had his share of solos, too. “That’s all me.” His signature dropped-D tuning created a thick and creamy sound, adding depth to the already complex composition.

“It’s so . . . different than I imagined. Heavy, but . . . pretty.”

Sidra’s elegant hands cupped the cans on her ears as she swayed and grooved to the music. Rick left the console room and joined her, kissing her eyelids and long lashes, her jawline and her throat. Sealed in the live room without headphones of his own, he heard no music. The only sound Rick was treated to was the breathy sigh that escaped her perfect lips. And that alone was all he needed.

His hands roamed her body, turning her gently to fit against him. She shivered as his lips found the nape of her neck. He spanned fingers across her collarbone like he was forming perfect bar chords, while his other hand caressed her middle, pushing up under the thin linen of her shirt. She gasped as his broad thumb plucked against her navel. “Is this how we celebrate?” she asked, carefully removing the headphones.

He took them from her hands and tossed them onto a nearby stool. “I’m about to celebrate all over you, if I’m not careful.”

“Is that so?” She was warm and pliable as she turned and molded her exquisite body against him: her curves to his hollows, her fingers lacing with his, and her open mouth capturing his groan.

“Hard at work, I see.” Sam’s baritone rumbled through the speakers on the wall. “Get a room, you two!” His intrusion in stereo surround-sound continued. “Or at least use the isolation booth.”

Rick leaned over Sidra’s shoulder and addressed his bandmate through the mic. “Why are you here, Summerisle?”

The bassist grinned behind the glass that separated them. “I could ask you the same thing. Still working to salvage that bridge. You and your bloody B string! Besides, nothing better to do on a Friday, now that Franny threw me out. And the twins are on holiday. I’m down to my last three Day of the Week panties.”

Panties?
Sidra mouthed to Rick.
As in . . .

“Don’t ask,” he murmured. To Sam, he replied, “Stop airing your dirty laundry, mate.” Silent laughter shook Sam, his blond locks bobbing around his massive shoulders. “Look at that great gaping gob. He’s forgotten to press the talkback button.”

Sidra laughed. Sam’s lips were moving a mile a minute, and his meaty paws were gesticulating wildly. He hadn’t a clue. Rick gave him a sarcastic thumbs up, brows raised comically. “Let’s get out of here before he says something he’s going to regret.”

Sidra took the hand Rick offered. “Where to?” she asked.

If Sam had come back to rework his bass part in “Demons Above,” then Thor couldn’t be too far behind, Rick surmised. And seeing him was definitely not on Rick’s agenda for celebrating. He’d ignored Thor’s last text:
Found another investor. You’re off the hook.

“How about dinner at one of those competing Indian establishments on your block? You know, with the crazy lights?”

Sidra looked at him like he was crazy for suggesting it. “I’m afraid you might surpass the maximum height requirement inside.” She laughed and stroked back his long unruly curls as he lifted an arm to hail a cab. “Your hair might catch fire under all those lights. But they do make a good chicken tikka!”

Best Intentions

They walked arm in arm, drunk on spice and mango lassi. Sidra had been right; Rick had had to duck his head to even get to their cozy corner table. But once inside, they were treated like royalty. The interior was like an exploded Christmas tree: Lights, balloons, ornaments, and flags dripped from the ceiling. Music and people and endless plates of naan rotated through the small space, but all Rick remembered was Sidra. And how the low-hanging lights caused the flecks of pyrite in her eyes to spark. And how her lips had tasted as exotic as the foods placed before them when he stole kisses between conversations. Even in that manic atmosphere, they were able to shut out the world. It had been just the two of them, exploring each other, learning more, growing closer.

A woman pushing a jogging stroller approached. Despite the humid evening, she wore a long skirt and her arms were covered. Her pretty face was partially obscured by the thick, straight hair of what appeared to be a wig. Rick remembered . . . it was Friday, and they were within the
eruv
.

“Shabbat Shalom,” he said as they passed.

The woman happily echoed his greeting, sending a bright smile their way.

Sidra squeezed Rick’s arm. “You surprise me.” Her whisper was an echo from the day of the blackout in the yoga studio.

He’d come to her sanctuary seeking something, and yet it felt as if he had found so much more. It went well beyond yoga, and attraction; it was the sense of belonging and well-being that had been eluding him for such a long time. Of having everything he needed and needing to look no further. He squeezed her back, wordless, happy.

“I almost forgot it was Friday,” she commented. “No work today has thrown me off.”

“You deserve a day off once in a while. Today, especially.” He kissed her temple. “You know, in Jewish poetry and music, Friday—the Sabbath—is described as a bride. And one welcomes her and greets her. Quite mystical, really.”

“That’s beautiful.” Sidra flashed him a smile as they turned onto her street. “You’re quite the Renaissance man. Heavy metal, religious symbolism, yoga . . .” Her tone matched the warm night breeze that teased through their hair, tangling her straight tresses with his thick curls.

“Nah, just an old dog learning some new tricks, that’s all.”

“I know this is going to sound silly, but my dad . . .” Sidra paused at her gate. “He’s been wanting to meet you.”

“You don’t think he—”

Sidra shook her head. “He won’t remember the Whiskey Ward. Trust me. I’ve had Fiona monitoring his food and drink intake all afternoon. It will be like meeting an entirely different Jack.”

Rick stared up the steps of the brownstone, remembering the shock and embarrassment on her face that had greeted him as he stumbled down the block with Jack draped over his shoulder. Had that really only been yesterday?

She led him inside her apartment, through the Lilliputian kitchen, and out a back door. Three concrete steps up and they were under the stars again. Sidra noticed Rick’s gaping expression and laughed.

“It’s just that I . . . I never considered New Yorkers could have a backyard!” he sputtered. He thought of all those high-rise dwellers and what they were missing. Even Adrian, with his park views, couldn’t walk into his private patch of green at midnight. “This is incredible!”

He took a tentative step off the small patio and onto the grass. High wooden fences cordoned off the space on either side, and the windowless brick of a building from the street behind served as the garden’s back wall. Strands of tiny white lights suddenly twinkled on, dancing along the fences and through a few of the trees. It was as if the stars had decided to drop in on the party.

“Dad!” Sidra turned toward the house. A laugh emanated from an open window above them. “Here he comes.”

Jack emerged moments later, carrying a hurricane lantern in one hand and a six-pack in the other. Sidra bounced over, kissing his cheek and relieving him of the beer. “Dad, this is Rick.”

“Jack Sullivan.” Sidra’s dad thrust his free hand into Rick’s open palm and pumped it warmly. “Finally, we meet.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir.” And it was. Sidra had been right. When not clouded by drink, her father’s blue eyes were sharp as they subtly gave her suitor the once-over.

“Sir, bah. Call me Jack. North London?”

“Yes, Hampstead.” Rick followed father and daughter up the flagstone path to a small set of chairs and a table. Sidra lit tiki torches in a halo around them while Jack cracked the tops off three of the ales.

“It’s nice to hear RP without a hit of Estuary.”

“You got all that in less than ten words?” Rick accepted the bottle Jack handed him with a nod.

“Dad. Stop showing off,” Sidra teased. She picked up a beer and took a healthy swallow. Rick detected a tiny smile of pride hiding behind her bottle.

“An accent can tell the history behind a person. Often, better than the person behind the accent,” Jack said, kicking his feet up onto the extra chair.

Rick wondered what else his accent said about him. Embarrassed at an early age by his parents’ wealth? Rebelled against their regard for higher education as soon as he had finished his posh public schooling? Self-conscious of his covenant with God whilst growing up under the shadow of the Church of England? He had traded the silver spoon in his mouth for heavy metal in his veins, learned life lessons from every city on the road, and prayed to very different gods now.

“Your mother,” Jack continued, staring down the neck of his now half-empty bottle, “moved here from India at age three. Spoke no English until school began for her at five. She taught her parents English as she learned it herself. She had barely a trace of an accent by twenty.” He pinched his thumb and index finger together and squinted an eye. “Like the tiniest hint of spice in a dish. But I fell in love with it. And then I fell in love with her.”

The way Sidra was hanging on to her father’s every word told Rick she had never heard this story before. He had a feeling Jack didn’t speak of his wife often.

The three of them chatted easily as the evening grew louder around them. Crickets and katydids trilled their night songs, blending with distant sirens and the vibrating clack of subway cars. It was only when Jack lurched up to use the bathroom inside that Rick noticed the man had consumed four beers to their one, effectively killing the six-pack.

“Walk with me?” Sidra was luminous in the moonlight, her hand like a cool, smooth shell in his palm as she led him through the small garden. So small, they couldn’t walk far, giving Rick the perfect excuse to press Sidra against the brick of the back wall and kiss her sweetly.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” She nipped his lip and smiled up at him.

“For showing me this exists.” If questioned, he didn’t know if he would be able to put into words what exactly “this” was: The nature, the beauty, the stillness all humbled him. Just as life, and love, energized him.

Sidra bent and touched a rock by their feet. Light illuminated it briefly as Jack pushed open the back door, and Rick saw it wasn’t a rock at all. It was a ram’s head, sculpted from terracotta in fiery burnt orange. It was rough-hewn and obviously one of a kind. Grass and clover grew up around it, rooting it there and making it seem as if it had been a part of the natural landscape for a while now.

“You have your mother’s fingers,” he murmured as Sidra lovingly traced the ridges of one of the curved horns. Her hands were an exact fit in the grooves.

“Her name,” Jack bellowed from the patio, “was Satya.” He was now nursing a brown beer jug the size of a small infant that he must have retrieved from inside. “It means ‘truth.’ Meant,” he corrected himself, swearing under his breath and taking a swig as if to punish himself. “Satya
meant
truth.”

“Dad . . .” Sidra’s dismay led her back to her father; Rick followed.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. It didn’t seem adequate. “May her memory be a blessing.”
And not a curse.

Jack’s face was close enough for Rick to see the broken capillaries splayed across his nose like the red lines on a subway map. “You don’t know what it feels like to lose your truth!”

“Actually, Jack . . . I do.”

“Dad! Stop.” Sidra inserted herself between them. “Enough.” There was a brief tug-of-war with the bottle, but Jack held fast. “Why don’t you go inside?”

“No, I think I’m gonna go down to ABC.” Smiling Jack was back, but again, his eyes belied his smile. “For a growler fill.”

“Can’t you just stay home tonight?”

Rick heard the little girl lost in his lover’s voice. Jack kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Just ducking out for an Easy Blonde.” He winked at Rick. “That’s the name of the draft, if you get my drift. You kids have fun tonight.”

* * *

Rick stared at the bars on Sidra’s bedroom window once they were inside and wondered if she even realized she was a prisoner. He wanted to free her from every cage binding her in and holding her back, just as she had freed him from the rusty, unforgiving traps of his mind and body.

And those were truly his very best intentions.