Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (29 page)

Standing Room Only

“Just let everything dissolve . . .” Sidra advised. But it was hard to settle into the final relaxation as the floor beneath her students resonated with a steady
thump, thump, thump
from somewhere. Perhaps it was a good thing that half her class had already vacated. One by one, their phones, set to silent, had begun lighting up like Christmas trees twenty minutes into class. The publicists made like lemmings for the door, followed by several others. Apologies were murmured, gasps could be heard as they scurried out, until only Pixie, Deuce, Benny, and a few of her old regulars remained. “Come on,” Pixie had protested. “Did Lady Gaga have a wardrobe malfunction? What kind of musical emergency could possibly impact this many people in the business?”

“Moving on,” Sidra had prompted, and led the meager holdouts through their poses. It was depressing enough that she could count on her fingers the number of classes that remained before the place was shuttered for good. She’d hoped that quality would make up for the shrinking quantity, but her tranquil environment was already being infringed upon. Over the past week, surveyors, architects, engineers, and interior decorators had paraded through, all on Thor’s payroll and with no heed to business hours or class schedules. Her uncle was too busy meeting with lawyers and liquidators to even care.

Applause and a collective cheer erupted from somewhere up front.

“It sounds like the roof is caving in.” Benny struggled to a seated position. “Benny wants to know what is going on!”

“Sounds more like a party no one invited us to,” Deuce commented, pushing his mammoth digits together and bowing his bandana-clad head. “Namaste, Sidra.”

“Thank you for allowing me to—”

“Chhhheeeeeeck . . . check one, two.”

“—to guide your practice,” Sidra hollered over the amplification that echoed through the space.
What the hell?
The thumping had now been replaced by a low buzz. “Namaste, everyone. And remember: If you aren’t coming to a class again before we close and haven’t used up your punch cards, take them with you. I’ve made arrangements with Yogatality on Houston to honor them.”

“Will you be teaching there?” one of her regulars asked. Hopeful murmurs from the others followed.

Sidra slowly shook her head. “No, Gerta. I’m afraid not.”

After many hours of quiet contemplation, using the cheap flip-flop on her wall as a gazing point, Sidra had made some decisions. She’d stared at her $5.00 drugstore
drishti
until her eyes unfocused and her mind became clear. She had somehow lost sight of her happiness, and of who she was, hoping that some knight in shining armor would come and rescue her. It hadn’t begun with Rick, or even with Charlie. But being wronged by them had reinforced the notion that something was wrong with
her
. She’d forced herself to look way back, to her original knight in shining armor: her father. Jack had relegated himself useless without a mate. Worthless, Sidra had realized, like the lone shoe hanging on her wall.

Life is what we make of it,
she’d decided, reaching up and wiggling the nail out of the wall with strong fingers. The flip-flop dropped to the bed, and Sidra slipped it on.
Do you render yourself obsolete, or do you work with what you’ve got?

She’d fallen into Corpse pose on the bed, lifting her foot and inspecting it. She’d let the shoe dangle until it dropped off.

She wasn’t going to ever wait to be rescued again.

“I’ve been offered a job at a renowned yoga retreat in the Berkshires,” she told her students. Testing out how that sounded. She and the director of the institute had had an hour-long discussion last week, when she had dropped Jack off for their highly successful twelve-step yoga and meditation recovery program. She wasn’t going to wait for her father to drink himself into a place he couldn’t come out of. It wasn’t her job to rescue him, but then again, it wasn’t her place to enable him, either. Hopefully Jack would be well enough to come home before his semester started, but regardless, she was seriously considering taking the teaching job upstate come autumn. A new start, she envisioned, as the leaves shed their brilliance all around her.

The buzzing noise increased when she opened her studio door, echoing off the walls. The sound vibrated through her body like a mantra chant, leaving a ringing in her ears.

Fiona pounced on her. “I didn’t want to disturb your class. But you need to come see this.”

The first thing Sidra saw were bodies, five rows deep, lining the hallway. People swayed, impatient, and craned their necks to see over the heads of those in front of them. Deuce parted the crowd with his body like it was the Red Sea, allowing safe passage for the rest of Sidra’s yoga students.

“Fi, this is a fire hazard!”

“I know,” Fiona hollered, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her through the corridor. “Isn’t it great?”

Guys from the Local 1 and 4 were in front of a makeshift stage in the corner of Mike’s record shop. A half hour ago, they had been prone on mats in her studio. Now they were testing lights and stringing cable. Stagehands, still in their yoga gear, scuttled to adjust mic stands and pedalboards. Every PR person who had vacated her class either had a phone to their ear or was ushering in the news media they had alerted.

Revolve Records had hosted live in-store appearances before, but nothing like this.

“Where the hell is Mikey?” Sidra stood on her tiptoes, seeking out her cousin. The traitor. “So I can kill him dead.”

“Sid, can you blame him for wanting to go out in a blaze of glory?” Fiona pointed out. “Come on. He was offered an exclusive. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

Exclusive, ha.
Sidra had learned what happened when you trusted musicians and their exclusivity. Girls like Evie happened. And texts and calls from ones named Gloria.

More gear was loaded in, and a Plexiglas shield, like the one that had surrounded the drums in the recording studio she’d visited with Rick, was erected on stage.

This was more than just a simple in-store performance.

Vivian, from the beginners class, waved a hand madly in Sidra’s direction from behind the sales counter. The vibrant senior citizen hadn’t been in attendance today, and now she was sporting a Rotten Graves T-shirt.

“If it’s too loud, you’re too old, Benny!” she crowed, watching her classmate as he made for the door with his hands over his ears.

“Vivian, what are you doing back there?” Sidra asked.

“I’ve come to get autographs for my grandkids. You didn’t tell me we had a genuine troubadour in our midst!” Sidra allowed her gaze to follow the straight line of Vivian’s elegant fingertip, and felt her rib cage contract as the breath left her. Rick was stepping up to the small stage, a guitar slung on his shoulder just as naturally as Sidra slung her yoga bag.

Sidra’s Song

“You all right, mate?” Adrian bumped a shoulder to Rick’s from the high stool next to his.

Rick stared at the word tattooed on the knuckles of his best friend’s hand, where it rested easily on the body of his twelve-string guitar.
Y E S !

Yes. I can do this.

He gripped the neck of his own guitar. The sunburst-on-black pattern of his Martin Marquis reminded him of the sun, rising to flame Sidra’s hair from behind that first morning they’d made love, high over Central Park. Was she here?

I have to do this.

Rick had passed up the chance to sing to someone he loved once before, and damned if he was going to make the same mistake twice.

A sea of faces stared up at him. The empty record store he’d stumbled into while lost that long ago day was now packed to the gills. Beyond the windows, he saw the masses had spilled into the narrow street. Metalheads and music fans intermingled with the residents of the Lower East Side. Rick had fashioned a rock and roll
eruv
of sorts, arranging listening parties in every bar within the radius of Rivington, a live feed to appease the overflow of eager listeners. Private security had been hired for crowd control so he and the band could take their performance art to the next level.

Behind him, Jim began a shimmering intro that gently began to tap out a heartbeat. Sam picked it up, thrumming a bass line that strengthened the spine. Rick and Adrian cued themselves with barely a glance to each other. Even after their prolonged estrangement, their muscle memory from making music together for years was still there, along with their awareness of their effect on the crowd. Bodies in space.

His fingers found the strings. As flesh and steel became one, he remembered his hands on Sidra, playing her body as it melted against his.

This
was mind-body connection. It was no wonder he’d felt so disconnected in the sterile recording studio. His world had always existed on the stage. But now, as he prepared to share his true intentions, from the very core of his heart, he realized his world wasn’t complete without her.

He embraced that deepest truth, breathing deep and allowing his mantra to come forth. And into the mic, he murmured, “This one is called ‘Dove.’”

She carries the word on her lips,

And I feel it in my bones.

For one kiss upon her shoulder

I’d give up every kingdom, all my thrones.

Soften up, she says,

Those wings made of steel.

But they’re wrapped up in

These chains of silk

That I can’t even feel.

She carries the world on her shoulders,

But she lies with me alone,

Firing up the very core of me,

Binding skin to muscle,

Muscle to bone.

Soften up, she says,

Those wings made of steel.

But they’re wrapped up in

These chains of silk

That I can’t even feel.

She smiles but hides

The truth from herself,

Never daring to fly.

She holds her own wings

Closed tight,

But she’s watching the sky.

I’ve been kicked in the teeth,

Can barely stand.

Everything’s out of reach,

Can’t honor thy commands.

Did I take her wings for granted?

Did I pull her to the ground?

Did I tear her feathers, one by one?

Did I bring her down?

Maybe she’ll learn to fly again

And I’ll learn to feel

Once we

Soften up those chains of silk

Wrapped up in

Wings of steel.

The crowd let loose its collectively held breath, and a cacophony of whistles, hollers, and claps broke the spell. Perfume and leopard print whirled into his line of vision, and he grasped for Fiona in the crowd. “Did she hear it?”

But one glance over her shoulder hollowed his heart. He spied a snatch of orange ribbon as it was swept from the black curtain of hair. Sidra let it fall to the floor on her way out the door.

Flight or Fight

Typical,
Sidra fumed.
Leave it to a musician to think he can solve everything with a song.
While her heart ached from the beauty and truth she’d heard within it, her head advised her better. She didn’t need a song to tell her it was time to shake off the roots and fly. Especially one penned by the guy who had pushed her from the nest and then pulled the welcome mat up from under her feet. His clever way of saying “Tough shit, suck it up and move on.”

Pushing through the throngs in front of the shop, she ducked down the alleyway and into the receiving door. Seamus’s steampunk bike was parked patiently amid the boxes and broken-down bicycle parts in Sully’s storage space. She carefully toed up the kickstand, swung a leg over, and took herself far from Rivington, Revolve, and Rick.

Credit Due

“It’s an absolute zoo out front,” Sam shouted. “We’ll have to wait it out.”

Rick felt the vise grip of panic at his throat. He couldn’t go after Sidra, and he couldn’t get away from the throngs of admirers that were magnifying his anxiety tenfold.
What the hell had he been thinking?

“‘Play ‘Simone’!” someone yelled from the crowd, and mob mentality took over. “Si-mone, Si-mone, Si-mone!”

“Through the back,” Rick choked out.

“We can’t leave after one song,” Jim reasoned. “They’ll tear this place down to the rafters, going against everything you’re trying to do.”

The crowd undulated, causing Rick to feel dizzy. He let his seat find the stool, shielding himself with his useless guitar. Jim was right. Even with private security, he couldn’t just leave Mikey to deal with the aftermath. Not of the mess he himself had created.

“Si-mone, Si-mone, Si-mone!”

“I say we play it. Give the people what they want.” Sam, stubborn and insensitive as he had been in their youth, back when he and Rick used to butt heads routinely, put his foot down. “Bloody hell, Riff. Get over yourself!”

“No,” Adrian said.

“You wrote the poxy song!” Sam turned on Adrian now, stating the obvious. “Despite what it says on the album credits. Don’t kowtow to him! He’s not the bloody king.”

“Damn right, I wrote it. But it wasn’t my place, then . . . or now. So, no. Sam.
No.
”

Adrian reached out a hand, tattoos shifting as his biceps strained, and he helped his blood brother to his feet. “Let’s play ‘Cat with the Emerald Eyes.’ And then let’s get the hell out of here, because I have a tuxedo fitting in two hours.”

Rick gripped his friend’s arm in thanks. Adrian Graves was still the strongest man he knew. “How do you do it, mate?”

“What?”

“This! Surviving. Thriving. What’s your secret?”

“Kat. The first day I met her, her kiss literally caused my life to pass before my eyes, making me realize it was a bloody great shipwreck that I hadn’t been brave enough to salvage.” Adrian’s eyes shone with care and concern, making Rick realize that the one secret Kat never gave up was his panic attacks. “Are you all right?”

“I . . . I haven’t been. Anxiety attacks have plagued me since . . . hell, since the band originally split. I’m sorry, mate.” He slung his guitar over his shoulder once again and covered the mic with his hand as his lead guitarist prepared to take over lead vocals. “I never gave you enough credit. Not for the song . . . or for being able to balance home life, your happiness, and music. You deserve that credit. Full stop.”

Adrian mouthed his thanks, astute and sincere. And then he launched into the song that had helped make peace with his own past.

* * *

The band sequestered itself in a studio up near the lake house and got down to work. There was no time to waste. And no time to dwell on Sidra. Rick didn’t have to. She was the name on his lips when he awoke. Her voice was in his head as he took himself through his morning yoga routine to tackle each long day in the studio. And the memory of her touch carried him through each endless night. She had permeated his entire being.

Rick wasn’t sure if his rock and roll Hail Mary attempt to reach Sidra had fallen on deaf ears. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had hoped to accomplish that day. But as they carefully mixed his live vocals into the studio track, he realized he never could’ve captured the essence of the song in a recording studio. No, he had had to do it on her turf on the off chance she was there to hear it, in order to capture its true power and vulnerability. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He trusted and made peace with the fact that he’d put in, as he had confided to her at the recording studio, his very best effort. And with that, he let it go and released it into the world.

“Leak it. Leak it like your life depends on it, Mason.” The young engineer had not only aligned himself with the band on this matter, he had worked alongside them as a producer for the first time in his career. “I want her to hear it everywhere she turns.”

“I know Thor won’t be happy that we messed with his blueprint,” Adrian commented later as they shared a celebratory beer over the fire pit by the lake. “But I have to say, the track is bloody brilliant.”

Rick couldn’t help but smile at Adrian’s choice of words. And at the thought of the phone call he had received from Gloria a few hours prior. “I think Thor is going to be far more livid about the other blueprint I messed with,” he said.

Adrian quirked a brow. “Care to share?”

“Let’s see . . . how did Kat phrase it, after she first tracked you down, and then me? Ah yes.
Never underestimate the power of a good research librarian.
”