Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (9 page)

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“You boys ready to make a piece of music history?”

Rick cast a quick glance up at Thor. Their producer was rubbing his hands a bit too maniacally to be taken seriously. The album was a piece, all right. Of what, Rick wasn’t quite sure. But his gut told him it wasn’t quite right. Any old dinosaur could leave a fossil behind; they needed to leave a legacy. The rest of the band was having lunch and listening to the playback, but Rick had lost his appetite four tracks ago.

“As soon as Sam devours that U-boat, I’d say we’re good to go,” he murmured, dropping his gaze back to his notebook.

Rick wasn’t used to blank pages.

The band had spent the past week live tracking in the studio. They had the basics of ten songs nailed down. But Rick wasn’t convinced they were the right ten for the project. Yet he could tell Thor’s brain was working five paces ahead, his sights already set on overdubbing. Rick wasn’t in the mood for another battle of wills. He was still smarting from yesterday, after Thor suggested he try the growling approach to his vocals popular with the newer screamo and grindcore bands. “Where are those brass balls of yours?” the producer had razzed. “You used to be such a beast back in the day.”

Rick knew he was having trouble nailing some of the high notes, but he had no desire to sing in what he called “Cookie Monster tones.” “I’m a vocalist,” Rick had informed him. “Not a bloody Muppet.”

Thorton Young III was no young upstart in the business. In fact, he had spent years in the trenches with Corroded Corpse, back in the eighties when they were spinning their souls into platters of gold. But Rick knew the tides had turned in the business. It wasn’t just about album sales; not when bands like Radiohead were practically giving away albums in a pay-what-you-want environment and unsigned acts were getting five million hits on their YouTube videos.

It was about relevance.

The band could no longer just keep singing about Vikings and rats and pillaging, the fodder that had made them famous in the eighties. Mythology and history were not as progressive or cool as the new dystopian view. Kids these days wanted to hear about surviving the zombie apocalypse and landfills in the sky, doomsday stuff. It should be a no-brainer, since the Rotten Graves Project was descended from doom metal royalty.

“Heavy is the head that wears the metal crown, eh, Rotten?” Thor’s voice niggled.

Rick tapped his pen against the empty page, staring absently at his bandmates. The King of Doom had been cursed with silence, a writer’s block that was growing roots and thick, thorny vines that snaked up the walls of the fortress he had built. Luckily, the jesters holding court were full of ideas.

Speaking of mighty Norsemen . . . Sam was wrestling with a submarine sandwich, his Viking beard catching bits of lettuce as they dropped. Although not the most serious musician, he had at least managed to keep the rust off his bass strings during the band’s hiatus by doing session work with just about half of Los Angeles. To his right sat Jim, looking just as redneck American as Sam appeared red-cheeked British. The lad didn’t seem to own a shirt with sleeves. Rick stared at the colorful creatures inked around the drummer’s bulging biceps. It was as if the three-eyed Fujins, Asian devil dragons, and Kabuki demons had been summoned to spur Jim on like a man possessed when he stepped behind the kit. He was the only member not original to the lineup, having been plucked from the helm of his own successful group, Dead Can Dream. He set the pace for his idols, refusing to let the moss grow under their aging feet. Jim’s own feet were in constant tapping mode, and his hands were rarely without sticks. Currently, he was keeping time on an empty pizza box balanced atop Thor’s swivel chair.

And then there was Adrian. His skid-row sensibilities made him every metalhead’s man. Even with his Madison Avenue wardrobe. He had the knack of making music effortlessly, fluidly, yet with a passion that was enviable. And he had figured out how to hang his cap at the end of the day, switching from one world to the other. Which was
very
enviable. With his reading glasses perched on his nose and his Fluevog motorcycle boots propped up, Rick’s lead guitarist was immersed in the Sunday
New York Times
crossword puzzle, oblivious to the din around him. Adrian defied logic, God bless him. The former loose cannon of the band had achieved a Zen-like balance. Meanwhile, Rick had achieved bloody little since the regrouping. Maybe it really was time to try a yoga class. He felt—

“Well, spit it out, man.”

“Come again?”

“I figured you must have it, since you’ve been staring at me for an age.” Adrian pulled off his glasses. “The opposite of ‘prolific.’ Eight letters, ends with
t
.”

Rick cleared his throat. “Impotent.”

Adrian raised a brow and placed pen to paper once more. He clucked amusedly before smacking the paper down triumphantly. “First time for everything!”

“What, is that the first time you’ve ever finished a puzzle?” Sam mocked, pulling a slimy tomato from between the bread and flicking it onto Jim’s pizza box. All drumming stopped abruptly.

“
The
puzzle. As in the Sunday puzzle. In
pen
.”

Jim whistled his awe before popping out for a cigarette break. Sam simply hoisted himself out of his chair and announced, “Finished the U-boat. Now time to drop a missile.”

“Keep that bit of intelligence to yourself next time, Summerisle!” Adrian groaned.

“Hey Riff, I wanna show you something.”

Rick dropped notebook and pen and approached the control board. Thor had what looked like blueprints up on his laptop screen.

“I’m tired of renting a chair under my ass. Or rather, having you or a record label rent it for me. I’m thinking of opening my own recording studio. Was wondering if you’d want in?” Thor stroked the keyboard, and the screen filled with thumbnail images of commercial properties.

“You mean investing?”

“Yeah. I’ve found some spaces that have real potential. This location here would be a steal.” He nudged the screen with his knuckle. “Old dry cleaning business, Lower East Side.”

Rick studied it doubtfully. “Looks like it should be condemned.”

“Scaffolding,” Thor scoffed. “That’ll be gone in a New York minute. Probably just some facade work.”

“I’ll think about it,” Rick replied, sensing Adrian at his shoulder. “Might be cool to have a stake in some Manhattan realty.”

“Your own floor to kip on, at least,” Adrian joked.

“What do you think, Dig?” Rick wanted to know.

“No way. I think Kat would kill me.” He just shrugged as the other two made whip-cracking noises. “I’ve got a wedding to think about, guys. And school tuition.”

In other words, a life,
Rick thought darkly. “You know what?” he blurted. “Hell, I’m in.”
Who cares what Adrian thinks? Thor asked me, not him.
Rick took a bit of perverse pleasure in that.

“Really? Sweet!” Thor slapped the Mac closed. “I’ll set up a meeting with the other guys on board. Mostly suits. But they’re cool. They’ll be psyched to have an artist on board.”

“Set it up,” Rick agreed. He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got an appointment; mind if I roll?”

“What about the overdubs?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Rick promised.
Right now,
he thought,
there’s a first time for everything.

Seeking Sanctuary

Sometimes it was better to get out of your own way, thought Sidra, and your own studio. In fact, there was a reason she held no classes on Thursdays. There were times when she liked to practice yoga alone, and other times when she needed someone else’s prompts and cues in her head. She headed toward NYU. Her friend Gretchen ran a serious class that people clamored for. She wanted to be worked hard, forced to concentrate on poses so that all else left her mind.

Of course Charlie assumed she would take care of the iguana. Wasn’t she always there to take care of everything? To take the brunt of everything? She remembered all the times she’d come home after a grueling day of exams, just longing to crawl into her pajamas, eat a can of soup, and fall asleep, only to find starving musicians had emptied her entire kitchen. Couldn’t they have ordered a pizza? Then there was the time Charlie let some dreadlocked ska band crash at her place. “It’s only for one night,” Charlie had said. Yeah. And the band
only
gave the two of them, and her pullout sofa, a horrible case of crabs. It took her weeks to get rid of
those
unwanted guests.

She had long suffered as the girlfriend of a musician. Supporting his dream. Being used. Being made a fool of. As if the creative life gave him license to fool around. She should have kept walking that day she saw him in the rain. She was still paying for it now, unable to say no to him. No more, flat out.

Charlie and his freaking passes.

She remembered the first real gig the Bold O’Danahys landed in New York, at a hip club now long gone. Charlie had made laminates for the band members and their girlfriends, and Sidra remembered the thrill of winding through the crowd importantly, that all-access pass hanging from her neck. Silly, but it finally felt like all the time she had invested in Charlie’s dream had paid off. She loved gliding past the bouncers, behind the velvet rope, backstage. Many eyes were on her as she passed by, checking out the wardrobe she had cultivated over the course of the weeks leading up to the show. She was impeccably, stylishly “with the band.” Her man was the main man on stage, she thought proudly. And she was his sexy muse. How lucky was she?

“How fuckable is he?”

“Who, the lead singer? Totally.”

Two girls swayed their hips to the music by the balcony rail, blocking Sidra’s view and talking about Charlie.

“Even with that banjo he’s playing,” the first girl drawled loudly, buzzed on her drink. “He can pluck me any time!”

“Electric banjo!” Girl number two laughed and curled her tongue to capture the lone ice cube remaining in her cup. “Too bad he’s taken.”

“Seriously?”

Damn straight,
Sidra felt like saying. But the music was too loud and she was feeling too good to care. Charlie
was
hot, banjo slung low on his hips and looking as cocky and confident as any rock star. Girls could look at the menu all they wanted.

“Jenny’s working coat check tonight. She said he snuck in there with the fiddle player during set break!”

“Eww, I hope they weren’t grinding all naked on
my
coat!”

“Jenny said he was totally fingering her up that short skirt.”

Sidra was in a tunnel, the music now far away. She was alone on a balcony full of people. Laughter and talking and singing and drinking and dancing were no longer within her realm of possibility. She stood frozen, staring at the stage. Seeing, as if for the first time, the chemistry on stage between Evie and Charlie.

“We needed a new fiddle player.” Charlie loved to defend his lineup choice to anyone who asked. “So might as well get a smoking hot one! Maybe more people will come see us.” To Sidra he’d assure, “She’s just like one of the guys.”

Evie was a great draw. She wore crazy high heels, adding to her already Amazonian stature, and played the fiddle like she played the entire audience. She’d bounce one knee, her slim thigh quivering beneath her impossibly short skirts and tight dresses, and smirk a pretty little smirk as she pointed her bow in the direction of every guy and girl in the front row. Her nose would wrinkle and then she’d shake her hips to the beat. Now she was arching her eyebrows, dyed fiery red to match her mane of hair, in Charlie’s direction as they both fingered their respective string instruments in perfect unison to wrap up their last song in their set.
Fingered.
Sidra felt nauseated.

Charlie had called a band meeting backstage after the show, their most successful gig yet. Drunken fans hollered for one more song as security began to do a sweep, moving people out into the frigid Manhattan night. A couple of A&R guys lingered, hot to talk to the band about representation. Sidra pushed her way into the tight back room. The air in there was claustrophobic, thick with smoke and sweat and tired laughter. “Hey, we’re in the middle of— Oh, it’s okay, it’s only Sidra. Hey, doll.” Charlie reached for her with a hand already clasping a bottle of beer.

“Yep, only me,” Sidra said loudly. She spied Evie sitting on a couch next to their drummer, Justin. A beer was poised at her mouth, a smile playing on her beautiful lips over something Justin was saying. “I’m just like one of the guys.” Sidra grabbed the beer from Charlie’s hand and took a swig. “In fact, let me smell your fingers, Charlie.”

Charlie opened his mouth, and the room grew quiet. “What the fuck, Sid?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go to hell.” She catapulted the remaining beer across his chest and then dropped the bottle to the floor, where it smashed at his feet. With her heart in smithereens, she fled.

“Watch your step, miss.” A voice brought her back to the here and now. The mile walk had barely registered with her, she had been so caught up in the memories.

“Thanks.” In her fancy new shoes, Sidra dodged shards of glass littering the sidewalk in front of the Gallatin building where a bottle must’ve broken, and nodded at the passerby who had issued the warning. She could smell the aroma of wine staining the pavement as she bowed her head and ducked into NYU.

New Guy on the Block

Ah, spandex the way God intended it. Or better yet,
mused Rick,
the devil.
In every direction, girls dotted the landscape like gumdrops in their shiny, colorful exercise garb. Paul had been right about the scenery, Rick thought. He didn’t remember university looking this appealing. Then again, he hadn’t lasted long in higher education, trading the books for baby nappies and band commitments.

He waited patiently in line to scan Paul’s faculty ID card and gain entrance into the inner sanctum of supposed yoga nirvana. The modern expanse of glass and chrome within the whitewashed lobby was in severe contrast to the view outside on Washington Place. A sudden summer storm had shaded the sky as gray as the pavement, and rain looked imminent.

“Hi, here for the six thirty?”

A nubile blonde encased in a sexy black tracksuit addressed him from behind the front desk. In her hand, she wielded a scanner gun that would either allow him to proceed or would Taser him senseless on the spot.

“Indeed. Hi.” Rick gave his best winning smile. He felt underdressed in his football kit, consisting of a pair of West Ham shorts and collared player’s shirt.

“What do you teach?” she asked, her eyes on the plastic faculty card as she scanned it.

“Currently,” Rick murmured dryly, “I’m trying to teach an old dog some new tricks.”

The blonde cocked her head. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Considering I’m the old dog . . . it’s pretty crap.”

She laughed as she buzzed him through. “Enjoy the class.”

*   *   *

He could stride onto legendary stages before throngs of screaming thousands without a second thought, but the utter silence of the small, windowless yoga room gave Rick pause. It was unsettling. He observed two dozen or so participants, mostly women, sitting rod-straight on mats, some with their buttocks resting on colorful bricks. Not an open eye among them. The instructor, a wisp of a woman with an umbrella of kinky ginger curls cascading from the crown of her head, motioned him toward the general vicinity of where the mats and blocks were stockpiled. Her body reminded Rick of rubber bands, shapely but taut, not an ounce of fat to be seen.

“Have you practiced yoga before?” she whispered as he passed her.

He surprised himself by giving her a noncommittal shake of the wrist, as if to say,
Oh, a little here, a little there
. He had toured Southeast Asia extensively, had visited Buddhist temples in Japan, and had certainly
observed
yoga. Then there was that bird from Australia who had roped him into some Tantric sexual escapades for a brief spell. But “practice” was something that implied eventual perfection to Rick. And he didn’t want to admit he wasn’t perfect at something.

He settled onto a block in his best cross-legged pose, allowing his eyes to close. The only sound reaching his ears was the second hand sweeping in five-second, hushed intervals on the wall clock high overhead.
This could pass for relaxing,
he thought. Then he chastised himself for thinking;
if yoga is about clearing the mind, have I already failed the test?
Soft air and the scent of sandalwood breezed by; the instructor had moved to turn on the stereo.
Commencing airy-fairy jingle jangle.
New age flute and sitar filled the room.

He stood and followed the others as gracefully as possible into his very first Swan Dive, and the instructor began to work them through some sun salutations. Moving without the customary eight pounds of guitar hanging from his neck felt foreign, like one of his limbs was missing.

From there, they moved into a position true to its namesake, Awkward Chair. He felt like a royal twonk, trying to balance in his wee invisible chair. Thankfully, the instructor cued them into what she called ‘the first Down Dog of the day.’ Rick was perfectly content to hang out here for a while. It felt legit.

“Wag your tail, lift your sit-bones high. Shoulders down.”

Rick felt like an obedient doggy indeed, only to be rewarded by the torturous Plank.
Good God!
His abs launched a shaky protest, but he held strong until he was told to transform into an ark-load of other animals: Cobra, Locust, Cat, Cow, Dog, Pigeon. Internally, he cursed Kat and Paul. Infernally. How on earth had they convinced him this would be good? This was hell.

He shook out his limbs, willing himself not to glance at the clock.
Soon it will be over and I never have to come again.

“Standing Half Lotus,” the rubber band lady commanded, and the entire room bent their right legs like hypnotized storks. Rick followed suit, cheating with his hands in order to prop his foot firmly upon his opposite thigh. He achieved balance, slowly stretching out his arms.

Yes, master of the bloody universe.

He had no problem following the instructor’s cue of focusing his gaze on one spot on the floor, as the view was exquisite. The girl positioned on the mat in front of him had an ass that could stop traffic. Her tiny black yoga shorts hugged its ripe curves and ended spectacularly, showcasing her smooth tan thighs. Her top, a pale pink spandex contraption that crisscrossed along her shoulder blades, did not betray an ounce of excess body fat along her torso, and he marveled as he noticed the way she tucked her tailbone at the instructor’s cue. The thought of that slight pivot in her hips almost caused Rick to groan aloud. He wanted to run his fingers down her spine; it was perfectly aligned, like the fretboard of his favorite guitar.

Focus, ruddy focus. You pathetic geezer. She’s probably half your age.

“Very good. Let’s bring our right hands to the center of our chests in
Anjali Mudra
. Yes, that’s half prayer position. Now bring your left hand to meet your right, pressing your palms together. Don’t drop your right foot!”

Rick was lost. He held his current position, silently praying to God above or the devil below to keep him upright. He did not want to fall on his arse in front of—or behind, for that matter—this lovely creature. She was like Devon cream tea, he thought stupidly. A memory surfaced of his aunt Bootsy pouring out a lovely cup of tea using her best china. The sweet stickiness of fresh apricot jam and dollops of clotted cream came to mind as he considered this yoga girl’s flesh.
I’d like to split her scones and cream them.

“Bring your awareness to the center of your body,” the instructor was saying.
No bloody problem there.
“Think of the vertical line that runs directly through the center of your head, neck, and torso. If this is your limit and your comfort zone, stay here.” Rick wanted to laugh, but he was too uncomfortable to do so. “If you’re more advanced, slowly move into
Ardha Baddha Padmottanasana
.”

He watched in amazement as half of the class, Miss Cream Tea included, proceeded to reach for the sky with their right hands. With a deep breath and fluid movement, the girl lowered her hand behind her back until she was grasping her left elbow. “Create that bind and connection,” the instructor breathed, winding through the class to observe their progress. Rick concentrated on keeping the sole of his foot facing the sky, locking his gaze on the girl ahead. She, of course, was oblivious to him.

From there, she glided her fingertips down her left forearm. Rick felt a shiver, watching what seemed like such an intimate gesture. With the assistance of her left hand, she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around her toes where they were still perfectly balanced on her left hip. Her right shoulder pulled back, giving him a stellar view of the swell of her breast. He swallowed hard.
Calm, clear mind. God, she is beautiful.

Her left arm went up, straight as an arrow to the sky. Just when he didn’t think her body and his imagination could take any more, she exhaled audibly, hinged from the hip, and bent forward, slowly, mindfully, until her left fingertips were touching the floor. She kept folding her body, torso lowering farther and farther, until she was staring right at him from upside down with eyes startlingly light, flecked with golden jasper and bits as dark as black hematite.

It was the one-shoed bagel girl from the lift.

Rick gave her his most charming smile, then toppled unceremoniously like a felled spruce.