Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  “Yeah. Martin can mail them back,” Adrian said, scratching an itch on his cheek with the capped end of the Sharpie before getting back to work.

  “But weren’t you the one who insisted we get them done and out of the way last night?” Sam demanded.

  The three others had done their share of signing, cramping their hands before the Paris show, while Adrian had promised to do his straightaway after the gig was over. Anger built within Rick as he watched the photos spread themselves across the entire countertop.

  Turned out Adrian had had another itch to scratch last night.

  “He was too busy with his pit kitten,” Rick said, barely able to keep the contempt out of his voice.

  Last night they had been in the midst of a blistering dual bridge toward the end of the second set, playing in perfect guitarmony, neither missing a lick. Suddenly, Adrian started shredding even faster, harder, and more passionately than it seemed possible, leaving Rick completely in the dust. Rick had followed his line of vision and spied his bandmate’s prize front and center. Sweat had streamed rivers toward Adrian’s grin as he just shook his head slowly in disbelief, the crowd’s cacophony reaching an eardrum-splitting crescendo as he wound down to meet the rhythm of Rick and the rest of the band to play the final verse.

  “Kat? A pit kitten?” Adrian sputtered a laugh. “Hardly.” The glaze of his ice blue eyes denoted his mind was in a far more delightful place.

  Yes, Rick could see the appeal of the small-town librarian. The cascade of chestnut hair, the alabaster skin. But it was her eyes, those bright green jewels, that took you beyond the surface. Wit and warmth were sexy tools operated by an expert engineer suited up in a body that wouldn’t quit.

  What the hell had Kat been thinking? A metal show was a full-contact sport up front. It was a mosh pit down there, Rick thought darkly. Not a coffee klatch. She didn’t belong on that side of the barrier.

  All evening, security guards had plucked sweaty, battered fans over the railing from the vise grip of center stage. Kat had indicated it was her turn and, with the help of her fellow mates in the trench, she had been lifted up, up, and over. Adrian had signaled to a second guard, who escorted her to the inner sanctum of backstage rather than just expelling her safely back onto the floor. She hadn’t even brought her laminate.

  Fancy that, someone we know actually buying a ticket for one of our shows. Thanks to Jim’s and Sam’s social butterfly tendencies, the guest list had begun to grow exponentially every night since the reunion.

  “Seeing her down there gave you quite the hard-on, I’m sure.”

  “Bigger than the one you got from smashing that vintage Gibson,” Adrian lobbed right back.

  Sam choked on his six-euro cup of coffee, although of the three witnesses in the room, he was the one most familiar with Adrian and Rick’s witty brand of bandied insults.

  “Right, I’m sure you put yours to good use last night. Giving your groupie her twelve-hundred-dollar orgasm.”

  Chatter in the room ceased at Rick’s comment. All that could be heard was Jim’s cold cut hitting bread with a wet slap.

  Adrian calmly resumed his task. “How do you figure, mate?” The marker squeaked across another glossy photo as everyone else in the room held their collective breath.

  “Let’s see: her first-class plane ticket to Paris, the five-star hotel room, the car and driver . . .” Rick ticked them off on his fingers. He knew the expense meant nothing to Adrian. Nor to Kat, compared to witnessing the dawn of recognition on Adrian’s face. Surprising her fiancé by showing up for one night in the middle of his band’s European tour to celebrate his forty-fifth birthday had probably been, as the MasterCard commercials say, priceless. But Rick couldn’t help himself. “Still paying for sex after all these years, Digger?”

  Whether it was because of the sneering use of his stage name or the reference to his debauched behavior from decades back, Adrian’s patience had clearly thinned to the point of breaking.

  Just one more crack—

  “I know exactly what you want me to do.” In a flash, Adrian was all up in his grill, as his sons would say. Platform boots brought Adrian nose to nose with Rick. “You want me to take a swing, to hit you, so we’ll be even.” He shook his shaggy blond head of hair, even let a ghost of a smile slip through. “Not gonna happen, mate.”

  It was Rick who felt the chill through his veins, as the realization sunk in and doused him with icy shame.

  “How about you write a song about my future wife, have it hit the charts with a bullet, and I’ll take credit for it? Maybe then we’ll be even, huh?” Adrian finished.

  From the corner of his eye, Rick saw Sam and Jim exchange a look. He knew what they were thinking. Far be it from Rick to write any song, much less a chart-topping song like the one Adrian had penned about Simone so long ago.

  Adrian, after all, was all about the details. And Rick, the big picture.

  Sanitize my insanity . . . cleanse me, make me whole again, Simone . . .

  Darkness loomed, threatening his vision with a fade to black.

  Oh ruddy fecking hell.

  It was no wonder writer’s block had chased him from coast to coast, the muse eluding him both on and off-stage. In an unspoken decree as the King of Doom, Rick had forbidden the band’s greatest hit to appear on any set list henceforth. Since reuniting, nobody had dared address the lingering ghost in the room.

  Until now.

  “I’ll have no school yard squabbles on my watch,” Martin boomed, “not while I have Isabelle back in the States to reckon with!” His Scottish burr was very apparent. “She’ll mop the floor with the lot of us.” All six and a half feet and fifteen stone of their tour manager quivered at the utterance of her name. “You’ll take the stage in ten, you’ll play the poxy gig, and when the tour is done, you two can go your separate ways. Understood?”

  Adrian sputtered a laugh. “As if it were that simple! Rick’s let Isabelle sell us into indentured servitude. VIP packages, meet and greets, Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp, and propping us up in the Hall of Fame museum like the bloody relics we are, before prodding us like cattle right into the studio. It never ends!”

  “Is that what you want, then? For the whole thing to be over with again?” Another wave of anxiety rolled up Rick’s frame as he stared his oldest friend down.

  Adrian should want for nothing, he thought. With his instant American family waiting for him back home. But me?

  “Enough,” Sam hollered, startling everyone. “It could be worse. It has been worse. Remember Cass? Remember Wren?” Everyone bowed their heads at the memory of their fallen crewmate, and scuffed their soles at the mention of Corroded Corpse’s wretched tour manager, who left them broken down in his dust. “It’s better now. Because it’s ours to make it better, yeah? No one else’s.”

  He plucked the Sharpie out of Adrian’s clenched fist and foisted it upon Rick. “Your turn to write the set list, Rotten.”

  * * *

  The band exploded across the stage in a myriad of lights as Jim’s machine-gun drum fills ricocheted through the arena. Sam was up prowling the catwalks, slapping sound out of his bass to the roar of the audience. Opening with “Blood Oath” was always a solid crowd-pleaser, Rick thought as he and Adrian galloped through the intro like a well-oiled machine. Although his excuses and apologies had lodged stubbornly in his throat backstage, he now exorcised them through glass-shatteringly high screams and unwavering, crisp lyrics to the song he and his best friend had penned as school chums.

  Adrian’s fist rose in solidarity with the masses sprawled below, and one of the movers from the lighting truss overhead highlighted the raised scar on his inner arm. They had been just boys, hopped up on Norse mythology and the idea of að blanda blóði saman—“to mix blood together.” Rick flicked a glance at the hollow of his own elbow, to the identical mark hatched there.

  Blood brothers.

  A storm of emotion gathered deep in Rick’s chest, and on its bare surface,
the thin, simple misericorde dagger tattooed there rose and fell, rose and fell, as he belted out the final chorus to “Blood Oath,” of promises kept and tears wept.

  A bump to his shoulder told him Adrian had come to share the microphone under the spotlight of center stage. Rick leaned into him, his bare back coming into contact with Adrian’s leather-clad one as their fingers scurried across the frets of their guitars, playing rhythm and lead. Beneath the vest he wore, the twin to Rick’s dagger graced Adrian’s skin, and he breathed life into it as he sang in unison with his blood brother.

  We bear some of the same scars, Rick thought, matching Digger’s smile with a genuine one of his own as they made peace with a high five of their headstocks and strutted back to their respective spaces on stage.

  Sharing war wounds, like the brothers in the song who loved each other dearly, yet hated each other fiercely.

  But some we must carry alone.

  Sidra

  Beatles or Rolling Stones

  Sidra Sullivan dropped herself and her yoga bag down at the table recently bussed clean by her brother, heaving out a potent sigh. Thank nirvana for the Naked Bagel. Although their linguist father might argue otherwise, there was a portmanteau for what she felt: hangry. It was the impatient and emotional intersection of hungry and angry.

  She needed food and serenity—now.

  “You know, if you keep showing up here like this, Sid, my boss is going to name a bagel after you.”

  Seamus turned both his ball cap and a chair backward. Such a guy thing to do, Sidra thought as her brother pushed the hat down on his thick blond locks with the flat of his large palm before straddling the seat across from her.

  At the moment, she was completely disgusted with all guys and their moves.

  Although Seamus, to his credit, had at least given her the best table in the house.

  “Too late!” Liz breezed out from behind the counter, rocking a tight black T-shirt that proclaimed Bagels. What’s Your Excuse? “One Manhattan Goddess bagel, on the house.” With a flick of her wrist, she set Sidra’s plate spinning down in front of her.

  “You know, if you keep giving freebies to your friends, you’re going to go broke,” Sidra called, but Liz’s back, sporting Go Naked or Go Home in bold red lettering, had already turned. “Let me pay, for once! I want you to take my money.”

  “Too bad!” Liz trilled. She had already rocketed herself back behind the counter, slicing a half dozen to go for the next customer in line before Sidra could even reach into her bag.

  “Here,” she said to her brother, palming a twenty into his hand. “Go make me a taro bubble tea and put the change in the tip jar.”

  She had no idea what Liz’s rent was like for the Naked Bagel, but she could only imagine it hiked higher with every street sign here on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

  And just like with Evolve, Sidra’s yoga studio on the Lower East Side, every little bit counted.

  Seamus pocketed the soft, worn Andrew Jackson in his apron with a grin. Sidra knew her brother was as honest as the day was long, but he couldn’t resist trying to rile her up.

  “And don’t be a scammer,” she added, cocking a dark brow in his direction as he sauntered toward the cash register.

  Sidra was pretty fed up with those, too.

  Using the length of orange ribbon she never left home without, she tied her glossy black ponytail tight and high and inhaled deeply, relishing the nutty fragrance of the toasted sunflower bagel. It was studded with flax and filled to bursting with albacore tuna and smooth, ripe avocado. Indeed a treat fit for a goddess, and as the shirt Seamus was wearing boasted, Happiness Is a Warm Bagel.

  “Which one, Sis? Fab Four or Glimmer Twins?”

  Seamus held a fistful of bills and coins over the two tip jars on the counter. Like the workers’ shirts, the sayings on the jars were clever and changed daily.

  “Both,” she managed around a mouthful of bagel.

  He dropped the bills into the Beatles’ jar and the change into the Rolling Stones’ jar with a melodic clunk, and then went to work on her tea. Sidra watched as owner and right-hand man swerved around each other in the tight space behind the counter, tossing, reaching, and calling out to each other as they sailed through what was left of the lingering late-lunch crowd. It was like a fluid ballet: Seamus’s muscular bronze arms shooting past Liz’s pale freckled ones, working in synchronicity.

  “Delivery to Fifty-fifth and Lex,” Liz commanded, shoving brown-bagged orders down the counter. “Then the usual two dozen to the doctor’s office on York.” She relieved him of Sidra’s bubble tea and righted his ball cap. “Sixteenth floor.”

  Sidra had already polished off the first half of her sandwich and was contemplating its equally tempting twin. Teaching always worked up her appetite, especially the free lunch break yoga class she sometimes led at a nearby park. Although her hunger pangs had diminished considerably, her anger and disgust still lingered after this afternoon’s episode.

  “So, what gives?” Liz plunked herself into the chair Seamus had vacated and slid the pale purple drink across the table.

  “Ech. Guys.” Sidra swiped a hand in front of her face as if the entire male race were a cloud of gnats annoying her. “Why do they have to be such dogs?”

  Liz took a quick scan of tables around them before allowing her mossy green eyes to meet Sidra’s brown ones. The lunch crowd had officially dissipated, it seemed she could finally relax.

  “Come on, can you blame them? You’re standing there with your tight little body, telling them to assume the position. Down dog, up dog . . . Trade that mat for a flogger and you could be dominatrix of all the dogs.” She twirled Sidra’s abandoned straw wrapper around a finger and added with a devilish wink, “Probably make a helluva lot more money, too.”

  “Seriously, Sid. Time to grow up and get a real job.” Seamus grinned, clipping on his space-age-looking bike helmet.

  Sidra gave a snort. “Says the guy about to pedal across town with bagels in his basket.”

  “Bagels that aren’t getting any younger, or warmer,” Liz added. “Get going, you.” She pointed to the front door. “Let us have our girl talk.”

  “See ya back at the ranch, Sid.” Seamus dropped a kiss on the top of her silky head.

  “So,” Liz said. “Where were we? Oh yeah. Floggers.” She snuck a bite of the bagel from Sidra’s plate.

  “I’m serious. Male yoga teachers probably don’t have to put up with this shit.”

  After five years of teaching every type of yoga across three different boroughs, Sidra thought she had heard every pickup line, from Hey, I’ve got a yoga mat built for two, to Gee, I bet you could bounce a quarter off that asana! Frowning, she stabbed her straw at the fat black pearls of tapioca at the bottom of her bubble tea. “Let’s just say this guy thought getting in touch with his inner self gave him license to touch me.”

  “That’s not a dog, that’s a fucking pig.” Finally, Liz was appropriately outraged. “It’s not you. And it’s not yoga. It’s Manhattan. What do we expect, living on an island two miles wide and thirteen miles long?”

  “Is that why you’re dating a guy who lives twenty-eight hundred miles away?” Sidra teased.

  “As if.” Liz gave a snort. “Hardly ideal.” She sighed, folding the thin wrapper and squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger like a tiny paper accordion. “I’m telling you, this borough’s run dry. All the good guys here are spoken for. Or gay. Time to import some new ones.”

  Sidra chewed on a boba thoughtfully. Liz made it sound easy, like heading down the Jersey Turnpike to IKEA. Sidra didn’t want to settle for quick, cheap, and some assembly required. She wanted a drama-free relationship that would stand the test of time, with a solid, decent guy. Was that so wrong?

  Yeah, but would you even recognize him if he came along?

  The last time Sidra went to IKEA for something practical, like a rug, she ended up coming home with a single bar stool and a string of lights sh
aped like margarita glasses. Hardly sensible. Hell, she couldn’t even choose between the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.

  “Could we at least export a few of the bad ones,” Sidra joked, “and even out the dating pool?”

  Bells above the bagel shop’s door clanged, grabbing both women’s attentions.

  “Anyway, like I’m one to talk.” Liz stood and brushed invisible crumbs off her apron-covered miniskirt. “Kevin’s true love is his restaurant. He’s been talking about moving back east for four years already. I’m beginning to think he only bothers to enter my zip code when his favorite band comes to town. It’s starting to give me a complex.”

  Now it was Sidra’s turn to snort. At least Liz’s zip code was seeing some occasional action. Ever since Sidra had kicked Charlie out, the only action she got in her zip code was self-addressed, so to speak.

  “Be thankful he’s just a fan of the band and not in it. Talk about being married to the job,” Sidra grumbled. The road had been Charlie’s bride for years, and she had had to settle for being mistress muse. “Musicians are the worst.”

  Liz ducked back behind the counter. “I’m hardly the authority,” she began, wielding her huge serrated knife, “but I’d like to think that chivalry isn’t quite yet dead.” With that, she lopped an everything bagel in half and anointed it with a schmear of cream cheese.

  “Oh, sh—” Liz bit her lip, censoring herself in the customers’ presence. “Seamus!” She groaned at the sight of the lumpy brown bag still sitting on the counter. “Your flaky brother forgot to take half the order!”

  “No worries, I’ll take them,” Sidra offered.

  “Seriously? That would help tremendously. I’m down a guy. I would take them myself, but . . .” She jotted down the address on an order pad and thrust it at Sidra. “I owe you a solid, big-time.”