Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  “I’m never having kids.” Fear had momentarily opened a small, pondering window that morning in the radiologist’s office, but all Jack’s talk about her mother tonight had slammed it shut. It hurt too much to go there.

  “Hear me out. Children grow up and out. They have to live their own lives. Your dad wouldn’t want you to give up your dreams to take care of him. Nor would Seamus. You cannot replace your mother. And you are not to blame.”

  The fear and toll of the last few days, and the sweet relief of its outcome, made her feel weak and weepy. She tried to take care of everyone, even absolute strangers passing through the door of her yoga studio, but the last person she considered needing care was herself. She had been just a young, scared girl when her mother died. There was no order to that, no divine arrangement. She was not responsible. It had been just as senseless as Rick losing Simone. Just as random as her own scare and false alarm. She was alive. It was time to live.

  * * *

  “Erm, luv . . . do you realize there’s a shoe nailed to your wall?”

  The gentle kisses between her breasts had felt like a dream, but the vibration of Rick’s voice and his breath on her skin both warmed and awakened her.

  “Yes, it’s my flip-flop.” The gorgeous guy who had shared her bed for the second night in a row was now working his way down her body. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bronzing his strong shoulders. She captured one of his curls between her fingers as it tickled its way across her tummy and lazily twirled it. “You’re only noticing it now?”

  “My mind is usually elsewhere when I’m in your bedroom, luv. As is my mouth.”

  Sidra groaned, twisting his hair in her fist. “Talk about driving your point home,” she panted as his tongue darted against her tightest, most tender spot. “Oh, my . . .” His arms gripped her thighs as he lifted her.

  “I could drink from you all day, Goddess.”

  Those dark eyes flicked a glance at her so intense, she nearly came on the next long lap of his tongue. But he wasn’t nearly through with her. He kissed her very tip, making her tremble and buck up against him.

  He licked slow circles around her glossy core, stroking out each whimper and sigh as his personal prize. Heat spiraled in her belly, and her breasts ached. She ran her hands over them, marveling at their heaviness, before plunging her fingers into his hair. He groaned, pulling her against his mouth and sucking her sweetly.

  “Make love to me.” She had never wanted anything like she wanted him inside of her now. Her whole being begged for him. “Rick . . .”

  She summoned, and he responded, climbing her gently, sliding kisses across her hips, her nipples, her throat, covering her with his lean, hard frame. “I love you, Sidra.” His words and his actions were solemn, sacred. His thumbs caressed her chin and she cried out, biting at his lip as he filled her. He rode the wave of her orgasm, giving her a taste of the highest high as he whispered her name and plunged deeper. She clenched him, meeting his every thrust, never breaking eye contact. An overwhelming surge of tenderness toward this amazing man overtook her, and as they moved as one, slow and sensual, she knew.

  Love was just the beginning of their journey.

  She climbed with him, watching his face as she embraced the words. He was changed. From that first encounter in the elevator, all steely-eyed and desperate for an escape. And different from the man who had first stepped into her studio, wrestling demons he couldn’t even name.

  The bliss of his release sent shock waves through her, and they gasped in unison, laughing and kissing their way down to solid ground once again. Rick rolled onto his back, chest heaving, spent. His eyes searched above, and he broke out into a smile. “I want to wake up every morning and see that shoe.”

  Sidra cuddled up against his chest, fingers trailing along the soft hair at his navel. “I nailed it there as a reminder, after meeting you. That there are good guys out there in the world. And in hopes that one would come to my rescue again.”

  Rick’s brows rose as he regarded her. “Have I been successful in my quest?”

  “Why, yes, brave sir,” she whispered. “You’ve rescued, and you’ve captured, my very heart.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Saturday, New York City! The Mookey & Dean Show is coming at you live from South Street Seaport all day, and it’s a block party weekend of your favorite classic rock.”

  Sidra didn’t remember dozing back off, but she vaguely recalled singing emanating from the shower and Rick kissing her good-bye. “I set your alarm for ten,” he’d said. “Just in case. Don’t want you missing your first class.”

  “Hey,” she’d protested. “Stay.” He’d laughed at her sleepy demand and had said something about working for a few hours today.

  Now that she had heard part of the album and seen where he spent most of his days, she understood. And was excited to hear the finished product. But a small, selfish part of her wanted to tie him to the bedposts with pieces of orange ribbon and never let him go.

  She smiled and stretched, thinking about how yesterday had turned out to be one of the best days of her life.

  “Another hour of rock coming atcha after this commercial break.”

  She made a halfhearted attempt to shut the clock radio off, but missed it on her first swipe. Whatever. I should tell my students to do this in bed, she thought as she reached both arms back over her head, stretching from fingertips to pointed toes. A full-body stretch. She elongated and engaged her torso, bringing a slight arch to her back. She stayed like that, concentrating on the rise and fall of her breath. She had twelve kids registered for her tween-and-teen yoga at noon, but an open kids flow class before that. Some weeks it was just her and a couple regulars, but other times it was a madhouse. Mikey loved it, because the parents would usually nostalgia-shop in his store.

  “So get this: Times must really be tough in the music industry. You know, since Napster and all that. Rumor has it that Riff Rotten is working retail.”

  Sidra sat rod-straight, wondering if she really just heard the DJ call her lover by his stage name.

  “That’s right, folks. The lead singer of Corroded Corpse fame has been spotted on Rivington, working in a record shop. What’s the name of that place, Mookey?”

  “It’s called Revolve Records.”

  She threw a hand over her mouth, but a delighted laugh managed to push through. “Oh my God, Rick. You’re crazy,” she whispered to herself, rocking out of bed. This she had to see.

  “There you go, folks. Revolve Records . . . one of the last remaining vestiges of vinyl in this town. And now you can go down there and catch a glimpse of the King of Doom. Think he’ll bite some heads off the rats down on Rivington?”

  “It’s Riff Rotten, Dean. Not Ozzy.”

  Sidra quickly showered, not even bothering to dry her hair. The morning sun would do the job on her walk to the studio. She found herself humming “Bohemian Rhapsody” as she toweled off, the song Rick had been singing in the shower. After a bite of toast and juice, her father occurred to her. She hadn’t heard him come in. Rick’s words from last night echoed in her head. He was right. She couldn’t be his keeper. Still, she hesitated as she pulled the front door closed behind her. Without Seamus here . . .

  You’re only one person; you’re doing the best you can.

  It was a mantra that had been a long time in coming, and she needed to embrace it.

  * * *

  “Rubbish, rubbish . . . perhaps . . .” Rick was sorting albums at the counter under the watchful eye of Mikey when she arrived. “No scratches,” he observed, holding the edges of a glossy black record between his palms before gingerly flipping it over. “Twenty bucks, maybe?”

  Her cousin thumbed through his dog-eared copy of Goldmine’s Price Guide to Collectible Record Albums. “Hot damn! Right again.” He glanced up at Sidra. “It’s like a Jedi mind thing. He just knows.”

  Rick laughed, aiming a wink in Sidra’s direction.

  “I heard good he
lp is hard to find these days,” Sidra said, leaning on her tiptoes to kiss the newest employee of Revolve Records. “Better hang on to him.”

  “Looks like you got that covered, Sid.”

  She blushed at her cousin’s comment and slowly untangled her arms from around Rick’s neck. “When did this come about? And how?”

  “Oh, you know . . . my girlfriend’s got this full-time yoga gig, so I figured I needed something close by to occupy my time.” He slid another record out of its sleeve and pretended to inspect it. But she could see his smile betray him.

  The shop was buzzing, practically bursting at the seams with people. Fiona was taking money, hand over fist, at the register. The New Arrivals bin looked picked clean, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Couples crowded around the listening stations, but many pairs of eyes were aimed at the counter. The Heavy Metal section was overflowing with customers Sidra had never seen before, jockeying for space and pulling albums out left and right.

  “Plus we’re getting trade-ins,” Mike crowed, nodding toward the pile of vinyl Rick was making his way through. “Some guy came in with all of those in exchange for one of these.” He gestured behind him, where several signed Corroded Corpse albums were displayed prominently behind the counter.

  “Oh, this will be worth something.” Rick pulled an obscure hard rock album from the pile. “This band had already gone platinum with their debut album in the late eighties. Then they discreetly put this EP out, pretending it was an indie live release from before they were famous, and their fans snapped it up. Meanwhile, their record label had funded it as a marketing scheme. Extremely rare. Especially in its original cellophane. At least three hundred dollars, maybe five.”

  Mike was busy with his nose in the book. His hoot confirmed the validity of Rick’s provenance. “Dude, I could kiss you! You know,” he quickly added, “if you weren’t rich and famous and if my store wasn’t filled with all these people and if dudes turned me on.”

  Sidra laughed. “Want me to take over, Fi? My class doesn’t start for another half hour.” Fiona’s long, red nails were flying over the register keys and she was bagging purchases so fast, she was like a leopard-print blur.

  “I think that was the initial rush,” she called, sagging against the register to catch her breath. “Someone had the bright idea to call the radio station. I mean, who does that anymore?”

  Mikey chuckled, bouncing his cell phone in his hand. “Oh, looks like a little birdie tweeted about it, too.”

  “Hey, don’t exploit my boyfriend,” Sidra joked, shifting out of the way to allow a few hesitant fans through to say hi and grab an autograph. It was fun to watch Rick in action as he nodded and genuinely listened to whatever they had mustered up the courage to say. Each person earned a smile from him as he handed over whatever he had signed. The jangle of the bells above the door signaled more visitors, and he looked up expectantly.

  Sidra followed his gaze as it landed on the too-tan-to-be-trusted man who had met with her uncle last month. And he was arm-in-arm with the woman from the limo.

  Rick

  Lockout

  “A for effort, Riff. Really.”

  Rick had always disliked the sound of a slow, sarcastic clap. But now, as the sound of Thor’s hands cracked and echoed in the cavernous space, he hated it—and the man—even more. He intercepted the producer at the door.

  “You have no business being here.” His tin-man jaw was back in full force as he choked out the words between clenched teeth.

  “Oh, but I do.” Thor wound his way through the bins toward the counter, Isabelle in tow. Rick felt his fists tighten as they both gave Sidra the once-over. This isn’t happening. No. Not now. He’d thought of a dozen different ways to come clean to Sidra over the course of last evening, but it had been too perfect to puncture. Can’t the universe give me a bloody break for one night? “Nice to see you again, Miss Sullivan.”

  “Don’t talk to her. Don’t so much as look at her, Thor. I’m warning you.”

  “At ease, Riff. I’ve just come to show my new partner the potential space.”

  “Isabelle, you can’t be serious—”

  “Oh, please.” She flicked her heavily made-up eyes heavenward. “Like I’d make it my business to come slumming down here for anyone but you.” She sighed and swept a hand toward the door like she was a game show hostess. “If you’d taken my calls yesterday, you would know I was merely the messenger.”

  “Rick?”

  He heard the confusion in Sidra’s voice, but couldn’t pull his eyes from the door.

  Wren.

  Corroded Corpse’s former manager strode into the shop like he already owned it. No, make that owned it, surveyed it, and planned to take a wrecking ball to it. The counter bit into Rick’s back as he bumped back against it, adrenaline pumping at the memory of the smoking hole Wren Blackmoor had left in his wake the last time business brought him within ten feet of Rick. The band in ruins at his feet. He’d stolen from them. Lied to them. But worst of all, he’d systematically ground them down, one by one, and pitted them against one another.

  “Hello, old friend.”

  Rick hadn’t heard that voice in an age. And Simone had still been walking this earth the last time he’d uttered a word to the man standing before him. He refused to alter that fact. Old history. Dead history. Nothing could change it.

  “I know the front is shabby,” Thor was saying, handing Wren a copy of the building’s specs. “We’ll do a small reception area up here, all in marble. Maybe a slate floor? Something sleek.” Holding up a small USB drive, he proclaimed, “Amazing that something this small can supersede all this.” He flicked a hand at all the vinyl before dropping the thumb drive into Rick’s front shirt pocket. “Turns out the beast is bigger than all of us,” he murmured in Rick’s ear.

  “You know what would be cool?” Isabelle piped up. “You can break all this vinyl—you know, take a hammer to it—and do a mosaic on the floor, under poly or Plexiglas. White, with all the black? So hip. Maybe even do the ceiling, too.”

  Thor nodded. “Then we’ll get rid of whatever rattrap’s upstairs now and build up to house the musicians. That brilliant idea was Riff’s, actually.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Sidra.”

  “Ah, Riff Rotten not wanting to take credit for something?” Wren laughed, looking pointedly at him. “That’s a switch, eh, mate?” The wanker dared to add a wink.

  The air left the building, left Rick’s lungs, and he saw spots behind his eyes.

  “You must be Junior.” Thor clapped a hand on the shoulder of a stunned Mike. He had been gaping like a fish from the moment Isabelle mentioned taking a hammer to his inventory. “Your dad said you’d show us the back if we were to pop by.” Turning to Wren, he added, “Its bones are perfect for a state-of-the-art recording studio. Worth the wait, trust me. And its acoustics border on orgasmic. Am I right, sister?” He chucked Sidra under the chin playfully. “Riff can vouch for that, too . . . I’m sure.”

  “Fi,” Mikey managed. “Take the gentlemen to the back. I’ll be there in a moment.” His gaze slid to Rick, then to Isabelle, with cool familiarity.

  “You two know each other?” he demanded, protectively ensconcing his cousin under a beefy arm. Sidra avoided everyone’s gaze, choosing to stare down at Isabelle’s show-stopping shoes.

  Rick remembered his request to his publicist, asking where the limo had dropped Sidra that long-ago day. God, how stupid he had been! And it was all coming back to bite him in his pompous arse. “It’s not what you think, I assure you. Sidra, I was trying to find—”

  Sidra shook her head, as if to rid her mind of any thought of him. “To find a way to use me? To get inside here, to survey my space?”

  “No! Tell her, Iz. Please.”

  “Kismet, darling.” Isabelle smacked her lacquered lips to his cheek. “Sometimes it’s a bitch. Nothing personal,” she added smugly, casting a thinly apologetic look toward Sidra and Mike. “It’s just business.” She c
lacked away on those horrid stilettos. It was a sound that would haunt Rick, along with the wounded look in Sidra’s eyes as she finally regarded him, for the rest of his days.

  “Sidra. Hear me out.” He made a move to touch her, but her cousin played defense, blocking the path.

  “To make me think you wanted me to help you.” Sidra’s voice broke. Those tiger-iron eyes were like polished stones behind tears that she would not let fall. “To make me think you wanted me,” she whispered.

  “Luv, let me—”

  Not only would Sidra not hear him out, she did the cruelest thing she could possibly do. With a push and help from Mike, she locked him out.

  Sidra

  Wounded Warrior

  Thank goodness for the children. Sidra watched as they invaded her space, their feet slapping happily on the wooden floor and their chatter echoing up to the stained glass windows. “You’re welcome to stay,” she hollered to the building’s buyers, where they huddled deep in discussion on the bimah. She plunged the lights down to their dimmest. “Join the class.”

  The children knew exactly what to do. Low lights was their cue to grab mats and form a circle with them on the floor. Today they were twenty strong, spreading the circle generously, their energy as bright as the sun. Sidra set her mat in the middle of them and sat cross-legged, in lotus position. When she nodded, all of her young students fell dutifully into prayer, their starting pose of the day. Kneeling wide, their tiny rumps in the air and their foreheads to the mat. Sidra felt like Aditi, the Hindu sun goddess, as their little arms all stretched toward her in the center of the ring. Aditi, mother of all, she remembered learning as a child. Keeper of the light.

  There was no way she was going to let Thorton Young rain on her parade. Or Thor, as his friends—like Rick—had called him. The Norse god of thunder would not storm on her day. Not when she had this circle of light around her.

  Sidra smiled in satisfaction as the only three people still standing had to pick their way out, tripping over foam blocks in their haste. They twisted and stepped wide to avoid the mats and bodies in their path to the exit door.