Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  Which were still full to the brim with records.

  “What . . . Why haven’t you packed all this?” She turned to face her cousin before reeling back at all the vinyl, still in their bins. Was he planning on leaving it for the design team to trash, after all? “And will you please take that stupid CD off rotation?”

  “That’s the radio, Sid. Not a CD. They’ve been playing that new song nonstop over the airwaves since it got leaked to the Internet. What rock have you been living under? And my dad told me to hold off packing, like, a week ago.” Mike shrugged. “If you showed your face around these parts, you would’ve known.”

  “There’s been a new development,” her uncle said with a sweeping gesture. The blond woman handed a business card to Mike. “A very interesting wrinkle.”

  Mike studied the card before slowly handing it to Sidra. “You’re from the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission?”

  “You’re . . .” Sidra glanced from the name on the card to the woman and back to the card. “Gloria?”

  The woman laughed. “Yes. And yes.” Her eyes sparkled. “I may have been guilty of calling your boyfriend once or twice, Sidra. But only because he called me first. Once he put this location on my radar and pointed out its architectural, historical, and cultural heritage, I was hard-pressed not to make a case for preservation.”

  “Meaning?” Sidra asked.

  “Meaning the new owner’s ass will be trussed up in red tape for years, trying to get permission to renovate the interior or the exterior of his new building!” Mike was as gleeful as a kid on Christmas.

  “Well,” Gloria explained, “even though I’ve expedited the process, it’s not a done deal. First comes a public hearing. And then it still needs to be voted on by the commission. And then the city council gets involved. They have several months in which they can approve or deny our recommendations, and even then, the mayor could veto their decision. But this is the official notice of the formal review.”

  She handed Sully a manila envelope stamped with the city’s insignia.

  The song over the store’s PA finally registered with Sidra. She recognized the heavy instrumental parts of the song from that afternoon in the recording studio, but now it was laced with the mellower live performance from the store: crisp acoustic guitars layered with the transporting power of Rick’s voice. She heard the strength and sensitivity in it, and realized “Dove” sang to the softest sides of her awareness, that it had come at her time of need; the need for sanctuary.

  If he hadn’t been invested in Thor’s project, had he been invested in both her future and her freedom all along? And in the village she called home? With vivid clarity, she recalled their kiss on the street, under the stone statues. Rick claimed he was just a tourist in her town, but in some ways, he knew it better than she did.

  And maybe he knew her better than she herself did.

  She had been fighting against every thought of him, protecting herself from the pain that could possibly follow. But now she surrendered and settled into the notion, like letting go of her edge and going deeper into a pose.

  “So . . .” Sidra was trying to wrap her head around all the details. “Thor bought a building that he potentially cannot alter?”

  Sully’s lawyer spoke up. “Not exactly. He, too, was informed of the commission’s intent. That’s part of the designation process. And it was Mr. Young’s decision, along with that of his investors and advice of counsel, to withdraw his offer and seek out a less . . . controversial space.”

  Sidra and Mike both turned on Sully. “When exactly did this happen?” Sidra asked. “You told us the closing was today.”

  Sully grinned as the younger attorney now stepped up.

  “I’m here on behalf of Richard Rottenberg,” the man said with a smile. “And he would like to propose a counteroffer.”

  Rick

  Friendlier Skies

  “Tell me why we’re doing this again?” Rick talked around the unlit cigar that was wedged between his teeth.

  “Because I am the most awesome future brother-in-law in the world,” Adrian replied, chomping on the end of his own Camacho Corojo from the duty-free shop. “And you’ve got time to kill.” The two rockers stood in the arrivals terminal of JFK, shades on, awaiting the onslaught of passengers from flight 3029 from Portland. “And because it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. Or gets back from the loo.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Kat’s friend Liz scuffed toward them, noticeably with child. She’d expanded exponentially since Rick had last seen her, at karaoke night. “I have to pee, like, every five minutes. It’s very inconvenient for a city girl. I hate public restrooms.”

  “’Tis okay, luv. You haven’t missed anything.”

  “You guys are the best. It’ll really soften the blow, coming from you.” Liz thrust a teddy bear in each of their hands. She’d obviously kipped into the airport gift shop in between bathroom visits.

  “Gee, think he’ll get the hint?” Adrian wisecracked, giving a little blue bear a shake.

  Rick squeezed his furry pink charge and murmured out of earshot of the pacing mum-to-be, “Let’s just hope he doesn’t run screaming in the other direction.”

  “Ah, there’s our fan club now.”

  Kat’s brother was the quintessential music fan that never quite grew up. The successful restaurateur wore spiky bleached locks, earrings in both ears, and an ever-present Corroded Corpse T from his vast, rotating collection. In fact, Rick had never seen the guy wear the same shirt twice.

  His jaw, sporting stubble after the long red-eye flight, unhinged at the sight of his two favorite musicians as his own personal welcome wagon. Clutching teddy bears and grinning from behind their shades and cigars.

  “Dooley! I know you’re behind this.”

  Liz tentatively stepped out from behind the men. “Hey, Underwood.”

  He stared long and hard at her changed middle. Then he dropped his carry-on backpack. “This really isn’t the best timing,” he said, kneeling and rummaging through it.

  Liz’s smile began to fade. Adrian and Rick exchanged a look, slowly removing their cigars.

  Kevin continued to make a production of searching, annoyed that he couldn’t find whatever he was looking for. It was very small, apparently.

  “I was going to wait until after my sister’s big day to give you this, but I suppose I should make an honest woman of you ASAP.”

  “B-b-but . . . Bite Me?” Liz stammered, at the sight of the open ring box her high school sweetheart had produced on bended knee.

  “Never heard a response quite like that before.” Rick leaned toward his bandmate for confirmation that his ears weren’t playing tricks on him.

  Adrian tilted his head and murmured, “That’s the name of the restaurant he owns back in Portland.”

  With his free hand, Kevin flipped out his phone and thumbed to a photo of the building with a big Sold sign in front. “It took me just about as long to find the perfect owner for it as it did to find the girl of my dreams.”

  “I’ve been here all along,” Liz squeaked.

  Rick turned away, to both give privacy and to take a moment to breathe deep. He thought about the For Sale sign on Sidra’s building and whether he’d ever have the chance to step back inside. And he thought about what lay ahead of him back home.

  He felt Adrian’s hand on his shoulder. “You sure about this, mate?”

  “Yeah. It’s for the best. I’d better get to my gate.”

  Rick wedged Pink Bear into the newly engaged couple’s embrace and tucked his cigar into Kev’s backpack. “For your rock and roll shrine in the attic.”

  “You’re coming back for the wedding, aren’t you?” Adrian asked.

  Rick gave an affirmative raise of the metal horns. “I’ve always got your back.”

  “And I yours.”

  The two friends exchanged thumps to the back. “Here’s something to occupy your hands, and your mind.” With an impish grin, Adrian slid a
n assortment of industry rags into Rick’s grip. “The latest issues, hot off the presses. I know how much you value up-to-date news.”

  * * *

  “Aloha, Mr. Rotten. Can I get you anything?”

  Rick pulled his gaze from the first-class window. “Some paper if you have it. And a pen?”

  He turned his attention to the trade papers in front of him. Billboard, Pro Sound News, and Variety all had similar sensational headlines:

  ROTTEN GRAVES PROJECT LEAK:

  ACT OF REBELLION . . . OR PUBLICITY STUNT?

  A “GRAVE” MISTAKE? OR PROGRESSIVE MARKETING?

  INDUSTRY INSIDERS WEIGH IN.

  THUNDERSTRUCK:

  FAMED PRODUCER THOR YOUNG BACKS OUT OF CONTROVERSIAL PROJECT, CITING “CREATIVE DIFFERENCES”

  LOVE IT OR LEAK IT!

  (IF IT’S ROTTEN, YOU FIX IT FIRST)

  The last headline had him chuckling and reading on. Of course the band’s chief biographer would weigh in on the matter with typical panache. Actually, this one was old news . . . to him, at least. Alexander Floyd had dropped off a copy after it went to press. And Rick had Mason deliver it to Evolve Yoga, with explicit instructions on where and how to leave it.

  He only hoped Sidra would take the time to read it.

  * * *

  Let’s be real. Heavy metal has always been the bastard son of the music industry. Written off as self-indulgent, aggressively theatrical, obnoxiously provocative, and overtly masculine, many will stand by their claim that the genre just hasn’t aged well. More politely put, metal is a slowly acquired taste to some. But that doesn’t mean the infamous genre is without merit.

  And it certainly doesn’t mean its long-standing forefathers, such as the Rotten Graves Project—the band known in a past life as Corroded Corpse—cannot roll with the punches of the modern day and still rock out.

  When learning the most raw and vulnerable tracks on Demons Above, their forthcoming album, had possibly been compromised, the band took extreme action—and matters into their own hands. “The creative process is such a fragile thing,” frontman Riff Rotten states. “You’re crafting from the deepest part of your soul. One moment you’re soaring to the sky on your brilliance, and the next, you’re crushed to the ground under the weight of your fears. It’s completely normal to doubt oneself in the process.”

  Rotten is no stranger to highs and lows in general—the forty-four-year-old guitarist/vocalist has suffered from anxiety and panic attacks since 1988, but has recently discovered how to control them, through mindfulness and yoga. “The thought of those songs being unleashed before they were ready just about crippled me. But then there’s the thought: Perhaps they are ready to be heard. And you’ve got to get over what’s been holding you back, do your best and stand back and let it happen, you know?”

  The band live-recorded and self-mixed the eponymous “Demons Above” and several other songs, but clearly the true title track of the album is “Dove,” a transporting ode that soars above and beyond conventional label expectations, the producer’s vision, and even the hopes of its creator. Rotten, who up until five years ago barely believed in using e-mail, trusted the power of social media and the fans to be the true judges. Within minutes of leaking the first track, fans flooded the forums and blogs and Web-based streaming services. The verdict: utter gold.

  But was it breach of contract? The jury’s still out on whether the band violated its monumental 360 deal with the record label. But even the shrewdest spin doctors can’t deny: The press has been oh so good.

  “So we might not sell a ton of records,” Rotten says with a laugh. A mellower, humbler version of the man emerges. “But our story will sell. We grew fans exponentially through our live shows, and they will still come. The songs are on their hard drives, but there’s loyalty in their hearts. They will always support us.”

  This is more than just a matter of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. It’s about moving beyond the comfort zone, being true to oneself and trusting the process.

  “Someone very close to me asked recently if I found it scary, bringing something totally new into the world,” Riff confides. “I became a father at nineteen, whether I was ready or not. And I was raising my three kids alone by the age of thirty-one. Yes, it’s terrifying. But the rewards have to trump the fear.”

  Like he’s learned through practicing yoga: “Sometimes if this is your edge, you stay there. But if you find you can make that push and go deeper . . . you never know what lies beyond it.”

  Leaking one’s own tracks used to be considered on par with retail suicide, with heads rolling from the upper echelon of the monarchy we all still bow to, the Modern Music Recording Industry. But as the dust settles on this latest incident, perhaps the Kings of Doom have kicked the first big crack in the castle wall.

  The groundbreaking song is their first foray back to the field of hard rock ballads since their eighties mainstream mega-hit, “Simone,” which was recently revealed to be the sole creation of guitarist Digger Graves, after years of speculation. How high will “Dove” fly, once it officially releases? Only time will tell.

  But Riff Rotten, dare we say, is Zen about it all.

  * * *

  Rick tucked the magazines into the pocket of his first-class seat and leaned back. He realized he had mastered dynamic tension, on the mat and off, during this whole process. It was a matter of pushing forward and reaching for what you want and believe in, while at the same time not being afraid to pull back and let it all go.

  Meeting Sidra—and falling in love with her—had taught him: Even when he thought he was standing still, he was moving on.

  The flight attendant returned with his requested items and a smile.

  “Mahalo.” And with his thanks, Rick began to pen his ultimate—and final—love letter to Simone.

  * * *

  I’m heading home, my love. And I’ve been traveling a long time. I’ve crossed the globe trying to shake you, yet I’ve been seeking something elusive as well. I’d hoped to feel your presence, and felt guilty when I didn’t. But now I know. You’re not in that cemetery in Brooklyn. You’re not at the hospital wing that bears your name. You’re not in the childhood mementos or the synagogue I visit once a year. You’re no longer in our Hanalei house, and you’re not in the songs I write . . . or in the songs I choose not to sing.

  You have a place in my head, and my heart. The memory of you will always live there. But I’ve realized for your memory to truly be a blessing, it needs to be just that. Your blessing. For me to move on, to find love, fulfillment, and happiness . . . with myself. And with someone else, someday.

  Maybe I’ll place this letter with the others, in the hatbox. And maybe I will plant it under the purple naupaka on the mauka side of the house, because that flower always reminds me of you. But it no longer saddens me. I love you, Simone.

  * * *

  Rick crossed one-lane bridges and looped past waterfalls, the landscape of his adopted hometown so familiar, yet so different from what he had come to know. It was like leaving one dream and reentering another. The house itself even looked larger, compared to the row upon row of tight brick and stone he’d gotten used to in New York.

  The For Sale sign out front was new.

  Rick gathered air into his lungs, collected from the dewy Hawaiian morning. Then he released it audibly. Ocean breath, he thought. Lion’s breath.

  “He’s here!”

  “Dad!”

  Ari came barreling out the front door, and Jonah appeared from the side yard. Strong, grown men had replaced his little lion and dove as they fought over Rick’s bags and pounded hugs against his back.

  Paul waited on the porch, as tan as the Greek coffee he no doubt drank lots of in Thessaloniki. “There’s our viral Internet sensation,” he joked. “Finally, you see technology can be your friend.”

  “You’re back,” Rick said simply.

  “Of course. You didn’t think we’d let you do this by yourself, did you?”


  He’d called them all first and gotten their blessings before hiring the Realtor. Now, father and sons worked side by side, tossing stories back and forth, from room to room, as they boxed the house’s contents.

  Rick stood in the doorway of the living room, the hatbox full of letters in his hands, smiling while he listened to each boy vying to one-up the others with their tales and good-naturedly trying to get him to take sides. He had raised them well, he realized, as remnants of their happy childhood packed their rental cars and kept them laughing through dinner together.

  They didn’t stop until the place was empty, but their hearts were full. Then they raced to the beach, sailing Frisbees high over one another’s heads and tackling one another in the soft sand.

  “So what now, Dad?” Jonah shook the beach out of his dark, shaggy hair. “You staying here, you going back, or what?”

  He thought of the black, silky sand of East Hawaii. There was no way he’d be able to run it through his fingers without recalling Sidra’s hair. Or lie on the sugar-sand beach here in the west without thinking about the warm, sweet scent of her skin.

  “Can I have the turntable?” Ari asked. “Paul said you’ve got all of Mom’s old albums.”

  Rick gave a wry smile. “Well. It’s a long story. But I can recommend a great little record shop next time you visit me in New York.”

  Sidra

  Lost and Found

  The tiny natives were getting restless on the big yellow camp bus. Sidra hopped down the steps. “What’s the holdup?”

  Tasha, the camp counselor standing beside the bus, consulted her clipboard. “Abbey Lewis hasn’t been counted in.”