Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) Page 4

  “These are perfect. I’ll take them.”

  James looked on approvingly, and for a millisecond, Sidra entertained a fantasy that instead of a suited chauffeur, her Mr. Import was standing there in all his fineness and finery, helping her choose. A pang of regret reverberated through her. She should have at least asked him his name. Not that it mattered, but . . .

  A salesgirl discreetly disposed of the dirty paper shoe while the other clerk rang up the purchase. Sidra cringed at the price, knowing her new flip-flops cost roughly eighteen times more than her old pair.

  “What’s your return policy?” she asked as James supplied Mr. Import’s line of credit. She had half a mind to bring the pretty shoes back tomorrow. Although the other half of her brain must’ve been connected to her feet, which insisted she was never going to take them off.

  “Thirty days. Would you like to keep this?” The salesgirl held up Sidra’s lone cheap flip-flop.

  “Sure, what the heck.” Perhaps she’d tack it to her bedroom wall. It could serve as a reminder that Manhattan hadn’t run dry of the good guys just yet.

  * * *

  The limo glided down Second Avenue. Sidra made good use of the surround sound stereo and had James rocking rhymes with the Beastie Boys and singing along to seventies Motown by the time they had reached Houston.

  “So this is it, I guess.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, miss.”

  “Please, call me Sidra.”

  But it was a little too late for introductions, as the limo pulled away from the dusty, littered curb of Rivington Street and the spell was broken.

  Back to reality, I guess.

  Sidra glanced up as she gave the doorknob of her family’s building a vigorous pull. There was the old sign for Sullivan and Son Bicycles, its red and black letters barely legible amidst the curls of peeling paint and splintered swollen wood. Nailed to its bottom frame was the sign Seamus had painstakingly designed and airbrushed for their cousin Mike: a biomechanical steampunk logo for Revolve Records. While the name was fitting for an establishment that still sold physical forms of music, it was really more of an homage to their family’s old trade. Although, Sidra thought grimly, Revolve was quickly on its way to becoming a relic itself. Besides Mikey and a few other purists, no one cared about vinyl. Or even CDs anymore, for that matter. Seamus kidded about just airbrushing over the R in the sign once the record store flopped. “Evolve or die,” he had joked.

  Which was how Sidra came to name Evolve, her month-old business.

  She really should have a sign made, too. Word of mouth could only travel so far. Still, it secretly pleased her to know her unlabeled yoga studio brought more income into the property during that short time period than her cousin’s record sales had in the last quarter.

  “Nice shoes.” He whistled from behind the counter. “What, did you mug Paris Hilton?”

  “All the better to kick you with, Mikey.”

  Sidra blew her cousin a kiss as she breezed through the deserted record store and into her back sanctuary. Judging from the number of attendance cards out and lockers in use, it looked like she had ten students waiting for her.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.” She kicked off her overpriced flip-flops. “Let’s begin in Child’s pose.”

  Shedding her tunic in favor of the lightweight black tank top underneath, she grabbed her mat and spread it under the light and shadows cast by the lone Moroccan-style brass lamp hanging high in the back space she had claimed as her own.

  All of her seniors folded up and rested their torsos on their thighs like dutiful children. “Balasana.” Sidra breathed the Sanskrit name as everyone, herself included, surrendered to gravity and the state of non-doing required of this pose. As her forehead met her mat, she was grateful for an excuse to clear her mind of the surreal events of the day.

  Rick

  Shot to Hell

  Thank goodness for the Pacific Time Zone. Rick was traveling backward, gaining hours as he lost consciousness against the plush headrest of his first class airline seat.

  He drifted in and out of deep and shallow dreams, with images of orange ribbons and scissors. He saw himself back at the new wing of the hospital, wordlessly cutting, then at the hospital in Kauai, watching helplessly as Simone cried while what was left of her beautiful golden hair fell from her pillow to his feet. Then he saw his hands slowly and seductively pulling the tight orange bow that kept the delivery girl’s hair in place, imagined the midnight black sweep of her hair covering his eyes as he pulled her to him.

  He awoke horny, restless, and ashamed, clutching the armrests of the seat as he catapulted six hundred miles per hour through the air like it was no big deal.

  “Anything to drink?” the flight attendant asked.

  “Tequila, please. With a lime.” Rick sat up straighter.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rotten. We have a limited beverage menu in-flight.” She looked twenty-five if a day, and genuinely sympathetic.

  “Well, that’s a crying shame, darlin’. I thought I could get anything I wanted in first class.”

  With the events of New York halfway behind him, Riff Rotten had reached cruising attitude.

  * * *

  “And how was your flight?”

  It took Rick a moment to answer Isabelle’s long-distance query, as his mouth was full of tequila. “Uneventful.” He dragged his tongue from the flight attendant’s navel and up the salt trail of her body, ending at her neck.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Rick teased the lime from between the beautiful girl’s lips and sucked on it thoughtfully. “Not that I can think of,” he murmured, reaching for the bottle to start the process again.

  “Take me off goddamn speakerphone,” Isabelle said, annoyed with the girl’s squeal as cold alcohol sloshed in her navel once more. “Whatever you’re doing, I doubt it requires your hands.”

  Rick made the lustful loop once more down and back up her body, phone now pressed to his ear.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked wearily. If dusk was descending over the Sunset Strip out his hotel window, then it had to be well past midnight in Isabelle’s world.

  “Not when you’re on tour. So . . . no transvestite confessions you’d like to make? Are you developing a shoe fetish in your old age? You owe the Foundation a hundred and eighty-three bucks.”

  The elevator girl.

  Rick spit out the lime and chuckled. Was that all? “They were a present. For a friend.”

  “What, did you go for a quickie before the airport? A booty call?”

  He thought of the girl giving him the total piss off as she scuffed out of the elevator in her one shoe and paper slip-on bootie. “Bootie” call indeed, Rick joked to himself. He was drawn to her call, all right, like a siren’s song. There had been something about her . . .

  The flight attendant held out the saltshaker and another shot to him, but he waved it away. She sucked on a lime and pouted. As far as Rick was concerned, their layover was over. He was tired, he was drunk, and now he couldn’t get that girl with the bagels off his mind. He wished he could’ve stuck around and shopped with her. Maybe she would’ve given him that lone surviving shoe as a souvenir. Like a jousting knight, he had collected his share of lady favors throughout the years. Rock and roll–style tokens of appreciation: bras, panties . . . but never a flip-flop. Was that considered a fetish?

  “What did she buy?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Rick heard the scratch of a lighter before she continued. “The receipt said Mephisto Hakira sandals. They hardly sound like Jimmy Choo fuck-me heels.” Isabelle’s own snobbery definitely extended into stiletto territory, and he knew her preference ran in the four-figure bracket.

  Good girl, he thought. He hoped she really liked them.

  And would think of him whenever she wore them.

  “She seemed the practical type.” Down-to-earth—that was a far more apt description. He remembered the way her foot had rooted
to the floor while the other balanced effortlessly, her long, tan leg fanned out to the side, almost touching his in the intimate quarters of the lift. Her energy had been subtly powerful, yet seemed to radiate off the walls of the small space.

  I want that, he thought. How does one get that? Can it be bottled?

  The flight attendant had passed out in his hotel bed, having finished off the tequila herself.

  “Out of curiosity, can you find out where the driver dropped her?”

  Isabelle gave a sigh laced with the usual nicotine and resentment. “Fine. If it will keep you amused. And in a good mood when you get back to New York.”

  “It just might.” Rick smiled. “And could you quit smoking, while you’re at it?”

  “Not a chance. In other news, you missed Paul.”

  “Cripes, really?” His eldest had had a final exam to administer and hadn’t thought he would be able to make the two o’clock dedication ceremony in time. My son, he thought, the college professor. Good Lord.

  “He showed up moments after you left.”

  “I’ll call him, take him to lunch when I get back to town in a few weeks.” He shook the empty bottle before depositing it in the trash. “Has Adrian checked in yet?”

  “The rest of the band arrived earlier. He’s . . .” Rick patiently waited for Isabelle to fetch her itinerary. “He’s in room six oh nine. VIP Meet and Greet at the Forum tomorrow at five o’clock, remember.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Good. Now get some sleep.”

  “I will.” He planned on crashing in Adrian’s room to avoid any turbulence with the flight attendant once her, erm . . . jet lag wore off. “And Isabelle? Thanks. For taking over earlier, at the event.”

  His publicist was, for once, at a loss for words. Rick knew what was coming. Isabelle shed her tough exterior a few times a year.

  Not unlike a snake molting its skin.

  “I felt her there today. Her presence. Does that sound silly?” she asked softly.

  “No. It sounds lucky.” Rick tried not to let his envy bleed through. “Good night, luv. Sleep well.”

  Sidra

  The Death of Thoughts

  “Palms up,” Sidra intoned as she wound her way through the room, surveying the bodies in supine position on her floor. “Let your thoughts dissolve.”

  This was Savasana, also known as Corpse pose. Sidra felt funny saying the word to the students of this particular yoga class, most of whom had at least forty years over her. “Feel your muscles relax. Everything melts away.”

  All of her students made good corpses, lying under their colorfully woven Mexican blankets. Sidra shivered as her body temperature dropped under its own relaxation. She tried in vain to keep her thoughts uncluttered, but hiking with Charlie through Mexico came to mind. Arriving in Santa María del Tule just in time for Día de los Muertos. Memories of marigolds, white candles, and all those colorful blankets spread out. She and Charlie had danced in the graveyard, then drank the local mescal and made love until dawn.

  She had promised herself she wouldn’t think about Charlie today. Especially today.

  Sidra slowly pulled the orange ribbon that held her tight ponytail, allowing her thick waves of hair to fall like an inky curtain. She wrapped the ribbon around her slim, olive-toned wrist like a reminder and surrendered to her own corpse pose, the words she knew by heart echoing throughout her: Let it be the death of thoughts, of feelings that do not serve you; the release of everything you don’t need.

  Sidra loved Savasana. She imagined what it would be like to lie in this pose indefinitely, until her own skin hung loose and crepey, until her hair faded from black to white from loss of melanin and her body ran out of estrogen and her mind turned forgetful.

  She wondered if she would grow old alone.

  “Let’s start to slowly bring awareness back to our bodies,” she murmured gently. “Wiggle our toes, our fingers . . . bring our knees up and rock them slowly, to the left and to the right. When you’re ready, roll onto your side and rest there for a moment.”

  Time to get these seniors rolling, back to their co-ops and walk-ups. Many lived within walking distance of the Rivington Street yoga studio, had probably lived on the Lower East Side of Manhattan their whole lives, back when the Lower East Side stood for something entirely different. The East Village was like a hip shadow slipping down the Bowery and across Houston Street, slowly absorbing the Old World neighborhood. It offended Sidra, and she was only in her early thirties. She wondered how these long-time residents felt about it. Her uncle Sully just laughed from the doorway and shook his head as he watched each Prius and Peg Perego jogging stroller push out the liftgate delivery trucks and their dusty pallets.

  “Thank you, dear. That was wonderful.” Vivian patted Sidra’s forearm. “I always feel so calm after taking your class. Always worth the schlep.”

  Sidra had to smile. She wondered what the alternative to calm was for the spry seventy-year-old. With her Crayola-red bouffant and full dental bridge, Viv was probably a hell-raiser in her assisted living community. She came all the way from Edgewater, New Jersey, three times a week to attend Sidra’s classes at Evolve Yoga, and loved to remind people of it.

  Evolve’s late evening class was Sidra’s favorite class to teach. The entire building was hers. No Uncle Sully in the rear storage room, tinkering with old inventory from his defunct bicycle shop. Her cousin Mikey wasn’t hustling up front in the record shop, or nagging his girlfriend, Fiona, to hoist her sizable boobs off the counter and pick up a feather duster once in a while. No clutter, no noise. Just the soft sounds of her yoga mix CDs on the stereo under the ever-glowing exotic brass lamp hanging high overhead.

  Sidra strolled up Avenue A in a post-practice haze. It was a short strut from letters to numbers and didn’t take long to get to her brownstone on East 5th Street off Second Avenue. Just a block away, the narrow eye of Curry Row blinked invitingly. Her mouth watered at the smell of rotli frying in the pan and rice cooking with cardamom. She felt ten years old again, helping her aunties as they made dal makhani, the buttery lentil soup her grandparents’ restaurant was known for.

  While some kids had monkey bars to swing on, Sidra had the front and back doors of every Indian restaurant on 6th Street to zoom through like her own personal culinary playground. There she nicked fresh flatbread chapatis hot from the oven and learned how to blend spinach in a cream sauce for saag. She’d help her grandma mix chai spices in a baggie to take home and simmer in milk for Seamus and her dad.

  Seventh Street was a whole different jungle gym of memories, sounds, and smells. McSorley’s Old Ale House was there, had always been there, and probably always would be there. It was just one in a long string of establishments that tolerated Jack Sullivan when he could no longer tolerate himself. She recalled pulling her father off many a bar stool to come home for a hot meal and a change of clothing. The smell of sawdust mixed with the sour sweat of someone who spent his summers drinking indoors. She had been ten then, too, the year her mother died.

  She had promised herself she wouldn’t think about death today. Especially today.

  “Where’s yer dot?” was a frequent question from the inebriated clientele on the neighboring bar stools of the Landmark and Molly’s Shebeen when she’d arrive, determined to coax her father home. The lighthearted melody of an Irish reel and the piping of a tin whistle would echo cheerily in her head in contrast to the sick thump of her heart later on as she watched her father piss the bed. The first time she saw such a dark stain bloom beneath him, she thought it was blood, that he was dying, too. But somehow, her dad would always spring back, sober and ready for a good Irish roast with the rest of the Sullivan clan come Sunday.

  The three streets were a blend of unique memories elemental to her blended Irish-Indian upbringing, a mesh tightly woven. But they were also peppered with thoughts of her first love. She remembered the shock, the burst of summer rain, and the cute boy who walked her all the way home from Great Jo
nes Street just because he happened to have an umbrella when she did not.

  That hadn’t been chivalry on Charlie’s part that day, Sidra realized now. It had been dumb luck and opportunity. Charlie Danahy just always fell into things: cool band gigs, great summer shares, lucrative modeling stints . . . and other women’s beds.

  She knew exactly which streetlight witnessed their first kiss—the one covered in tiny mirrors and mosaic tiles the color of Charlie’s eyes. She could barely stand to walk past it now, afraid to get lost in that sea of mosaic and see her shattered heart reflected in each tiny mirror.

  Sidra had lived all her life in Manhattan but had been as ethnocentric as a small-town girl. She could joke with Liz about importing and exporting for the sake of her love life, but, in all honestly, could never imagine being anywhere else. Yet lately, she felt like she was drowning in the melting pot.

  Sidra turned her mind to June and the promise of change. She’d continue teaching her studio classes at night, but her days would be spent outdoors, working at a posh summer camp upstate, away from the dog days of summer in the city. And away from the dogs, like Charlie, who dwelled there. That thought alone became Sidra’s new mental mantra for peace.

  * * *

  “Hey, doll.”

  Speak of the devil. There was the old hound of hell himself, sitting on her stupid, single bar stool and restringing his guitar. He might as well have been sharpening his pitchfork.

  “Charlie. What are you doing here?” Sidra shrugged the strap of her yoga mat off her weary shoulder and dropped it along with her bag. Her asking for the apartment key back had obviously been a symbolic gesture in his mind. “How many freaking copies of my key did you make?”

  Her ex smiled his roguish smile that never failed to cause a pileup on Sidra’s heartbeat highway. His sexy, dark brows arched devilishly. Charlie Danahy was the devil, all right. If the devil had a panty-melting laugh, muttonchops, and a razor-thin goatee eked along his superb jawline.