Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (17 page)

Snogging and Celibacy

“Who’s going to paint my toes while you’re gone?” Sidra pouted, inspecting her brother’s perfect pedicure work.

“Jeez, Sid. Go to a professional. Pretty toes are part of your job; I would think it could be a tax write-off.” Seamus blew gently to dry the polish. His hands were the steadiest in the household, and he had always claimed the practice, and the vapors, were therapeutic.

Fiona looked out from behind her gossip magazine. “Do me next, do me!” She leaned back on the couch and perched her own bare feet up on the coffee table in anticipation.

Seamus gave her an eyebrow raise and directed a snort toward Sidra. Fiona hadn’t exactly played hard to get when they were teens, before Mikey had made an honest woman of her.

“Fuck you, Shay.” Fiona rolled her magazine and whacked him for being a dirty dog.

“Hello,
ladies
.” Mikey lugged himself through the front door of the brownstone apartment and collapsed, work boots and all, across Fiona’s lap on the couch. “Christ, what a day. Dad had me moving ten tons of shit in the back room this afternoon. I don’t understand. For a retired guy, why does he still have so much work to do?” Fiona leaned down and laid a kiss on his sweaty cheek in consolation. “Just what I want to see at the end of the day: My cousin down on his knees, servicing everyone. Jesus.”

Seamus grinned and went to work threading tissues through Mikey’s girlfriend’s toes to prep them for polishing. “Sully could’ve asked me to help. I don’t leave for tour again until Tuesday.”

“Probably didn’t want to risk damaging those talented hands of yours.” The rivalry shared between the elder Sullivan brothers, Jack and Sully, had been unquestionably inherited by each of their firstborn male children. Jack had been the scholar; Sully the laborer. Now Seamus, with his Harvard credentials and fragile interior, played straight man to Mikey’s crude tough-guy act. “You were needed in the nail salon.”

“Sidra, what color is that?” Fiona inquired. “I want it, too.”

“It’s called Snog.” Sidra inspected her hot pink toes. “Don’t you love it?”

“
Snog?
Isn’t that when you, like, backwash into someone else’s drink?” Mikey wanted to know. “Why the hell would someone name their product after that?”

“You’re thinking
snarf
, Mike.” Seamus rolled the fat square bottle of polish between his hands like a pro. “
Snog
is slang for kissing. Fancy a snog with me?” His dead-accurate British accent earned him a chaste kiss from Fiona and a scowl from Mikey.

Sidra blushed, thinking of her behavior at the studio the day before. Rick’s clipped accent in her ear, his lips on hers. She needed to set some better boundaries and make it a new policy:
No snogging with your yoga students.
Maybe she needed to paint that motto on the damn wall.

“Look at Sid! She’s got some dirty thoughts going on,” Mikey crowed.

“Do not,” Sidra countered, slowly and nonchalantly pulling out the tissue separating her toes and balling it up in her fist. “Quite the opposite. I’m thinking of trying
brahmacharya
for the summer, actually.”

“What’s that? Like a singles cruise or something?” Fiona arched her back as Seamus went to work on her big toe.

Sidra chuckled. “Not quite. It’s like conscious celibacy, to help you harness the energy of your senses. It’s one of the
yamas
, like a yoga rule.”

“No sex allowed?” Fiona looked alarmed. “What about . . . you know?” She flittered her hand back and forth so rapidly that there was no misunderstanding what she was getting at.

“I guess a concession could be made for that.”

“So if Sidra’s manning her own boat, it is kinda like a singles cruise after all, Fi.” Mikey held his belly and laughed.

Seamus pretended to plug his ears. “
La la la
not listening, happy birthday, not listening to you talking about my sister self-pleasuring.”

“Quit, Mikey, you’re shaking the couch,” Fiona complained, as Mikey had become quite hysterical. “No offense, Sid, but aren’t you kinda already doing bra-ma-ya-ya or whatever you call it, now?”

“
Brahmacharya.”
It was true; she hadn’t been intimate with anyone since Charlie. “It’s more than just that. It’s . . . I don’t know. Gaining a greater understanding of myself, maybe? Sexual impulse is a big drain on your energy. I just want . . . more contentment in my life.”

She sat back, grew quiet. Was that what she wanted? She wasn’t even sure. What she had felt briefly with Rick was delicious and terrifying. It was so outside of the rules she had structured for herself and all the reasoning she had gathered in order to protect her heart from further damage.

“The hell with the celibate talk. If I were into yoga, I’d be like Sting. All tantric and shit.”

“Lovely image, Mike.” Seamus propped Fiona’s left ankle over his right shoulder, allowing the fresh polish on that foot to dry unmarred, while he held her right heel fast between his knees to begin work on the rest of her toes.

Between Mikey’s narration, Fiona’s compromised position, and Seamus’s focused gaze, Sidra felt like she was in the middle of the most bizarre porno movie ever. She hopped up and hobbled to the door.

“Hey, Sis, where are you going?”

“Carry on with your Snog. I’m gonna go check on Jack.”

Operation Holy G.R.A.I.L.

“Refrain from getting piss-drunk tonight, please,” Adrian requested before handing Rick a bottle of Newcastle. “We’ve got company coming.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Who else is coming to dinner?” Rick glanced around. Over the past few weekends, he had come to know all present company sitting around the backyard patio. They weren’t guests; they were Adrian and Kat’s extended Lake family. The chesty one, Marissa, and her husband, Rob. Karen and Mitch, the macrobiotic duo. Leanna, who was a bit of a piss-up and whose other half never seemed to materialize during the regular gatherings. And then there were the numerous children of varying ages, all belonging somehow to at least one or more of them. “Wait, don’t tell me. Another blind date?”

Last week, it had been drinks in town with a divorcée around his age, no offspring. Kat had thought they would hit it off. “She’s Jewish and she’s a singer” had apparently been the basis of criteria. “Yes, and so is Barbra Streisand,” Rick had bristled defensively. “Doesn’t mean I want to date her.”

Adrian smirked. “The women have apparently initiated Operation Holy G.R.A.I.L. in full force.”

“Good God, they’ve got a code name for it?”

Marissa sidled up to grab a beer from the cooler near the back door. “Get Riff Amazingly, Intensely Laid. That’s our mission.”

“You should choose to accept it,” Leanna supplied.

“Totally Abbey’s idea.” Marissa twisted the beer top off in the hollow of her thumb, her nails curling like raven’s claws. “Well, not the verbiage.” All heads turned to the children, who were innocently turning cartwheels on the lawn.

“All she wants is to be a flower girl, and for you to have a date for the wedding, Uncle Riff.” Adrian grinned. “She’s got her eye on one of her camp counselors for you.”

Rick pictured a nature girl, bare feet and a guitar, leading a group through a rousing rendition of “Kumbaya.” Flowers in her straight blond hair. Freckles on her nose. Twenty years ago, she may have been his flavor of the day. But not now.

“I’ve got some single gals in the city office, Riff. I’d be happy to introduce you to some,” Mitch offered a bit too eagerly and lasciviously. Karen’s husband reminded Rick of the hangers-on backstage, just waiting to be thrown the groupie leftovers.

“Doubt he needs your help,” Rob deadpanned. “These dudes were probably drowning in tail back in the eighties. Am I right?”

Neither Adrian nor Rick refuted the statement, causing Mitch’s eyes to grow saucer-wide.

“What’s it really like, being a rock star?” he asked.

Rick gave him a dark look. “Close your eyes and imagine all the women you’ve ever slept with.” Mitch obeyed. “See them all?” Rick asked. Mitch nodded. “Yeah? I wouldn’t touch any of them.”

“Riff!” Adrian scolded, but he was snickering as well. “Ignore him, mate. He’s taking the piss.”

Mitch smiled slowly, a bit unsure whether he was in on the joke or the butt of it.

“Well.” Rick tipped his head in the direction of Karen, who was nestled under a tree in the far corner of the lawn and quietly nursing her youngest. “Except for your lovely wife . . .
if
she were single.”

Mitch’s smile took on a frozen, pasted-upon look. The women quickly intervened.

Plates were shoved into Rick’s hands, and Mitch was put in charge of rounding up the kids for dinner.

“Behave,” Marissa warned Rick. “Robbie, keep an eye on them while we grab the rest of the food from inside.”

“Here’s Kat with Gloria now.” Adrian raised the barbecue tongs in greeting as Kat rounded the side of the house with a platinum blond bombshell. “A friend from her Columbia library school days.”

“G-l-o-r-i-a,” Rob breathed. “Hot damn, why can’t the school librarian where I teach look like that?”

Rick kept his eyes down, setting the plates on the table with calculated nonchalance. It turned out yoga wasn’t the torture chamber he’d thought it would be. No, it was surviving these suburban weekends with his self-dignity and discipline intact. These setups were a form of emotional waterboarding.

“Rick, I’d like you to meet Gloria. She’s the head of research for the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission. Gloria . . . this is Rick.”

Kat’s friend was beautiful, and no doubt had a brain to go with the beauty. Like Rob’s had, Rick’s brain summoned up the old classic Van Morrison song proclaiming her name . . . before allowing it to mutate into the far dirtier Jim Morrison version involving her legs and his neck.

But it was Sidra he wanted to do those things to. He remembered her hair upon his skin and her kiss upon his tattoo with trembling clarity. It took all of Rick’s resolve to politely smile and say hello, when all he wanted to do was hightail it down to the Lower East Side and drop to his knees under Sidra’s gaze, beneath the glow of the
ner tamid
.

Standing in Mountain

Sidra gazed upon a room full of closed eyes. She had her students sitting as straight as possible, focus in, and rolling their shoulders up, back, and down. “Now roll them in the other direction,” she instructed softly. The last spot of the middle row, the place she had come to think of as
his
, was vacant.

Rick.

His name had been on her tongue all weekend. At odd times, she almost caught herself saying it aloud. While brushing her hair, while teaching the kids how to do Gorilla pose in class. While making change for the record store customers. While rinsing empties and ridding her dad’s apartment of them. While closing up last night, after he didn’t show up for class or his session. And this evening, as she unrolled her yoga mat under the
ner tamid
.

The door clicked closed. She hadn’t realized someone had even opened it. Rick strode briskly to his spot, as if heir to the throne.

A mixture of resentment and shame flooded Sidra.
Don’t even give him the satisfaction,
she thought.
Don’t even look his way. Teach your students. He’s just another ten dollar bill.
Cha-ching.
Eighteen students, three classes tonight. $540 more than she had yesterday.

But she couldn’t think of her students like that. She enjoyed teaching them. Even crotchety old Benny. If anyone had an ache or a pain, she wanted yoga to have eased it by session’s end.

“Continue focusing on your breathing, keeping your eyes closed.”
Coward.
It was easier for her to face Rick if he couldn’t look back at her. But she knew she couldn’t keep the eyes of her entire class shut for the duration. “Take a minute to place your hands on any part of your body that needs work today. Any spot you want to pay particular attention to.”

“I don’t have that many hands,” Vivian piped up, and titters of laughter could be heard from all around.

Sidra watched as her students placed hands on shoulders, on spines, on knees, and on hips. At last, she allowed herself to steal a glance at Rick.
Oh God.
He had a hand up, those long, strong fingers gently resting above his heavy brow. His other hand, closed in a half fist, was pushed firmly against his chest. His eyes, like everyone else’s, were closed. Not squeezed shut, but the look on his face expressed a fervent wish for peace in his head and his heart.

Sidra knew the feeling well.

“All right. Table.” She gulped. She no longer wanted to gaze upon any of their faces. Or see their hands as indicators of where their weaknesses lay. She was going to work them hard and get through this hour as best she could.

* * *

“Best class yet!”

Sidra smiled, thanked those who came up to express themselves as they shuffled out the door. Three new students, women in their early forties with colorful Gaiam mats and sleek ponytails, vowed to return and to bring their friends. Sidra had been able to tell from their movements in class they were fairly practiced, yet now, with their cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, she knew they were converts to her method. They peppered their praise with questions about a particular song she played, a pose known by another name, and whether she sold gift certificates. She immersed herself in the conversation, enjoying the fleeting barrier it provided. She could feel Rick’s presence still taking up energy within the room.

“Ten-class punch cards are available up front with Fiona.” She scooped up a stray foam yoga brick from the floor and gave a wave to the last of them. “See you.”

“You’ve got quite the fan club,” she heard him say. “You deserve it.”

Ignoring him, Sidra tossed the brick into the basket. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself throw it at his head instead.
You deserve it.

She had been about to roll up her mat, but thought better of it. Calmly, she closed her eyes and stood in Mountain, her back to him. Maybe he would get the hint and leave.

“Are we going to talk about last week?”

Rick’s words produced an effervescence that radiated through her core, and heat rushed to all the places he had lingered upon Friday night. She took a deep breath.
Stillness. Stillness leads to clarity.

“Because it wasn’t just some whim, some cheap thrill. And I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think you wanted to just as much.”

Stillness, strength, power.
Sidra took the pose as active as she could, aiming for the immovable stability of mountains that the pose was named for. She heard a gusty sigh rake from his throat; he was in front of her now. If she opened her eyes, if she saw the tangle of curls that always fell over one temple, the squint and furrow of that dark, defined brow as it focused his intense gaze upon her, she knew she would crumble and dissolve on the spot. She sensed how close he was; close enough for her to effortlessly raise a hand and trace the contour of his cheekbone down to his stubborn jaw line and over to those full, fierce lips and down the scratchy-soft stripe of scruff on his chin.

“How can you just stand there, doing nothing? Saying nothing?”

Sidra’s eyes flew open, her face instantly matching the look of defiance he wore on his. “I am doing
everything
right now.
Tadasana
is not just standing,” she pointed out. “My toes are spreading the mat apart. My thighs are inner-spiraled. My shoulders are set upon my back, and my muscles are hugging my arms. My fingers are wide, my abs are engaged. My chest is collected.” She watched as he took every detail as an order. “Skin to muscle to bone. It’s a very active pose.”

And it took all of her concentration; she was doing everything to keep herself from thinking about kissing him.

His stance now mirrored hers, and she felt the energy radiating out from him. “The crown of your head is reaching to the sky while your feet are pressing firmly in the earth. You may think you’re still, but you are moving,” she said softly. “Do you feel it?”

He was as rigid as any mountain, until he tilted his chin to catch her gaze. “Is there a fancy yoga name for what I’m feeling?”

It was as if his mere glance released her from one spell, yet trapped her in another. She stepped into his orbit. “It’s called dynamic tension,” she breathed, her lips resting on the hollow of his throat, right above that ever-present rope of leather. A sigh escaped from him as he leaned into her touch, but his feet remained rooted, arms outstretched from his sides with his palms up and fingers wide, as if offering himself wholly up to her.

She gave him a shove, surprising him as much as herself.

“Bloody hell, what was that for?” he swore, stumbling back a foot.

“If you were truly in
Tadasana
, you wouldn’t move when I pushed you. Like a mountain.” She could feel her pulse hammering in her neck, her face heating up.

“What’s your problem with me, Sidra?”

“I don’t date musicians.”

He folded his arms across his chest and cocked a brow. “And I don’t date yoga instructors. So why don’t you stop teaching yoga?”

“That’s like,” she sputtered, “that’s like asking me not to breathe!”

Rick bit back a smile. “Exactly.” He ducked down and caught her bottom lip between both of his. “The mountain’s not going anywhere this time,” he chided, grabbing her wrists to keep her from shoving him again. “In fact, the mountain will wait for you. It’s got all the time in the world.”

Another kiss was stolen, but under mutual acquiescence; it wasn’t clear who initiated it this time around, and Sidra no longer cared. It felt so good. Too good. The rhythmic thump of the time clock could be heard from behind the door, signaling the arrival of her students punching in for the next class. She pulled back just as he decided to be the one to push away this time.

“See? Dynamic tension at work,” she managed.

“Well, then. We’ll just have to get away from work, now won’t we?”