Read Online Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) by Jessica Topper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Topper
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fresh mowed grass filtering down from a neighboring lawn. Not unpleasant, just different from the last time he had visited the couple. Their summer place by the lake felt light-years away from the Upper West Side apartment they called home, even though the aging chalet bungalow was just under an hour’s drive from Manhattan.
“Those are our lake shoes,” Kat explained, prodding at a sneaker, caked gray and stiff, with her freshly pedicured toes. “The pile seems to grow larger every summer.”
“So this is your old homestead, then?” Rick bent to run his hand down the cat’s back as she weaved between his shoes. Even Chelsea, who probably lived a charmed life walking along the huge windows above Central Park most of the year, seemed to welcome the change of scenery. Her tail vibrated with happiness from his attention.
“Born and raised! We try to spend every summer and holiday here now. Just wait until you see your room. The Corroded Corpse time capsule.” Kat laughed. “If my brother, Kevin, finds out you’re staying here, he’ll want to hang an engraved plaque.”
“Riff Rotten slept here,” Adrian joked.
“Oh, bollocks. Please.” Rick scoffed. He had heard all about the attic bedroom, a shrine circa 1984, plastered with posters of Kat’s brother’s favorite bands.
“Come on in and sit. Coffee? Lemonade?” Kat gestured.
“I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got a proper English one.” A myriad of clocks in the living room began their slightly unsynchronized peal, as if to admonish Rick for wanting a beer at eleven o’clock in the morning. “Do I hear the Winchester chimes?”
“Oh, yes. Kat’s dad collected clocks in his antique business. Next you’ll hear Westminster, and the Whittington. Maddening, isn’t it?” Adrian winked at Kat as he uncapped a Newcastle with a vaporous pop and handed it to his friend. “I’ll take a glass of your lemonade, my dear.”
Kat brought two frosty glasses to the dining room table before settling into a chair with a canary-eating smile. Rick noticed Adrian’s pinky immediately curled around hers. Tattooed on his knuckle was a bold, black exclamation point: the punctuation to Kat’s very eager response when he proposed to her four years ago. Some people immediately get on the phone to share such happy news, Rick supposed. Others, like Adrian, go to the tattoo parlor so they can fist-pump
Y E S !
They both smiled expectantly at him. Suddenly it was clear to Rick just why they had brought him here. Detouring him off the road, away from the rest of the band, forcing rest and relaxation down his throat.
They wanted his blessing.
“So. The wedding.” A fluid haul off the beer steeled Rick enough to broach the subject. “You’ve picked a date, I assume?”
“Look, he’s already got his ‘side project’ face on,” Adrian sputtered in disbelief.
“I do not,” Rick said indignantly, but he could feel his top lip curling in disgust while his thick dark brow receded in exasperation. It was the same face he pulled any time Adrian decided to take a break from all the sold-their-soul-for-rock-and-roll stuff and play for the under-ten crowd. When they had first reconciled their friendship, Rick had been amused by Digger Graves’s new alter ego: the kid-friendly musician Kat had mistakenly hired for a local library program, all because he wrote a stupid-catchy TV theme song about a cartoon cat. But now that their Corroded Corpse legacy had been resurrected as the Rotten Graves Project, Rick no longer regarded Adrian’s other pursuits as harmless fancy. Anything that took away from Corpse time was a threat.
“It’s my wedding, mate.
Our
wedding.” Adrian clutched Kat’s hand. “It’s not some pesky one-off gig that would be better left unplayed! Oh, but you’d rather walk away from the gigs without big guarantees, right?”
Rick had drained the last of his Newcastle and was picking at the bottle label. “All right,” he said, setting it aside
“Those are our lake shoes,” Kat explained, prodding at a sneaker, caked gray and stiff, with her freshly pedicured toes. “The pile seems to grow larger every summer.”
“So this is your old homestead, then?” Rick bent to run his hand down the cat’s back as she weaved between his shoes. Even Chelsea, who probably lived a charmed life walking along the huge windows above Central Park most of the year, seemed to welcome the change of scenery. Her tail vibrated with happiness from his attention.
“Born and raised! We try to spend every summer and holiday here now. Just wait until you see your room. The Corroded Corpse time capsule.” Kat laughed. “If my brother, Kevin, finds out you’re staying here, he’ll want to hang an engraved plaque.”
“Riff Rotten slept here,” Adrian joked.
“Oh, bollocks. Please.” Rick scoffed. He had heard all about the attic bedroom, a shrine circa 1984, plastered with posters of Kat’s brother’s favorite bands.
“Come on in and sit. Coffee? Lemonade?” Kat gestured.
“I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got a proper English one.” A myriad of clocks in the living room began their slightly unsynchronized peal, as if to admonish Rick for wanting a beer at eleven o’clock in the morning. “Do I hear the Winchester chimes?”
“Oh, yes. Kat’s dad collected clocks in his antique business. Next you’ll hear Westminster, and the Whittington. Maddening, isn’t it?” Adrian winked at Kat as he uncapped a Newcastle with a vaporous pop and handed it to his friend. “I’ll take a glass of your lemonade, my dear.”
Kat brought two frosty glasses to the dining room table before settling into a chair with a canary-eating smile. Rick noticed Adrian’s pinky immediately curled around hers. Tattooed on his knuckle was a bold, black exclamation point: the punctuation to Kat’s very eager response when he proposed to her four years ago. Some people immediately get on the phone to share such happy news, Rick supposed. Others, like Adrian, go to the tattoo parlor so they can fist-pump
Y E S !
They both smiled expectantly at him. Suddenly it was clear to Rick just why they had brought him here. Detouring him off the road, away from the rest of the band, forcing rest and relaxation down his throat.
They wanted his blessing.
“So. The wedding.” A fluid haul off the beer steeled Rick enough to broach the subject. “You’ve picked a date, I assume?”
“Look, he’s already got his ‘side project’ face on,” Adrian sputtered in disbelief.
“I do not,” Rick said indignantly, but he could feel his top lip curling in disgust while his thick dark brow receded in exasperation. It was the same face he pulled any time Adrian decided to take a break from all the sold-their-soul-for-rock-and-roll stuff and play for the under-ten crowd. When they had first reconciled their friendship, Rick had been amused by Digger Graves’s new alter ego: the kid-friendly musician Kat had mistakenly hired for a local library program, all because he wrote a stupid-catchy TV theme song about a cartoon cat. But now that their Corroded Corpse legacy had been resurrected as the Rotten Graves Project, Rick no longer regarded Adrian’s other pursuits as harmless fancy. Anything that took away from Corpse time was a threat.
“It’s my wedding, mate.
Our
wedding.” Adrian clutched Kat’s hand. “It’s not some pesky one-off gig that would be better left unplayed! Oh, but you’d rather walk away from the gigs without big guarantees, right?”
Rick had drained the last of his Newcastle and was picking at the bottle label. “All right,” he said, setting it aside
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