Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (10 page)

“Shit, shit shit. Late, late, late.”

Sammi hustled down the sidewalk, muttering to herself, drawing curious stares of passersby as she jogged into the café the next morning. She was fifteen minutes late, and her father was going to have her ass for it because it was already busy—the line was out the door.

Joe Carnevale stood behind the register, and tapped a finger on his wrist when he saw her. Sammi stuck her tongue out at him, and he waved her off with a reluctant grin; she knew he could never really get mad at her.

“Get in the back,” he called, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Help your mother and Jazz with the bread.”

“Goin’, Pop.”

She dropped her jacket and bag under a counter and slipped an apron over her head as her mother, Carmela, frowned at her. “Samantha. You’re late.”

“Fifteen minutes, Ma.” Sammi sighed and shoved her sleeves up. “The girls had a lot of questions today.”

When they’d opened the bakery, Sammi had arrived at the crack of dawn every Saturday morning to help with the day’s baking. But her parents had been so pleased when she’d taken the job at the rec center teaching ballet, they had eagerly amended her schedule to let her come in late on Saturdays. Carmela now helped Jazz with the baking while Joe tended to the registers, made the coffee, and served the customers until Sammi arrived.

“Uh-huh. Your poor father didn’t know what to do with himself up there.” Carmela gestured dramatically, sending a little cloud of flour into the air. “You know we have to get back to the apartment. Especially today, when a tenant has a faucet that won’t work.”

“Sorry, Ma.” Sammi floured her work surface as Jazz handed her a little ball of dough.

Carmela couldn’t hold back a smile. “So, the class went well?”

“Pretty well. Although teachin’ second-graders is a little like herding cats sometimes.” Sammi slapped and kneaded her dough, forming it into a loaf shape.

“I can imagine. Well, I’m gonna let you girls handle this and help your father up front.
Maddon’
, the man had to have two businesses, God help him.”

“Hey, if Pop’s goin’ around fixing stuff today, I could use a tweak to my cable.” Sammi grinned across the counter at Jazz as she snorted.

“Tweak how?”

“You know. All the movie channels for free.”

Carmela rolled her eyes. “As if livin’ rent-free in your parents’ building ain’t enough. I am not gonna help you break the law. Besides, we’re not the cable company. Now, get that bread made, Sam. And don’t knead too fast, you gotta go slow with this one.”

“Yes, Ma.”

Jazz tsked at her when Carmela had gone up front. “Free rent
and
free cable? Sammi, I never knew you were so greedy.” She winked.

“Please. You wish you had my set-up.”

“I dunno.” Jazz brushed melted butter on top of her loaf. “Free rent is free rent, but…living that close to your family? I value my privacy. And sanity. And hearing. And cholesterol.”

“They only damage your cholesterol on Sundays. As for privacy, luckily I don’t have anything private going on in my life.”

Jazz wiggled her brows. “You could change that, you know. A certain hot soldier who owns a gym.”

“Right. Have him over just to hide in the bathroom while he watches TV.”

“Well…it’s a start.”

Sammi gave her a dirty look. “Just make the bread and hush.”

The next hour flew by as they immersed themselves in the baking, and when the morning rush slowed, Carmela and Joe poked their heads into the kitchen to say goodbye.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner,” Carmela said to Sammi, and it was more of a threat than an invitation. She allowed Joe to help her into her coat before pointing at Jazz. “You comin’ too, for once?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. C, I can’t tomorrow. I have a huge paper due on Wednesday and I haven’t started it yet. Maybe next week, though.”

“And why have you not started a paper that’s due in four days?”

“Um. Because I got all the seasons of Golden Girls on DVD, and, well…” Jazz shrugged helplessly.

“Ugh, you. Turning down a good meal because you procrastinated. Fine.” Carmela sighed, tossing her hand up in defeat. “I just worry about you not getting a hot meal in your belly. You college kids, you work too hard.”

“I promise I’ll be okay.” Jazz smiled. “But count on me when the semester is over.”

“Honey, I’m hungry.” Joe looked at her pointedly. “Let these two get to work.”

“Oh, fine, grouchy. Bye, girls.” Carmela leaned in to give them each a peck on the cheek and Joe steered her out of the kitchen.

“See yous kids later,” he called over his shoulder. “Be safe and make some money today, huh?”

Sammi was about to carry a tray loaded with pastries to the display case when she caught Jazz staring at her with a huge grin on her face. Sammi chuckled.

“What, creepy?”

“I got something for you.” Jazz reached into her back pocket, pulling out what looked like a normal sheet of paper, folded in half. It was sealed with a Strawberry Shortcake sticker and had “SAMUEL” written in marker on the front, accompanied by little doodles of hearts, flowers, and stars.

Sammi took the paper with a smirk and gestured to the doodles on the front. “Is this your latest work?”

“Open it!”

Breaking the sticker seal, Sammi unfolded the paper and skimmed the page, noting that it was a flyer with
Boston Talent Showcase
printed across the top. Her brow furrowed as her eyes dropped lower—it was an invitation for the best and brightest talent in the city to perform music, song, dance, monologues, or readings at the Orpheum in June. Information at the bottom of the flyer provided instructions on how and where to register, as well as the cost. She looked at Jazz, who was still grinning.

“What is this?” she asked softly, holding up the flyer.

“Didn’t you read it?”

“I get what it is.
Why
did you give it to me?”

Jazz shrugged. “I thought that maybe, you know, you could show everyone in Boston what an incredible dancer you are.”

“Yeah, that would be cool. Except the part where I don’t perform anymore.” Sammi folded the flyer and handed it back.

Jazz made no move to collect it from her. “You just
think
you can’t,” she insisted. “But, you can. And you should. You’re so talented, Sam. Don’t hide it.”

“I appreciate that, but no.” Sammi stuffed the flyer into her pocket since Jazz wouldn’t take it. “I can’t get back on stage. I know you mean well, and I love you for it, Jay, but, I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”

“You kinda have to.”

“No, I kinda don’t.”

“But I already registered you and paid the fee.” She mimed little jazz hands and smiled tentatively. “Surprise?”

“Then that was sixty bucks you wasted.” Sammi hefted the tray and turned on her heel.

“Come on, Sam. Give it a try.”

“The answer is no, Jay. Period. I’m sorry you went to the trouble, but you know how I feel about it. I can’t do it.”

Jazz sighed. “Won’t you at least think about it?”

“No. Expect the money back in your next check.”

Sammi carried the tray to the front and set it down on a nearby table, sighing. She pulled the flyer out of her pocket and held it over the trash can, but Jazz’s doodles caught her eye, and she hesitated.

After a moment, she refolded the flyer and put it back in her pocket.

Seven-thirty came and went with no sign of her. At nine-thirty on Friday, Cillian glanced over at the front door expectantly and it hit him that he had a problem—it was automatic reflex these days to check for her. When he saw her, his stomach would tighten in a weird, but not altogether unpleasant, way, and he would find himself anticipating when he’d have the chance to talk to her.

“’Bout that time,” Baz said on the other side of the counter, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

What
? It was on the tip of Cillian’s tongue to demand to know why Baz was paying such close attention to Sammi—
you mean, like you?
—when he remembered it was time for something else.

“Our boy’s on ESPN!” Baz hollered, glancing back at the small group of men near the ring. They started making their way over to the TV.

“Had to come in for this one,” Carl said, walking over from the office to clap Cillian on the shoulder. He tried not to flinch in disgust.

ESPN had nothing better to do than air the profiles on the eight amateur fighters for Wilcox’s tournament, it seemed. If not for the opportunity to scope out his competition, Cillian couldn’t have been paid to watch the feature, and his mind drifted as the announcers started talking about the logistics of the tournament—where and when, network air times, ticket prices for local or traveling fans.

She coming tonight? She’s been coming almost every night. Maybe she needs a break.

Since their last impromptu chat, they’d talked more each time she came in. He enjoyed her dry, sarcastic sense of humor and she had a grab-bag of crazy stories from her jobs that made him bark with laughter.

She’s funny. A funny, sad girl…

The more he interacted with her, the more oppressive heaviness that hung around her became palpable. There was always the ghost of the animalistic fear he’d seen the night she’d been assaulted, even when she was smiling. Whenever he caught her off guard, she would start and recoil from him as if he’d tried to brand her with a hot iron. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of these instances for him to learn to approach her carefully so she had plenty of time to see him.

“Yo, Killy, pay attention.” Carl’s sharp elbow dug into his ribs. “You’re missin’ out on good intel.”

Cillian folded his arms. A few of the names he recognized, but that was more because of their bad-boy reps than anything else. A couple names he didn’t recognize at all.

“And that brings us to the last fighter on the roster, Eric—twenty-eight-year-old Cillian Ronan out of Boston, Massachusetts. A true amateur, he’s never fought publicly, but he was issued a personal invitation from Bradley Wilcox himself to attend the tournament.”

“That’s really saying something, Ron,” the other announcer. “For those of you who don’t know, Cillian Ronan, a decorated Sergeant First Class in the United States Army, has received quite a bit of press recently stemming from his heroic actions overseas in Afghanistan last year. Following a firefight with insurgents, the vehicle he and three other soldiers were traveling in crashed and rolled. Despite being wounded, Ronan singlehandedly saved the lives of his comrades and also killed the enemy that chased them. Ronan received the Silver Star for his actions, and all of the soldiers survived with minimal wounds. The soldiers—also best friends—are now back stateside, still serving in the Army.”

Cillian’s entire body tightened up, and he clenched his jaw. His hands squeezed into fists.
Here it comes.

“Well, not all, actually, Eric,” Ron corrected. “We did find reports that said one of the soldiers, Specialist Jensen Lee, tragically committed suicide in Afghanistan almost one year ago.”

Fuck. Cillian steeled himself against the icy cold pain that lanced through his heart, drawing in a deep breath through his nose and releasing it in a subtle stream through his lips.
Sack up, soldier.

“A hero, indeed,” Eric said, shaking his head. “All of them, heroes. While that’s admirable, and we should all appreciate such bravery, will it be enough for Ronan to go toe-to-toe with more experienced fighters next month? Even though Wilcox handpicked him, he’s still an amateur, Ron.”

“We have a copy of a video that was sent to Wilcox by Ronan’s manager, Carl Wilhelm. The clips show Ronan sparring in the ring at his father’s legendary boxing club in South Boston—his father, Murphy Ronan, who in the seventies and eighties had a huge following as a boxer. Let’s play the clips now.”

The screen cut to video of him and Baz in the ring, really going at it. They’d been doing a demo for some new fighters who were looking to break into the business. Cillian studied himself critically.

Decent. Look like I know what I’m doing.

“Eric, as you can see, Cillian Ronan’s got hands,” Ron said, smiling. “He was facing off with Jonathan Basanta, no stranger to the MMA cage himself, who gave up professional fighting to be a trainer at Ronan’s Gym, and he’s training Cillian Ronan. I believe Ronan’s got what it takes to give the other fighters a serious run for their money.”

Behind him, Baz crowed in delight and Carl grabbed Cillian’s shoulders while the other guys whooped and clapped. Cillian just shook his head and scratched his beard, but despite the fact that his chest was still tight from the Afghanistan bit, he couldn’t deny the spark of excitement igniting there.

“Look at that. You’re on TV.”

The voice drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder, seeing Sammi leaning against the counter and he wondered how long she’d been there. He tried to ignore the rush of pleasure he felt at the sight of her.

“Sammi, hey,” Carl said. “Yeah. Killy here’s gonna be the champ. Wait and see.”