Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (2 page)

“Thanks.” Cillian shrugged. “Probably better for the guys to have trainers that know what they’re doing.” He couldn’t help the slightly sarcastic note in his voice.

“Why don’t you think about getting into the ring? Bank on that war hero thing. You got the whole city behind you. You could be a millionaire.”

Here we go with this shit again. Reel in that forked tongue, man.
“If I ever get into the ring, it’ll be when I feel the opportunity is the best for me. I don’t want to be a millionaire.”

Carl tipped his head back and laughed. “Bullshit. Everyone does.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Carl?”

Carl smiled and slung an arm around his shoulders. “I’ve got a little promotion for you. I met some new guys, some fighters who do want to be successful, and I wanna focus solely on that. Seems like every guy with hands in Southie wants a piece of me now that they know I’m workin’ with the great Killy Ronan. So, I’m gonna let you run everything on a daily basis. That means in addition to the training, you’re also gonna handle the administrative side. Think you can do that?”

Cillian bit back another sarcastic reply. He was a Sergeant First Class, a senior non-commissioned officer, and was responsible for almost forty soldiers at the Worcester Military Police reserve unit. He wasn’t active duty anymore, but he was far from being out of practice.

Fairly certain I can handle paperwork and payroll.

“What do you think I got Baz for?”

“Basanta is a moron. I don’t know why you made him general manager. He doesn’t manage shit.”

“He’s not a moron. He’s great with the clients. Who better to train wanna-be fighters than a former fighter? He’s just not a paperwork guy. “

Carl smacked him on the shoulder. “Then you take care of that, I don’t give a shit. I just want it done, and done right. Listen, I got a business meeting tonight and I gotta go. You hold down the fort here.”

“Roger that. Sir.”

Cillian watched Carl stride away and felt a new wave of desire to get the gym out from underneath the man. It was hard to tell that to anyone, since the gym was more successful under Carl’s control than it had ever been.

I need some air.

Now that their clientele was increasing exponentially, Carl had decided that they needed to either move locations or expand. Ronan’s needed a fresh start, he said. New equipment, new services. A new way to appeal to a younger crowd. Cillian had agreed—the gym was getting more and more crowded every day—but put his foot down against moving; the gym had been on B Street just off of Dorcester Ave for three decades, and it would stay there. Surprisingly, Carl hadn’t put up a fight, and instead purchased the vacant lot next door.

Cillian strolled down the sidewalk, the mid-March air frigid but humid with the promise of warmer weather, and unlocked the door, stepping inside. The smell of a fresh coat of paint still lingered.
He didn’t tell me they painted. Guess I can cross that off the list.

He frowned when he noticed that all four walls had been repainted—even the one that connected the two lots, which would have to be knocked down.
Why bother painting that?

He leaned down to inspect the smooth concrete floors, newly installed as of a couple weeks ago, and visualized where the new ring, the treadmills, the ellipticals, weights, bags would be placed when they arrived.

Which—shit.

All of the new equipment had been ordered last month, but he hadn’t gotten a shipping notification yet. He made a mental note to check on the order when he got back to his office.

Cillian secured the new space and walked back into the gym, his hands in his pockets. He lingered on the sidewalk outside, enjoying the breeze on his face. The paint on the fourth wall bothered him.
He must’ve forgotten to tell them that one was coming down.
Carl was such a tight-ass about money, though, and a control-freak at times, that it seemed like a major oversight.

Whatever. You don’t get paid to think, remember? You’re the bitch.

Inside, he dropped into his office chair and fished a toothpick from the little box he kept on the desk. Popping it in his mouth, he pulled up the most recent email he had from the equipment company, which was the order receipt. If it wasn’t delivered soon, and the renovated space had to sit idle much longer, Carl would undoubtedly hold him responsible. With that in mind, Cillian typed out an email, asking for an update, and sent it off.

Not like he can fire me. Just ain’t interested in hearing his mouth.
Without Carl following him around and in his face, Cillian could finally indulge his long-suppressed urge and rolled his eyes hard enough to bring on a slight headache.

When it was eleven, he headed out of the office with his keys in his hand. There were a few guys packing up their stuff and getting ready to leave, so he waved to them as he made a quick circuit around the gym. Most of the guys that tended to stay late were slobs, ignoring the posted rule that equipment had to be sanitized after every use, and Cillian and Baz usually had to spend an hour each night wiping everything down and sanitizing the ring. It was the most annoying part of the job, and it made him appreciate his mother so much more for picking up after him around the house when he was a kid.

The sound of lone fists punching a bag echoed off the hard, concrete walls. Cillian followed the sound back toward the punching bags and saw Carnevale still at work, his back turned and hood up. There was a jump rope on the floor next to him, along with three sets of dumbbells of varying weights, and a medicine ball.

“Carnevale.”

The kid didn’t turn around. Cillian gave him a second before reaching out and tapping him on the shoulder. He blinked in surprise when Sam jumped and scurried away, practically hiding behind the bag. He’d turned around, but he kept his head down, and the brim of his cap shielded his face. A pair of earbuds dangled from his hand. The cords trembled.

“Jesus, kid, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Cillian was startled himself at the violence of the kid’s reaction, and instinctively held up his hands to show he was no threat. “Just came over here to let you know it’s closing time.”

Sam nodded, still refusing to look up.

“I can put that stuff away for you—”

The kid grabbed the weights before Cillian could finish his sentence. He took the hint and left Sam alone, going to stand by the front door to wait for him. He shuffled the toothpick around with his tongue, chewing it absently and scratching at his beard.

A few moments later, Carnevale appeared. His head was still down and earbuds back in place. His gym bag was slung over a shoulder and his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets.

“Hey, man, is everything okay?” Cillian asked, unable to stop himself. “You got bullies at school, or something? You need help?”

Carnevale paused for a second, and Cillian wondered if he was about to talk. Then, the kid brushed past Cillian, practically shoulder-checking him, and took off sprinting, the sound of his sneakers slapping pavement quickly fading away.

Cillian sighed and stared after him, shaking his head. Maybe next time. He secured the front door, then circled back to where Sam had been working out. He expected to see his equipment haphazardly strew around and his bag unwiped, but everything was neatly in place, reeking of sanitizer.

His gym was in order.

Well, no. Not all yours…thirty-five percent of it.

As Cillian packed up his belongings, he sighed and thought for the umpteenth time that he needed to find a way to take full ownership of Ronan’s Gym. It was a family business, after all, and Carl was not family.

He couldn’t afford to shell out another fifty grand to buy out Carl. Hell, he couldn’t afford to shell out one grand.

Maybe I should fight.

Everyone seemed to want him to, and there was a lot of money that could be made from a professional fighting career. But the life of a fighter had never appealed to him. He wanted to own his own business, and more than anything, he didn’t want to be in the limelight, especially not after what happened overseas last year.

Not after what happened to Lee.

The headache that began in his office pulsed over his left eye as he activated the alarm. Too much thinking and the whisper of painful memories pricked his brain. He’d had enough for one day, and flicked off the lights.

“Sam!”

Samantha Carnevale looked up at the sound of her best friend’s voice shouting from the kitchen.  She’d been leaning against the wall by the espresso machine staring out the window, and Jazz’s loud voice made her jump.

The family-owned Italian café and bakery, Caffé Carnevale, was currently empty. The early Thursday evening was dreary and chilly, sending would-be patrons scattering for cover from the torrential downpour of rain as thunder and lightning broke overhead.

“What’s up?” she called. “You need somethin’?”

“I just…”

Jazz’s voice trailed off and for a moment Sammi could hear nothing but the clattering of utensils against the countertop. She cocked her head, listening. Jazz Jackson had a habit of starting a sentence, getting distracted, and completely forgetting about what she intended to say. It was one of her most annoying but humorous qualities.

Sammi had met her four months ago when she’d applied for the baker’s job at the café. Jazz, originally from Detroit, was quirky, artsy, funny, and by far the most unique individual that Sammi had ever met. She had a short cropped Afro, huge brown eyes and rich, medium brown skin that seemed to glint with gold in the sunlight, and always wore head-to-toe black, accessorized by unique, colorful jewelry. She almost always had a smile on her face. The reason for her move from Detroit to Boston remained a mystery; all she’d freely discuss was her acceptance into a master’s art history program at the university.

“The past is dead, gone, and over,” she’d told Sammi one day when asked about her upbringing. “There’s no reason for anyone to know about it because it’s irrelevant.” Never one to push, Sammi let it go. Whoever Jazz was, wherever she had come from, she was her friend, and that was all that mattered.

Aside from her passion for art history, Jazz was also a fantastic, inspired baker, concocting a vast array of pastries that delighted and tempted their rapidly expanding clientele. Jazz now had exclusive control over what went into the bakery case, as long as at least five traditional Italian pastries had to be front and center every day. She was only too pleased to comply.

“You make Italian pastries better than an Italian,” Sammi’s mother Carmela had exclaimed almost indignantly one day shortly after Jazz started.

Despite the fact that Jazz was not interested in the past, Sammi had divulged the details of hers, because it was important for her new friend to know. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done; no one outside her family knew her dark secrets. But Jazz had only listened, holding her hand and giving it reassuring squeezes when it got too hard.

“What do you need from me?” she’d asked when Sammi was through.

Sammi had shrugged, feeling horribly exposed. “Just to know. I might—sometimes I freak out. I have medication for that.”

“That’s okay. What else?”

“Just—not to judge me?”

Jazz had gotten to her feet slowly and rested her hands on Sammi’s shoulders. “No judgment. Ever.”

Their friendship had been cemented from that moment on.

“Jay, you alive back there?”

Sammi shoved the sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt up her forearms as she glanced at the black digital watch on her wrist, mentally running through the remainder of her Thursday. Closing duties could be started at seven-fifteen or seven-thirty for closing at eight, then the cash register drawer had to be counted. She had to get in a quick workout at the gym before her shift at the bar started at eleven. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, she also taught ballet, tap, and jazz to middle school girls.

Balancing three jobs didn’t provide much time for sleep or free time, but besides allowing her to make ends meet and save money, each shift brought her closer to her dream of opening her own dance studio. Dance was her greatest passion, one she’d come close to losing forever, eighteen months ago. Her professional dance career was over, and she’d never be on another stage again, but she could teach and train other promising young dancers, full of life and hope and potential. She could help them develop their craft and pursue the dream that had been ripped away from her.

Another clattering noise met her ears, and this time Sammi pushed away from the counter, needing to see for herself what was happening. Her black motorcycle boots thumped dully on the linoleum as she trudged back toward the kitchen.

“Jazz—” she started, then stopped short, biting her lip and struggling not to laugh.

Jazz was covered head to toe in white flour, her deep brown skin peeking out in uneven patches from the stark white coating. There was even flour sprinkled in a fine, even pattern on her short Afro, making her look like an old lady.