Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (22 page)

The cross-examination by the defense attorney had been difficult at best, absolutely appalling at worst. Sammi was the final witness to take the stand, and Eich's defense quadrupled their efforts to show he was criminally insane and therefore had no real knowledge or idea of what he was doing. They tried to discredit her, saying that she'd been the one to take advantage of his “mental illness” and offer sex for the job promotion, then cry rape.

That had been the moment she'd wanted to vault over the edge of the witness stand and sprint down the aisle and out the heavy wooden doors, but she forced herself to stay where she was.

Unsurprisingly, the prosecution didn't buy it, and judging from the incredulous looks on the jurors' faces, neither did they. Of course, there would still be closing arguments and the jury would have to deliberate, but there was no way in hell he'd be getting off. Sammi hoped he would receive the harshest penalty possible.

For now, though, I just want to get the hell out of here.

Her family was still waiting in the conference room for her, but she needed a minute to herself before she could see them. She went to the restroom and splashed more water on her face, then lifted her head and looked herself in the eye.

“It's over,” she told her reflection. “It's all over.”

Sammi used a paper towel to pat-dry her face, then faced the mirror again. She was still pale, eyes still circled with dark, but there was a lift to her chin, a squareness to her shoulders. She walked out of the bathroom, heading for the conference room.

“Sammi?”

The sound of her name coming from a male voice caught her heart and she stopped in her tracks.
Better late than never, because I need you. I need to be in your arms.
She whirled around, unable to keep an expectant smile off her face. Her face fell.

“What—what are
you
doing here?”

Carl Wilhelm walked toward her, wearing a suit. His hands were in his pockets. “Hey. I had some business in the city, thought I'd come by and check on you.” He smiled at her. “You doin' okay?”

“But why are
you
here?” She frowned at him in confusion. “Where is Cillian?”

“Cillian?” Carl sighed, looking away. He was quiet for a moment, then he looked at her. “Sammi, I'm sorry. I've—I've got some bad news.”

Fear clutched her throat like a vise grip. “What? Is he all right? What is it?”

“He's okay. I guess. I mean—I suppose I don't really care anymore. Not after what he did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sammi...” Carl trailed off, shaking his head. “Cillian's not here because he doesn't want to be.”

“He...what?”

He held up a hand. “He decided it was in his best interest not to be here. He said that the publicity from your story was too negative.”

“The—the pub—”

He clicked his tongue, his head tilted. “Oh, Sammi. I guess you were just too close to the fire, huh? Cillian was the one who leaked your story to the press.”

The ability to speak vanished for a moment as Sammi stared at him. The ugly knot of dread returned to her stomach, along with the urge to vomit. Slowly, she shook her head.

“No. I-I don't believe you. You're wrong.”

“Honey, I'm sorry, but it's true.” Carl's voice was soft as he took a couple of steps closer to her. “I've got a reporter friend who said Cillian paid him to out you and keep his involvement quiet. He wanted to get sympathy from the audience, from the judges. He wants endorsement deals, the works. He was looking to capitalize on you. Since he lost, he wants to keep his distance from you. Says you're bad luck.”

Sammi shook her head again, her eyes filling with tears. Her head spun, threatening to put her on the floor. “I just can't believe that. That's not—he's not like that.”

“I'm sorry I had to tell you this, but I think you're a nice girl. You're beautiful, sweet. You've been through so much, and I hated knowing that he was running game on someone like you. You deserve better.”

Sammi only stared at him.
It can't be true. I don't believe it. But if it's not true, then why isn't he here?

“You're better off changin' your number,” Carl went on. “And, speakin' of—one of the reasons I'm here.” He reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a familiar plastic device. Sammi frowned at it, then met his gaze.

“Why do you have my phone? I lost it in Albany.”

“You dropped it before you got in the car, I guess. It's a little scratched up. I pulled it out of a puddle.”

“A pud—” She pressed the power button repeatedly, but nothing happened.

Carl shrugged, his face open with sympathy. “Guess the water ruined it. I'm sorry. It was worth the trip to see you, though.” He reached into his suit pocket again and this time withdrew a card. “Look, here's my information. When you get a new phone, feel free to give me a call anytime.”

Sammi dully took the card. Numbness settled over her. She had nothing left to feel, nothing left to think. It was all just too much, and she wanted to go home, hide out, and go to bed for a month.

“I just—my family is waiting for me.” She gestured stiffly down the hall. “I've—I've had a rough day, Carl. This is too much.”

“I know it is.” He stepped to her side, sliding an arm around her. His hand was low on her back as he pulled her in for a short, tight one-armed hug. The numb feeling had spread to every cell of her body; she couldn't even care that he was touching her. “And I'm really sorry. But, look, you did something brave today, and you found out the truth about someone who wanted to hurt you and now you can move on. This is a new beginning, right?”

The conference door down the hall opened and Niq leaned out. Her eyes narrowed at Carl.

“Sammi? You okay? Who's that?”

“Just a friend,” Carl said, quickly releasing Sammi. “Just came to show some support. I'll be going.” He smiled at Sammi, reaching out to stroke a finger down her cheek. “Remember what I said. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I'd love to take you to dinner, or a movie. Whatever you want, just to get your mind off things.”

Sammi's head swam as he became a blur.
Please just go away.

When he turned and walked away, Sammi went toward her sister, stiff as a zombie. Niq frowned.

“Who the hell was that? And where is Cillian?” Her eyes went wide with surprise when Sammi practically fell into her arms. “Sammi? Sam? Sweetie, are you all right?”

“No.” All of her strength and energy flowed out of her and she collapsed on the floor, dragging Niq with her. “I'm not all right.”

Niq pulled her close, hugging tight, and Sammi collapsed into sobs.

The days between Sunday and Wednesday passed in an odd mixture of blurring and dragging. With nothing to do, Cillian sat on his couch, watching TV. How long had he been there? He was pretty sure he'd gotten up once or twice, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything, and his body hurt too much to care about moving for things like food and showering.

But nothing hurt worse than the dull ache of utter misery and loneliness that pulsed to the ends of every nerve in his body.

His physical pain was manageable—three cracked ribs and some bumps and bruises, a cut here and there. He swallowed his doses of ibuprofen; despite his initial interest in something stronger that might dull both his physical pain and internal misery, he ended up refusing the doctor's prescription.

I should feel this way. She's hurting, too.

Exercise was out of the question for at least the next four weeks to allow his injuries to heal. That presented a slight issue, as he was due to take his yearly physical fitness test for the Army before shipping out to California for the unit's annual two-week training in July. Now, he'd have to go on medical profile, since he'd been ordered to rest.

However, the timing had worked out nicely. He had plenty of time to rest and heal, seeing as how he was unemployed now.

While his physical pain would go away soon enough, there was no amount of doctor-ordered rest that would cure the pain that wracked his heart, and twisted his guts. No amount of ibuprofen or prescription drug to make the hurt tolerable. No way to soothe it.

He hadn't heard from Sammi. Her phone still went straight to voicemail, and though he knew it was desperate, he'd left her message after message. His texts had stopped going through, and he didn't know her email address, or if she even had one.

Her trial had been yesterday, and he didn't know if she was home yet. Their original plan had been to drive back to Boston on Tuesday, but in light of everything that happened, he figured she'd want to spend extra time with her family. He wanted to go to her place to see if she was there, to check on her, but then he remembered.

She doesn't want to see you.

He couldn't accept that. Not after what they'd been through, not after spending the night together in her hotel room, not after realizing how much he loved her.

I have to talk to her. I have to try. I can't let her slip through my fingers, like everything else has.

He rarely ever watched TV, but now it seemed he couldn't stop. ESPN showed a surprising amount of coverage from the tournament—less about the talents of the fighters there, and more about the drama surrounding him and Sammi and Carl.

There were snippets of interviews with various MMA fans and the general outcry was that whoever had leaked her story to the press should be legally punished. Connected to that story immediately was a feature about how he had fired his manager on the first day of the tournament. There were mixed reactions from the fans—some thought he was a chump for firing his manager over a girl. Others thought he was a perfect gentleman who'd made the honorable choice, while still others believed that the principle was sound, but the execution was a bad idea.

Predictably, the other story from the tournament had to do with his shocking loss that had the entire MMA community in an uproar. Cillian punched up the volume, watching the suited reporter share the story.

“According to tournament fans, some claiming knowledge and expertise in unofficially scoring fights, Cillian Ronan was the clear tournament winner. General consensus among fans is that, as one fan put it, something is definitely 'fishy'. Tournament winner Clay Cavasso has not returned email requests for comments. Bradley Wilcox, the creator of the tournament, has also declined public comment as of yet, although the possibility of him addressing the matter is still open.”

Cillian turned the television off before throwing the remote onto the couch beside him. He instantly regretted the sudden movement as a sharp pain tore through his side.

Maybe I should have taken that hundred grand.

His worry over not having a full-time job floated into his mind and he sighed, scrubbing his hands down his face. He certainly could have used the money, but there was no way in hell he was accepting it under such fucked up terms.

I didn't come in second place. I won.

His cell phone rang, and he picked it up eagerly.
Sammi...
It wasn't.

“This is Sergeant First Class Ronan.”

“Sergeant, hi. It's Lieutenant Reed. Calling you back about those orders. I do have some temporary orders I can put you on—it's office work, though. It's for three weeks. I can also probably find something else for you to do later on, until you get back on your feet.”

Desperate and worried, Cillian had reached out to Lieutenant Reed to see if there were any available short-term active duty orders he could get as he looked for a new job. Three weeks of active duty pay was good money at his rank, and he just needed to buy himself a little time.

“Thank you, sir. Office work is okay—doctor said I can't do anything strenuous for four weeks. And, by the way, I'll have to speak to you in person about going on medical profile. I may not be up to par to take my PT test this summer.”

“We'll figure something out. Far as the assignment, sounds like this'll work, then. I'll go ahead and put your orders in, and you can report to the unit Monday morning. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. And, Ronan—I'm sorry to hear about what happened at the tournament. We were all rooting for you.”

“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it. I'll see you Monday.”

There's that, at least.
Work for three weeks, and a little time to start his job search.
Maybe I should just go back to active duty. Who the hell cares if I get deployed again?

Cillian punched the sofa cushion, then winced again at the agonizing blaze of pain that stabbed his side like a pitchfork.

His phone went off again, this time, with an email.

Per our chat at the tournament, I'd like to invite you down to my gym to discuss releasing full ownership to me for the sum of $15,000. I've contacted my lawyer, and I have all the paperwork prepared. Meet me at noon on Monday. If you don't show up, I'll be taking you to court...and you don't want that embarrassment on top of everything else, do you?

It's in your best interest to come.