Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (29 page)

Must've forgot I train soldiers to fight on their backs. Idiot.

He grabbed two handfuls of Carl's shirt and jerked him forward, using his hips to buck the man off. Carl sprawled over him, his hands scrabbling against the smooth floor for purchase, but he wasn't fast enough. Cillian scissor-kicked his legs, flipping them both over, then used his knees to pin Carl's arms to the floor. He drew back his fist. Carl stared up at him, a mixture of awe and fury on his face.

“This is for Sammi, you piece of shit.”

Cillian let loose his fist into the middle of Carl's face, causing a little tsunami of blood to explode from his nose.
Go to sleep, bitch.
He leaned back on his heels, staring down at the man whose head lolled from side to side, half-conscious. Then he rifled through Carl's pockets, coming up with his gym key, and slid it onto his own pocket.

He lurched to his feet, flexing his hands, and glanced at the attorney, who was staring at Cillian with wide eyes. Cillian gathered up the papers Carl threw at him, tucking them neatly back into the envelope. He pulled the check out, holding it up.

“I'm buying
him
out. For the fair-and-square price of fifty grand.”

He glanced down at Carl, who was just starting to come around. Cillian tossed the check negligently into his face, then glanced at David again.

“I'm calling the gym manager to come down here. You and Mr. Wilhelm need to get off my premises right now. Oh, and kindly inform Mr. Wilhelm that if I see him on this block again I'm calling the cops—or worse.”

David bent down to Carl's level. “Carl? You need to get up. We need to leave.”

Cillian pulled out his cell phone to call Basanta, suppressing a grim smile at the comical sight of the slight Mr. Berg trying to get the much stockier Carl to his feet.

“Killy!”

“Get down to the gym, man.”

Baz asked no questions, hanging up the phone.

Cillian checked his watch; he needed to get back to the base soon. He folded his arms, watching David and Carl struggle out of the gym. Carl's head lolled against David's shoulder.

Wish I could have fucked him up worse.
Adrenaline leaked from him like air from a balloon, and the pain in his side came rushing back, more intense than ever. Cillian winced against the stabbing inferno and thought he'd probably have to go back to the doctor to make sure he hadn't seriously fucked himself up.

It only took Baz fifteen minutes to make it to the gym and he ran through the front door. “What's going on? What the fuck happened to your face?”

Cillian lightly touched the swollen skin around his right eye. “Carl. But he's worse.”

“Shit...so, it's done now?”

“Done.” Cillian held onto his side, but flashed Basanta a grin. He dropped Carl's old key into his friend's hand. “I gotta get back to the base. First order of business, Mr. Manager—change the locks.”

“On it, boss.” Basanta saluted, looking happier than Cillian had seen him in a while. “You need anything? You look like you're gonna fall over.”

“I'm good. I'll be back tonight. See you, bro.”

He turned on his heel, heading for the door. His chest puffed out, just a little; he'd gotten back what was his, what had always been his, and had gotten a little revenge, while he was at it.

It's mine. It's all mine.

“See you later, boss!”

Inside the truck, Cillian peered into the visor mirror, checking out the damage to his eye. It was already a little purple-red, and puffy, but he wore it like a badge of honor. He'd gone to battle and emerged the victor, and knocking Carl out for Sammi felt better than winning the tournament.

For a moment, the brightness of the afternoon dimmed as a cloud rolled through his mind. Nothing felt the same, nothing felt as good, without her. And it never would.

Later that afternoon, Cillian made a phone call to Caffé Carnevale. He drummed his fingers on his desk; he was taking a huge risk, but he needed to talk to Jazz, and this was the only way he had of contacting her.

Sammi, don't answer the phone. Don't answer don't answer don't—

“Caffé Carnevale. How can I help you?”

Shit.
He practically bit a hole through his lip at the sound of the sweet, familiar voice he desperately missed.

“Hello?”

He hung up.
I hope they don't have caller ID.
After a moment, he tried again.

“Caffé Carnevale.”

Fuck!

“I don't know,” Sammi said as if she was talking to someone else, her voice slightly muffled. “Some heavy-breathing creep.”

In spite of himself, Cillian swallowed a laugh. He hung up again, then tried back.

“Hello. Caffé Carnevale.”
Finally.

“Jazz, it's Cillian. Don't let her know it's me.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” Jazz said loudly. “Yes, we have biscotti all year round.”

“I need your help with something. Can you meet me downtown around six, at that sandwich shop next to the men's big-and-tall shop?”

“Yes, sir, I can have a dozen ready for you this evening. Yes, I can drop them off to you.”

“Thanks,” Cillian said, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “See you later.”

After work, he drove downtown and saw Jazz outside the sandwich shop, holding out a square white box to him.

“Hey. What's this?”

“Cookies. Chocolate chip. I had to bake them to be believable.”

“Oh.” Cillian popped the lid and grabbed a cookie. “It's good. What'd you tell her?”

“You were some corporate big-wig who wanted cookies for a meeting, and would tip me big time for delivering.” Jazz shrugged. “She barely noticed.”

“Is she—do you think she's okay?”

Jazz sighed. “I hope so. So, what's this all about?”

“I'll try to make a long-ass story short.” He proceeded to tell her about the meeting with Wilcox, the tournament, his confrontation with Carl.

Jazz's eyes widened. “That's terrific. Congratulations, Cillian.”

“Thanks. That's not why I called you down here, though. I bought Sammi's studio.”

“The one—” Jazz pointed vaguely over her shoulder in the general direction of the studio.

“That one.”

“Oh. Whoa.” Jazz blinked.

“That's why you're here. I need you to help me get the place together—it needs a shitload of work. I want the whole thing to be exactly how she'd want it—floors, paint, furniture, the sign, shit like that. Oh—and do not say a word to her.”

Jazz tilted her head, arching a brow. “She's gonna want to know who bought the place.”

“Tell her—I dunno, some anonymous citizen donated the money or whatever after hearing about what she went through.” He shrugged. “I don't really give a shit what you tell her, as long as it's nothin' to do with me. So, you in?”

Jazz hesitated, then smiled. “I'm in.”

They walked over to the studio, where a “SOLD” sign was posted in the window, and Cillian pulled the key out of his pocket, holding open the door for her.

“You can see how much I need your artistic vision.” He waved his arm around the space.

“This is gonna be—amazing.” Jazz looked around and shook her head. “She's gonna die when she sees it.”

Realizing that he wouldn't get to experience that with her made the slight smile on his face fade. “I hope she likes it.”

Jazz glanced at him. “Just so you know, I tried to tell her the truth. I told her you came by and spoke to her father a couple days ago.”

“Aw, for fuck's sake—”

Jazz held up a hand. “She would've found out eventually, and I didn't want her getting mad at me, too. It didn't go well, Cillian, but she's not a hard-hearted person. She's just scared. I think she just needs time.”

“I'll be here no matter what.”

“I know you will. I'd never help you out, if I thought otherwise.”

Cillian cleared his throat. “I'm gonna find some contractors to get started on the walls and floors. Can you get her talking about paint colors, maybe, stuff like that?”

Jazz nodded. “I'll do my best.”

“Thanks. Let me give you my number so we can stay in touch—I don't wanna keep risking calling the café.”

Outside, Cillian locked the door behind him. Jazz grinned and stuck her hand out.

“Operation Surprise Sammi underway.”

He flashed a half-smile in return as a wave of sadness rolled over him, and grabbed her hand.

“Roger that.”

Cillian walked into Ronan's Gym Wednesday evening and glanced around, taking a moment to absorb the change in atmosphere now that Carl was gone. It didn't look any different. There wasn't a ton of brand new faces. But it
was
different.

It was better.

Baz looked up from his old place at the front counter, ESPN on as normal. He flashed Cillian a big grin. “'Sup, boss? I finished boxing up Carl's shit in the—your office.”

“Thanks. Put it in the mail to him tomorrow, okay?”

“Yup. Also, your client Brad will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Cillian strolled back to his office to put his duffel bag down and glanced around. Any trace of Carl was gone—which, other than office necessities and paperwork, was most of the décor.

I gotta get some pictures or something in here.

He shut the door and changed out of his cammies into his workout gear, glancing at the corkboard against the wall behind his desk. The flyer for the MMA tournament was still there. He reached for it, pulling it down, remembering a quote he'd heard a major say once. It had resonated with him overseas, literally at war, but now, it resonated even deeper.

“The satisfaction felt from a battle won,” he said softly, his eyes scanning the flyer, “comes not just from the winning alone, but from the winning of a hard-wrought fight.”

He hung the flyer back up.

Brad waited for him near the ring when he emerged from the office, stretching and tightening the laces on his shoes. He glanced over at Cillian as he approached, and his face split into a huge smile.

“Killy.” He extended a hand. “I heard the good news. This place is back in Ronan hands?”

“It is.” Cillian shook his hand. “Thanks for staying a loyal customer.”

“My pop came here when Murphy was running the place. It's a family thing. A Southie thing.” He nodded at the ring. “Ready when you are, champ.”

The next forty minutes flew by as Cillian took Brad first through foot and agility drills, then an intense sparring session. Cillian was totally focused on sparring, so he didn't notice the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Cillian.”

He whirled around, and his eyes went wide. “Niq?”

Sammi's oldest sister stood at the base of the ring, one hand around the bottom-most rope. Every time he'd seen her, she always had a smirk on her face, was always teasing, but now, there was no trace of a smile, no teasing glimmer in her eyes.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Uh...” Cillian glanced at Brad.

He shrugged. “Let's make it a shorter one today, Killy.”

Cillian cleared his throat and quickly toweled off, jumping out of the ring. He led her a little ways off. “How, uh, how are you, Niq?”

She folded her arms. “Not great, Cillian. My sister is a mess.”

Cillian looked at her sharply. “Sammi?”

Niq's eyes narrowed. “Who the hell else would I be talking about?”

“What's wrong with her?”

“You,” Niq said bluntly. “
You
are what's wrong with her.”

Cillian sighed. “Look, a lot has happened since the tournament. I wasn't the one that leaked the story, okay? Carl was. I'd never do that to her.”

“Well, she's not happy. She doesn't know what to think.” Niq exhaled a hard breath through her nose and fixed him with a piercing stare. “Do you love my sister?”

Cillian blinked.
Awkward.
“Ah—”

“That a hard question?”

Is it?
Cillian met her gaze steadily. “I'd rather discuss this with Sammi. But, yes. I do.”

“Then why aren't you with her?”

“Because that's what's best for her. I'll keep my distance, and she can move on.” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “Besides that, I'm pretty sure your father would blast me out of my shoes if I get within a mile of her, even if she did want to see me.”