Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (30 page)

“I'll handle Daddy. But you listen to me.” Niq stepped closer until she was practically nose-to-nose with him. “I'm taking a huge chance on you because I feel, deep down, that you would never betray Sammi. And I believe you love her. And if that's true, I'll go to bat for you, because I want my sister to be happy.”

“Thanks, but I think we need to consider—”

“Her showcase performance is tomorrow night. You need to be there.”

“I don't want to miss it. But—”

Niq cut him off, jabbing a finger in his face. His eyes zeroed in on the bright red nail, filed to a dangerous knife-like point.

“Cillian, you get your ass to that performance.” She gave him a pointed look, then turned on her heel and swept out of the gym.

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

Cillian turned to see Basanta standing behind him, a stack of freshly laundered towels in his arms. “You eavesdroppin', man?”

“Hell, yes. So, what're you gonna do, bro? You gonna keep acting like keeping your distance is the best thing to do? I'm with the crazy sister on this one. You need to go.” Baz shrugged, then put the towels on a shelf. “Just don't tell her I called her crazy. I don't want her kicking
my
ass.”

A flash of annoyance went through him—how many times did he need to keep explaining himself? Why did no one else seem to understand? “For the millionth fucking time—keeping my distance is the best thing for her.”

“Don't buy that, either. Girl wants you around. But you do have some 'splainin' to do.” Baz shoved a clean towel hard into Cillian's chest. “Just go, all right, Killy? And bring a big-ass bouquet of flowers, too.”

Cillian snatched the towel. “Don't need you tellin' me that.”

“Whatever. Be a man, sack up, and go to that damn ballet.” He turned to walk away.

“It's not a ballet,” Cillian snapped to his retreating back. “It's a talent showcase.”

“Whatever it is,” Baz called over his shoulder, “you better be there.”

Cillian sighed. He'd already let her down so many times—the tournament, the trial, the night Carl harassed her. Even if she didn't want him at the showcase, he needed to be there, because he'd promised he would.

And he was through with breaking promises.

The next morning, Sammi lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She ought to be taking advantage of her day off from the café, sleeping in, but she was too wrought with nerves to sleep.

Last night, she'd gone through the dance half a dozen times, making stupid mistakes, missing steps, missing counts. She'd grown tired less than a minute into the song.

I've danced in two-hour performances before...and I can't even make it through a three-minute song without getting winded?

She'd stood glaring at her reflection in the mirror, panting and sweating. Then she'd made a decision.

You get one more night. One more night to mope, one more night to cry, one more night to miss him. And tomorrow you will get over it and move on.

After a night of tossing and turning, that plan hadn't worked out so well.

Still mopey. Still missing him. Still not over it.

Rocky stretched his lithe body from where he was curled up against her side before kneading his paws delicately into her chest as he leaned into her face. She stared at him through narrowed eyes as he began his morning ritual of waking her up and enticing her to feed him by purring loudly in her ear, stepping on her hair, pressing his cold, wet nose against hers, and licking her cheeks hard, his rough tongue like sandpaper against her skin.

“You win, Rock,” she mumbled, gently pushing him away as she struggled to sit up. “Breakfast time.”

The cat leapt off the bed and raced out of the room down the hallway, Sammi trudging behind him into the kitchen. He squeaked with excitement as she scooped dry food into his bowl. Then she went back to her room and flopped facedown back into bed, eventually dozing off.

She awoke with a snort when her alarm clock went off forty-five minutes later. It was now nine-thirty, and she had a strict dress rehearsal time of eleven.

Sammi dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, then dressed quickly in jean shorts, a black tee, and a pair of red Chucks. She packed her dance bag with everything she'd need—stage makeup, hair products, her pointe shoes, and her costume.

The costume had been her own creation, inspired by the melancholic song by Lana Del Rey that she'd chosen for her performance. The song, entitled “Ride”, inspired feelings of longing for freedom that struck so many chords within her.

Freedom from the past, freedom from fear, freedom to wear my scars like battle wounds...

She'd felt free for a short time—with him.
We're not going there this morning, Samantha.

The yearning pull to reach out to him for comfort washed over her again, like it had the night of her confrontation with Carl. Except now, there was no threat to her safety. She just...needed him. The feeling of his large, warm hand closing around hers. The feeling of his fingertips skating along her back—nothing was more soothing.

Sammi perched on the arm of her sofa and lowered her head into her hand.
I should cancel. I can't do this. What the hell was I thinking?

Just then, her cell phone rang.

“Hi, Niq.”

“Hey, gorgeous. How you feeling? Sleep well?”

“Shitty, and no.”

Her sister sighed. “Can you sound a little more enthused, please? This is a big deal. The whole family is so excited to see you perform.”

“I don't think I can, Niq. I can't do this.”

“Samantha...”

Sammi raked a hand through her still-wet hair. “I rehearsed last night and it went horribly. I can't focus. I made a bunch of stupid mistakes. I'm scared to death, I don't want to get on stage and have people watch me, and this is going to be a fucking disaster!”

“Sammi, you're just nervous. That's perfectly normal. But you can't quit. We're counting on you, but more than that—you need to do this for yourself. So put your big girl panties on, and get your ass on that stage!”

“Niq...”

“You can do this, Sam. I believe in you.”

Sammi thought about protesting further, but she bit her lip. “Thanks, Niq.”

“You're welcome. Now, what time do you go on?”

“Show starts at six, I go on at seven-oh-five.”

“We'll be in the front row, Sammi. See you in a few, and have a good rehearsal today.”

On the bus ride downtown, she got several texts from Toni, Carmela, and Jazz, all wishing her good luck. The support was nice, but didn't do much to alleviate the rock of dread at the bottom of her stomach and the constant loop of doubt in her mind.

Sammi stopped at a corner coffee shop to grab a double latte before walking the couple blocks to the Orpheum. The closer she got, the more sadness tugged at her heart. The last time she'd been here, it was with Cillian, when he'd surprised her with tickets to see Giselle. It felt like a lifetime had passed since that night.

At the corner, her body automatically turned to the right instead of heading straight across the street toward the theater. She needed to stop by her place; standing next to it and visualizing her dream always helped her refocus.

When she stopped in front of the building, she froze. It took several long moments to register the fact that the sign in the window said something different today.

Her sneakers rooted themselves to the ground and her dance bag slid off her shoulder, thudding against the dirty pavement as she stared at the sign, trying to make sense of the single word in red block letters.

Sold.

Something inside her physically shifted. Her heart shattered.

All of her dreams, all of her goals, all of her wishes, were wrapped up in this dirty little space. All of the long years ahead she saw in her mind—walking through a roomful of blossoming ballerinas, guiding them and watching them grow from shy, clumsy little girls into beautiful, graceful dancers—fractured.

All of those things, forming one tiny stress ball of hope for her to hold on to and squeeze when she was at her darkest moments, were gone, swept out of the little studio like the dust on the floor.

There were other studio spaces in Boston. But this space was the first thing to rejuvenate her love for dance after her assault, when she'd been certain she'd never dance again. Long-buried inspiration and passion stirred immediately when she'd passed this place for the first time. She'd gaped through the dusty window, instantly envisioning polished wooden spring floors, barres spanning the length of the room, floor to ceiling mirrors.

The very next day, she'd begun her search for a job teaching dance, the determination to make the studio hers humming through every fiber in her body, becoming her own little engine of perseverance to keep going.

All the hours she'd worked, all the money she'd saved—it was all for the studio, all for the hope of reclaiming her life and living out the joy she thought she'd lost forever.

And now...it was gone.

“Mr. Ronan?”

Cillian turned at the sound of his name, seeing a man in work clothes step through the door. “Hi. Call me Cillian. Nice to meet you.”

He'd shown up ten minutes early for his meeting with the contractor over lunch on Thursday at the studio, walking around the dusty, dilapidated space and trying to convince himself that it wasn't a lost cause. He wasn't sure Sammi had ever had the opportunity to actually check out the inside when she'd first decided she wanted the space, but...there was a ton of work that needed to be done, obvious even to his untrained eye.

The contractor shook his hand, noting Cillian's uniform. “Didn't know you were a soldier. I served myself in the nineties. Thanks for your service, young man.”

“Thanks for yours.” Cillian bobbed his head.

“So, what've we got, here?”

“I bought this place for my girl—a friend of mine. She's a dancer, and she wants to open her own studio. Have you ever done a dance studio before?”

“I personally haven't, but I know a number of men that have that I can hire for my crew. I'll consult with them to get some blueprints and specs put together.”

“Do you know how long you can get the basics put in, like walls, floors, stuff like that?”

“Once we get the blueprint together and a crew assembled, I'd say inside a couple months.”

Cillian frowned; that was much longer than he anticipated. “I'll pay double your normal fee, if you can cut that time down to a month.”

The contractor's brows shot up. “Well—I'll see what I can do. If I can get approval for that, we can certainly prioritize your job.”

“That would be awesome.”

They walked around the studio, the man conducting a high-level audit of what would have to be done. It sounded like more work than Cillian had initially anticipated, but the contractor assured him it was no big deal.

“We'll get it all taken care of.” He shook Cillian's hand again. “You'll hear from me on Monday.”

“Thanks.”

He followed the contractor outside, feeling a little tingle of excitement. It was a pretty big job, but it was underway.

One step closer...

On the way back to work, he passed the Orpheum. The marquee read, “Boston Talent Showcase, 6 PM”. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel thoughtfully. It was almost one o'clock now; he wondered if Sammi was inside, rehearsing. Worrying.

An overwhelming surge of longing had him gripping the steering wheel. Everything in his life had changed, one way or another, over the last couple of months, and especially over the last couple of days. Facing Lee's family for the first time in a year, discovering that they didn't blame him, that he didn't have to keep blaming himself, had given him a new perspective. Having Bradley Wilcox right the wrong of the tournament and change his life with a single check had done astronomic things for his endeavor to take care of Mel and the kids, to taking care of himself, and to reclaiming a piece of his family's legacy.

He'd gained so much and eliminated so much negativity, but none of it mattered, because there was a huge gaping hole in his heart. A Sammi-shaped hole, and only she had the power to fix it. To fix him.