Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (29 page)

“What kinda dancer?” It was Melody’s turn to be suspicious.

Cillian chuckled. “Not what you’re thinkin’. Like, ballet. Really talented.”

“That’s nice. What’s her name?”

“Sammi. Samantha, but, Sammi.”

“Cute. She pretty?”

Cillian smiled, both in annoyance at his sister’s line of questioning and at the thought of Sammi’s beautiful face—the curve of her pouty pink lips, her enormous, warm brown doe eyes, her glossy dark hair, and her adorable dimples, for which he’d happily make a fool of himself just to see.

“Yep.”

“I’ve never heard you sound like this about a girl, Killy, and you’ve barely told me anything at all. Is it serious?”

“I don’t know, but I want it to be. And that’s the last damn question I’m answerin’.”

“Fine.” Melody sighed. “Oh, wait. One more. Bring her to dinner this Sunday.”

“That ain’t a question.”

“Sure the hell ain’t.”

Cillian laughed. “I’ll ask. I can’t force her.”

“Just tell her how amazing we are, and what a good cook Mom is.” They both cracked up.

“You mean Pop.”

“Ma’s cooking has gotten better. You’ll see, when you come for dinner. On Sunday. With your new girlfriend.”

Cillian chuckled darkly. “You’re as bad as Mom. Give the kids a hug for me. See you Sunday.”

“Bye, Killy.”

He leaned back in his chair and yawned deeply, his mind racing. It was hard to believe the tournament was just under two weeks away.

Just a couple more weeks until I don’t have to watch Melody and the kids suffer. God willing.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost nine, and frowned. Sammi should’ve made it home by now. His mind turned to other thoughts, less pleasant, and wondered if she’d run into trouble.

As if by magic, his phone went off for the third time and he snatched it up, relief flooding his chest.

SAMMI
: Made it home—fell asleep or I would have texted you sooner! I’m sorry. Hope you liked the pie. Sweet dreams. XOXO

CILLIAN
: Was starting to worry about you. Glad to hear you’re tucked in. Pie was excellent. Talk to you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.

Cillian stared at the X’s and O’s she’d tacked on to the end of her message, his mind suddenly wondering what exactly they meant. Did she mean that she literally wanted to hug and kiss him, or was it just a casual end to her message?

His thumbs hovered over the keys as he debated adding X’s and O’s of his own.
Are you serious, Ronan?

He decided against it, but he could do nothing to hold off the sudden desire to kiss and hug her for real—he’d come close tonight.
Fuckin’ Basanta
.

It occurred to him that Sammi had been the one to take matters into her own hands before they’d been interrupted. She trusted him, and moreover, she trusted herself to know she was safe with him. 

The thought made him smile.

Sammi stretched out on the wooden spring floor in her favorite studio at the rec the next evening, her legs splayed out to either side, the pull of her muscles and tendons hurting so good.

The studio was older, tucked back into the building behind the newer refurbished studios. There were plans to refurbish this one, too, but Sammi preferred its worn charm, with the slightly chipped wooden floors, the rickety barres that constantly had to be tightened, the exposed wires in the ceiling.

She lowered her head as she stretched her arms in front of her, closing her eyes and taking as deep a breath as she could manage. The stress of the day flowed out with her exhale and tranquility settled deep in her bones.

The peace shattered with the obnoxious buzz of her cell phone against the wooden floor, and Sammi jerked her head up. With an irritated growl, she pulled herself across the floor with her hands, her legs still outstretched.

JAZZ
: I know you’re at the rec doing dancey things. Showcase, si or no? Shit or get off the pot, girl.

Sammi pursed her lips. Her plan had been to avoid the topic as long as possible, providing an answer preferably after the showcase was already over. Jazz had not said a word about it since Sammi shut her down—until now.

SAMMI
: Undecided. Leaning towards “hell no”.

Her thumb hovered over the “send” button, but before she could tap it, she lowered the phone to the floor. Leaning forward on her elbows, she rested her chin on her palms and studied herself in the mirror. She watched her own eyes narrow, appraising herself.

The choreography she’d crafted, though unperfected, was strong. It was powerful, and for the three minutes it lasted, she felt powerful, as if she could stop everyone who watched her in their tracks.

Maybe I can. Why not? Why not do this? I haven’t worked this hard to let no one see it.

The thought of being on stage with dozens, maybe hundreds, of people watching her still made her blood freeze in her veins with terror, but the response felt automatic, one that had been forced upon her ever since the rape.

You’ve never had stage fright…pre-show jitters, yes, but you’ve never been scared. So stop being so fucking scared. Don’t let him win.

Suddenly, Sammi wasn’t looking at herself in the mirror, but the reflection of a determined young woman. Her jaw muscles tensed and her eyes glowed briefly, like the dying embers of cooling charcoal.

SAMMI
: I’m in. 100%.

A full five minutes went by, during which Sammi imagined Jazz picking her face up off the floor, then her cell buzzed again.

JAZZ
: YOU GO GIRL! WERK! Love you and so proud!

A flash of panic made Sammi’s heart skip a beat and her hands trembled.
Shit. What did I just do?

The studio suddenly grew stuffy from poor air circulation and bad decisions, so she went to the large window at the back of the studio and cranked the lever at the bottom, the glass pane gliding out to allow a cool breeze to flow into the room.

She lowered herself back to the floor and unfurled her legs again, leaning forward to place her elbows on the bottom window sill. She loved the view of Boston she had from this studio, especially at night, when she could see all the dazzling city lights. It was in these moments that she missed New York.

She hadn’t been back there since the day she left it. And as much as she missed it sometimes, she had no idea if she could ever go back there, because she would always identify that city as the place where her life was destroyed.

Except you’re supposed to go back for the trial in exactly two weeks…

Feeling like a victim disgusted her almost as much as the crime itself did; she hated her anxiety, her depression, her fear of everything outside the safety of her family. Hated that she cut herself to cope; hated that she felt like she couldn’t deal with life at all. She hated feeling like a shell of her former, vibrant self. Most of all, she hated that she didn’t know how to move past this part of her life, or if she ever could. Bitter, involuntary tears stung her eyes as a wave of weak anger roiled through her.

How long was it supposed to take until she could get over the marrow-deep ache of knowing she’d never be able to have kids of her own one day? How long until something resembling faith and trust in humanity was restored? No matter how many times she spun her questions over and over and fucking over in her mind, she just didn’t know the right answers.

Her fingers reached out toward her toes as she stretched, and brushed over her ankles—the area she sometimes used to “cope”. The place Cillian had seen, that had made the whole entire awful story come spewing out of her mouth.

Since that night weeks ago, she’d made good on her promise and had not harmed herself. And as her fingers smoothed over the satiny ribbon, she realized it had been that long simply because she hadn’t felt the need to do it.

The exposure of her dirty little secret was a blessing in disguise. Previously, it had been her shame, her personal hell to carry on her shoulders all day, every day. Her parents would be heartbroken if they knew; her sisters would be hurt and angry. Even Jazz, who was notoriously calm and collected no matter what the situation was, would have been devastated to know the truth.

But now, someone else knew. And that gave her a sense of accountability. If she did it again, even if no one ever found out, she’d feel horrible, guilty, and disappointed.

Which is why…I’m done. I have to be done.

She’d stretched—and thought—enough for now. Sammi pushed off the floor and got to her feet, gripping the barre to begin strengthening exercises to warm her legs and ankles. Her cell phone buzzed again and she sighed in frustration.

“I said yes, Jay,” she murmured out loud as she hurried across the room to retrieve the phone.

CILLIAN
: Hey. Can I stop by sometime tonight? I got clients for a couple hours so I’m not sure exactly when I can leave, but I really want to see you.

Her stress and worry dissipated like steam.

SAMMI
: Sure. I’ll be home around eight.

CILLIAN
: I’ll let you know when I’m on my way. See you soon.

Sammi clutched the phone for a moment before replacing it in her bag, unable to keep a huge smile off her face. Cillian telling her he wanted to see her would never not thrill her, would never get old.

All right. Dance isn’t gonna perfect itself. And now you got a deadline. Go.

As she spun and moved across the wooden floor, she couldn’t help noticing she was smiling. 

She had enough time to shower, change into clean, comfortable clothes, and promptly fall asleep on the couch when she got home. She jolted awake when she thought she heard something.

Knock, knock.

“Shit.”

Sammi lurched off the couch, hurrying to the door, Rocky at her feet. She pressed up on her toes and looked through the peephole, and a bolt of fear lanced through her. There was a figure on the other side of the door, a tall, bulky figure with a hood pulled up. Her entire body froze, her sleep-addled mind sluggish as adrenaline spiked in her veins.

It’s Cillian. Calm down.

As if he could somehow sense her panic, he said, “It’s me.”

This time, she saw past the hood, her eyes fixing on the telltale toothpick jutting out from a pair of sinfully luscious lips. That, and the dusting of a heavier-than-five-o’clock-shadow on the jaws was just enough identification for her.

She unlatched each of her locks and pulled the door open, loving the way his normally serious face stretched into a smile that matched hers. He held a cardboard bowl covered with a clear plastic dome lid in each hand, bearing the logo of the yogurt place that they’d gone to a few weeks ago.

“That for me?” She grinned and stepped back to let him in.

Cillian shuffled the toothpick in his mouth to the other corner and leaned down to lazily press the side of his lips into her cheek. “It might be.” 

She liked the comfortable way he dropped onto the sofa. Rocky appeared as if he’d been called and immediately jumped onto the couch, stepping into his lap.

“Hey, man.” Cillian scratched the cat on top of his head between his ears. His eyes shut and he leaned into Cillian’s palm in ecstasy, his tail curling at the tip. For a moment, the only noise was his loud purring.

“Looks like Rocky’s claimed you now.” Sammi sat down next to him, tucking her feet underneath her.

“What do you mean?”

His fingers moved to scratch the side of Rocky’s face. The cat swiped his cheeks against Cillian’s hand then stepped closer, bunting him in the chest before stretching up to swipe either side of his face against Cillian’s jacket.

“He’s marking you.”

Cillian glanced at her, cocking an eyebrow. “He’s not gonna piss on me or something, is he?”

Sammi laughed. “No. I mean…I don’t think so. Maybe. He’s never been around a guy before.”

“What about your dad?”

“He doesn’t like cats, so whenever he comes over, I have to put Rocky in the bathroom until he leaves.”