Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1)
Read Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) Online
Authors: Wynter S.K.
A Cross and Pointe Novel
Copyright © 2016 by Wynter S.K.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-4951-8913-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover Design by Mary Ma
Formatting by Angela Shockley,
That Formatting Lady
Sneak Peek of Pas de Deux Part 2
Clockwork.
Every single night at exactly nine-thirty for the last three months, the kid came to the gym.
Cillian glanced up from where he was coaching a client in the ring as the ancient bell over the door to Ronan’s Gym clanged and admitted its nightly guest.
He watched Sam Carnevale hurry past the ring toward the bags. Judging from the size of him—a short pipsqueak at maybe five-five, drowning in his baggy clothes—he had to be in his teens. It was hard to say since no one had ever actually spoken to him or even looked him in the face.
Cillian wondered what brought him there each night; most of the guys at the gym had goals—gains, or training to break into the professional world. Maybe Sam was getting bullied at school, and wanted to be able to fight back.
Once the kid disappeared behind his favorite heavy bag, Cillian turned back to his client. After a few intense rounds, Brad huffed and held up a hand.
“Killy, can I get five?”
Cillian used his forearm to wipe sweat off his face. “Sure, man. Get some water. Then we’ll get back to it, all right?”
Brad hopped down and made a beeline for the water fountain and Cillian leaned against the ropes, turning to check on the kid. He was just getting to work, stretching out his arms before attacking the bag. He was a silent little beast, and Cillian didn't have to be on the receiving end of those punches to see the brute strength and skill. His fists always landed in the same place on the bag, hard and fast—from the shoulder, wrist straight, not hyperextending his arm—and the way his fists always stayed up by his chin made it clear he knew what he was doing.
As Brad chugged water by the fountain, Cillian folded his arms, studying the kid as he worked. For a twig, he had potential. He just needed some direction, someone to spend some real time working with him to hone his skills. He got tired fast, Cillian noted, as Sam stopped and slumped against the bag, breathing hard.
A lot of that probably had to do with the amount of clothing he wore—a black sleeveless hoodie over a T-shirt three sizes too big, sleeves billowing down to his elbows, huge sweatpants that he was constantly tugging up, and basketball sneakers. The large hoods on the sweatshirts he wore were always pulled up, with the brim of an ever-present Yankees baseball hat sticking out, pulled down low over his face. So low, Cillian didn't understand how he was able to see what the hell he was doing.
Evil Empire shit in Southie? He’s either got a death wish or gorilla-size balls.
Just looking at him made Cillian sweat involuntarily—ten minutes into his own workouts, and he stripped off his own shirt because he couldn’t bear the feeling of intense heat. It reminded him too much of the desert.
Nobody had known who the kid was when he’d started showing up, not even the gym’s general manager, Jonathan Basanta. They’d never kept strong tabs on the clients because they didn't have to—everyone in South Boston had grown up together. That, or they were quick to get to know each other, because it wasn’t hard to be friendly at Ronan’s.
Especially with the super-influx of new business thanks to Cillian's local fame.
At first, it really didn’t matter to Cillian that Sam never wanted to talk to anyone, and would walk away if anyone tried talking to him. He paid his membership fee every month without fail and he could do what he wanted to do. But as Cillian started hearing more and more about the “skinny little weirdo on the bags who never spoke to anyone”, curiosity got the best of him. He’d flipped through the member records and determined that Sam Carnevale, the only name he didn’t immediately recognize, had to be the kid.
“I’m ready to go, Killy.”
Cillian turned away from watching Carnevale, slipping back into teacher-mode.
“All right. Let’s do some speed drills.”
Cillian coached him for the next thirty minutes, pleased with Brad’s obvious improvement over the last few weeks he’d been training. Brad wanted to start fighting professionally, but as an amateur, he was training for his first smoker fight in three weeks. By the end of the session, they were both covered in sweat.
“Great job, man.” Cillian clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re really improving, you know that? Our next session is set up for Thursday. That still good?”
“Yup. Still good. Thanks a lot, Killy.”
Cillian had begun methodically unwinding his hand wraps when he heard someone behind him clear his voice. As he turned around and glimpsed the slight figure standing there, he thought it was Carnevale for a second. Then he realized it was another high-schooler named Seth who’d signed up a month ago.
“What’s up, man?”
Seth cleared his throat again and sounded nervous. “Sorry to bother you. You’re probably pretty busy.”
Cillian sighed to himself, hating that that was always one of the first things he heard from a stranger, like he was some prick who couldn’t be talked to. He knew it was because of his hometown notoriety after the deployment thing. The gym was his—well, part of it, anyway—and he wanted to continue the same spirit of the laid-back, family atmosphere that his father had for the last thirty years.
But it was moments like this, where someone was getting ready to speak to him like he was some kind of celebrity or something, that irritated him to no end. He hated the fact that most of Boston knew who he was. But this was just a kid, and Cillian didn’t want to be prick about it. He swallowed his annoyance.
“I ain’t doin’ shit right now, man. What’s up? What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I think what you did for those guys overseas was awesome. Savin’ their lives. Southie’s proud of you, man. Boston’s proud.”
The words were both humbling and embarrassing. “Ah, thanks, bro.” Cillian reached out to shake the kid’s hand. “I appreciate it.”
“So, when’re you gettin’ into the ring?”
Cillian shrugged. “I’m not a pro fighter. I just train ‘em. Grew up in this gym, now I teach combatives in the Army. I never wanted to go pro.”
“Oh. Too bad.” Seth looked crestfallen, his eyes dropping to his shoes, and shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Well, I hope you change your mind one day.”
Across the gym, Cillian saw Carl Wilhelm waving at him. “Thanks, man. Listen, I gotta go. See you around.”
Cillian hopped out of the ring and crossed the room. Carl was the gym’s majority owner, having bought it from Cillian’s father when he’d sold it a couple years ago. The gym had been losing money, and Murphy Ronan didn’t have a choice but to sell to Carl, a smooth-talking businessman with plenty of money and knowledge of the boxing industry. Cillian had been deployed at the time, and was livid once he’d discovered what his father had done. Once he was stateside, he’d gotten a loan from the bank to buy Carl out, but hadn’t been granted enough for full ownership. Carl had the money and given him a partnership of thirty-five percent in return, and only because of Cillian’s city-wide fame.
“Partnership” was a loose term; “boss-and-subordinate relationship” was more appropriate. But Cillian was willing to play along; his main interest was keeping an eye on his father’s gym and making sure it was run with the same amount of integrity it always had been.
The man standing in front of him, on the other hand, only liked making money.
“Cillian, my man.” Carl extended a hand.
Cillian suppressed a frown but shook it. “What’s up, Carl?”
He nodded toward the ring. “You looked good in there, sparring with your client.”