Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (8 page)

“No, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Cillian shook his head. “It’s cool, Baz, you got it. I’m good.”

“Dude. How long has it been? You gotta be seriously backed up.”

Cillian rolled his eyes. It
had
been a longer time than he cared to admit since he’d dated anyone, let alone had sex. “I’m fine. I don’t do random one-nighters.”

He’d had meaningless sex before, and it hadn’t done anything for him other than to make him feel emptier and lonelier than he actually was. He
would
like someone in his life, someone he could trust and take care of, someone to take care of him. She might or might not exist, but he knew for damn sure she wasn’t out in the crowd gathered around the ring. Until he found her, if he ever did, he was only too content to keep his dick in his pants and mind his own business.

Basanta smirked. “I know what’s wrong. You’re butt-hurt since Carnevale never came back after you went crawling on hands and knees to say you’re sorry.”

“Fuck you, dude. Mind your own business.”

“Don’t you know your business is my business, Killy?” Baz flashed a charming smile. “And when you’re happy, I’m happy. You’re not happy, and it just so happens I have a solution for that out there.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Baz looked disappointed. “Guess I’ll go find something…productive to do.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Cillian shook his head again.

“Just make sure you strap up. You don’t get paid enough to support a baby.”

Cillian went back to the computer as Baz shut the door behind him. He’d sent the equipment company a message asking for an order update three weeks ago, and didn’t remember seeing a reply. Scrolling through the email, he discovered they’d messaged him back last week; he must have overlooked it. As he read it, he was utterly confused.

Then he was furious.

Mr. Ronan,

Our apologies for the confusion with the shipment of your order placed on February 18th. We received a phone call from Mr. Carl Wilhelm on February 19th indicating that the order should be cancelled as gym equipment will not be needed for the building renovations. Your partner informed us that the site would no longer be a gym as of June. Please let us know if your business needs have changed, and we will be happy to fill your order.

“What the fuck?” Cillian muttered, rereading the message.
The site will no longer be a gym in two months?

His first urge was to pick up the phone and call Carl to demand an explanation. He pulled up Carl’s name in his phone’s contact list but before he connected the call, he hesitated.

If he’s up to something, don’t play your hand too soon.

Cillian jumped out of the chair and paced around the office. The space belonged unofficially to him, but Carl did use it while he was there, and he left plenty of documents lying around.

Would he be stupid enough to leave anything behind?

Cillian opened file cabinets, desk drawers, and rifled through paperwork on the desk, which was pointless, since he already knew what was there. He’d have to find another way to get the information, somehow.

He dropped back down into the chair and rested his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers together. Another surge of anger flashed through him and he realized that it didn’t really matter what Carl was plotting—at the end of it all, he was going to close the gym.

Murphy Ronan’s gym was practically an historic landmark in Southie, a place that had trained a number of successful fighters over three decades, a place where Cillian had grown up, where his father had taught him to fight, where he’d grown from a scared little boy to a strong, confident man, was going to be closed.

“Over my goddamn dead body.” He clenched his fists.
Gotta get rid of Wilhelm. But how?

His eyes went to the cork board on the wall behind his desk. He reached up to yank the tournament invitation down and held it in his hands, staring down at the print. His shoulders ached with phantom pain, as though the pressure to succeed was bearing down on him.

This is the only way. I have to try. For the family.

After a moment, he pulled his cell phone out, calmly pulling up his contacts and locating Carl again. He connected the call and waited for an answer.

“Killy. What’s up?”

“Got an answer about the tournament. I’m in.”

“Really?” Carl sound delighted. “What made you change your mind?”

Cillian glared at the computer screen, where the email was still pulled up. “Just had a change of heart.”

“Good. I’m glad. We’re kinda gettin’ short on time, but you already know what you’re doin’. You just gotta focus on gettin’ in perfect shape, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“I’m startin’ training tonight. Just called to tell you my decision. Gotta get going.”

Cillian hung up the phone without waiting for a response, then got to his feet, grabbing his gym bag on the way out and practically shoved the door off its hinges as he stalked across the concrete floor to where Basanta leaned against the ring. He was watching two guys spar while three girls stood together behind him, chatting quietly. Every set of eyes swiveled toward Cillian as the sound of his loud, angry footsteps thumped off the hard walls of the gym.

Ignoring everyone, he walked up to Basanta and shoved the invite against his chest. Baz looked down at it in surprise, then back at Cillian.

“What’s this?”

“This is training, Coach.” Cillian clenched his jaw determinedly, meeting Baz’s questioning gaze. “We start tonight.”

A fist connected with Cillian’s jaw,  followed by another to the gut, and he stumbled back. It didn’t hurt too badly, but it pissed him off.

He found his feet and glared across the ring at Baz, who hopped lightly from foot to foot, not looking particularly apologetic for what he’d done. He pulled his mouth guard out.

“No way in hell I should’ve been able to land that, Killy. You were a lot more focused last week when we started training. Get your head outta your ass, kid. C’mon. Don’t try to hit me—hit me.”

“Fuck off, Morpheus.”

He took a deep breath to calm himself; he wasn’t really pissed off at Baz. The stress of training, and the stress of playing nice with Carl when he wanted to knock his jaw off his face, and the stress of trying to beat him to the punch of whatever he was planning, was taking a serious toll on his concentration. And he couldn’t even tell Baz about it—he’d decided to keep the email to himself.
For now, just until I have something concrete. Then it’s your ass, Wilhelm.

It was late, and blessedly quiet for once as the gym was mostly empty, except for four guys hanging around to watch him spar with Baz. Normally, Cillian didn’t care if he had an audience, but with his mind distracted, Baz was getting the best of him, and that was unacceptable.

Though he was focused on training nowadays, Basanta could have gone pro if he’d wanted a couple years ago, having fought in hundreds of smokers and even a couple of major tournaments. He’d given it up to stay close to his mother as she battled a chronic respiratory illness and he said he didn’t miss it, though Cillian suspected otherwise. He was an excellent trainer, and as sharp a fighter as he had ever been.

Baz lashed out with a lightning-fast jab, which Cillian deflected, only to take a sharp kick in the ribs. He stumbled backward but caught his feet, rushing Basanta with a slicing elbow followed by a left hook. He dropped down and swept Baz’s feet out from under him, then rolled backward and hopped up quickly before Baz could do the same to him.

“Fuckin’ quick bastard,” Baz called as he rose to his feet.

Cillian laughed at him, shuffling his feet and focusing on Basanta’s shoulders. From the way Baz tensed slightly and leaned, Cillian knew instantly his next strike would be a left jab. He threw up a blocking forearm just as Baz’s fist flew at him, and then sent a hard push-kick with his left foot into Baz’s gut. The air audibly rushed out of his lungs as he stumbled back, bouncing off the ropes, holding up a hand.

“All right, you prick. Gimme a minute.”

Cillian pulled his mouth guard out and smirked. “Sure, buddy. Take all the time you need.”

Breathlessly, Basanta held up an extended middle finger before doubling over and sucking in a deep breath.

The bell over the door jingled, and a sudden rush of cool air filled the gym. Cillian glanced over his shoulder to see who was coming in at nine-thirty on a Tuesday night and did a double take as he caught a glimpse of shiny dark hair in a high, messy ponytail. A pair of warm brown eyes met his briefly, and he clenched his jaw to keep it from falling open in surprise; the last person he expected to see was walking past the ring, toward the bags at the back.

As his eyes went over Sammi’s form, he was pleased to see her dressed in gym attire—and feminine gym attire at that. No longer drowning in baggy layers, she wore a pair of form-fitting black leggings under a gray sleeveless T-shirt, the straps of a bright pink sports bra curving over her shoulders as she shook out of her athletic jacket. Her hands were already wrapped, he noticed, as she stretched her slim, toned arms out behind her, rolling her head around to stretch out her neck. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he gave her a half-smile and a nod of acknowledgment before turning away to face Basanta, who was grinning.

“Oh, shit. Looks like your girlfriend came back, after all, Happy Feet.”

“Shut up.”

Cillian glanced around at the other guys, who were still crowded around the ring, they were all staring in Sammi’s direction as she started in on her bag, earbuds in place. They were laughing and making quiet comments that Cillian didn’t need to hear to know what was being said.

“Hey.” Four heads turned to look at him and he stared down at them. “You don’t look at her. You don’t talk about her, or to her. Don’t think about her. In fact, don’t even breathe in her direction. Leave her the fuck alone, or your asses are mine. You copy?”

There was a round of sheepish nods and Cillian turned away, popping his mouth guard back in place. Baz openly smirked at him, cocking his head.

“Was that you being protective?” He shook his arms out at his side before adopting a fighting stance. “Or marking your territory?”

Cillian glowered at him, lifting his fists and making a “come on” gesture.

“’Cause you may as well have gone over there, lifted your leg, and pissed all over her, if that’s what you wanted to do.”

Cillian rushed him, intent on shutting him up before Sammi overheard them. Baz took the hint, along with a hard, sharp elbow to his solar plexus, and they continued with their session until it was closing time.

The guys trickled out after trips to the locker room, and Cillian sent Baz home after a quick once-over of the place. He retreated to his office and toweled himself off, changing into the clean shirt he kept in the bag under his desk before turning off the light and locking the door after him. The lone sound of fists against a punching bag met his ears, and he followed it around the ring.

Sammi was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, her earbuds still in place, and she had tucked her ponytail into a roll on top of her head, loose strands sticking wetly to the back of her neck. He heard her sharp exhales with every punch thrown. His eyes traveled the length of her back, noting the swivel of her torso with every powerful punch of her arm.

A few minutes went by and she still hadn’t noticed Cillian standing at a respectful distance behind her, so he reached out and tapped the back of her shoulder lightly. His brows shot up when she jumped and recoiled from him, the shoulder he’d touched dipping low under his hand like he’d burned her as she whirled away. Her shocked, fearful, wide brown eyes met his as she continued to back up, feet moving fast.

He lifted his hands slowly in the air to show he was no threat as her fingers fumbled to pull an earbud out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
How many times have I said that to her before?
“I just came to let you know I’m getting ready to close up.”

She was still breathing hard through her nose, but at his words, her fists unclenched and her shoulders relaxed from their hunched position by her ears, and the look of complete panic in her eyes faded a little.

“Yeah, sorry.” Her eyes were downcast as she stepped past him and snatched up a towel. “Let me get my stuff together and I’ll get outta your hair.”

She quickly mopped the sweat off her arms and shrugged into her jacket, then bent to pick up her gym bag. He cleared his throat and took another step back, giving her plenty of space.

“So, you decided to come back.”
Brilliant, Sherlock.

She nodded, following him to the door. “Missed beating the shit out of a bag. Plus, this place has the most reasonable fees. I am on a budget, after all.”

“I already told you, I’ll waive your fee. I’m glad you came back. You’re pretty talented, actually, you ever thought about sparring? Competing?”

“
Me
? Ah, no. Not my thing.”