Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (24 page)

“Cillian—”

He turned away, reaching for the truck door handle. “I gotta go. Don't—don't tell her I came here today. She doesn't need to know, it's only gonna hurt her more. And I'm done hurting her.” He wrenched open the door. “Sorry about everything. Bye, Jazz.”

Cillian climbed into the seat, ignoring the throbbing in his side. He couldn't even feel the ache from his cracked ribs—the sharp, agonizing pain in his chest drowned it out.

Sammi went back to real life on Friday.

By now, all of Boston knew about her—everyone who read the Boston Globe and the Boston Herald, that is. Which was mostly everyone. The papers had called her nonstop at her parents' and at the café. She was more curious about how in the hell they'd gotten a hold of her parents' phone number than what it was they were calling to talk to her about.

At least they haven't gotten my new cell number. Yet.

Sammi refused the calls, ignored the voicemails, refused to give any interviews; she wanted to be left alone. Without her input, they ran stories summarizing both the situation at the tournament and also her testimony at the trial two days before. She was flabbergasted at how quickly “private” information traveled and how easily it was bought.

“Hey, Jazz,” she said, hanging up her bag on the coat rack.

Jazz enfolded her in a hug. “Welcome back. Missed you.”

Sammi had wanted to be left completely alone since coming back home Wednesday, and luckily, Jazz understood. Her pushy family was a different matter, but with some fast talking and some outright begging on her part, they'd left her alone.

“Did I miss anything? Anyone stop by?” Sammi asked. She'd been concerned that the reporters and bloggers would actually show up at the café and harass Jazz, too.

Jazz followed her to the front, watching Sammi as she prepped the counter for the morning rush. She didn't say anything, so Sammi turned and raised a brow at her.

“Jay?”

“What? No. Um—no. You didn't miss anything.”

Sammi frowned. “What happened? Did a reporter come by? Did you read something in the paper?”

“No.” Jazz shook her head and made a face. “No, nothing like that.”

Sammi leaned on the counter, fixing her with a hard stare. “Then, what? I know it's not nothing.”

Jazz looked back at her, her forehead creased, as if she was trying to decide just how much to say. Finally, she sighed. “I'm only telling you this because I would want to know. He didn't want me to tell you.”

“Who?
What?
”

“Cillian came by yesterday.” Jazz's big brown eyes were gentle.

Sammi's stomach instantly shriveled in her gut at the mention of his name. She turned away, reaching for a bag of espresso beans to grind. “Oh.”

“Sammi...he's really going through it.”

“Ask me if I care.” Sammi dumped beans into the grinder and noisily turned it on. When the beans were fine powder, she looked at Jazz. “What? I
don't
care.”

“You should,” Jazz said. She reached across the counter and took Sammi's hand. “Knock all that off for a minute and listen to me. He didn't leak the story. He didn't stand you up on Tuesday on purpose.”

“He said that?”

“Yes, he did. To me, and to your father.”

Sammi drew her hand away. “He talked to my father?”

“And walked outta here on two legs, if you can believe it. He told your dad the truth.”

“And you guys actually believe him?” Sammi folded her arms.

“Yeah. I do, at least. Trust me, I read him the riot act when he walked in. Your dad—even worse. But Cillian stood his ground, insisted he didn't do it, that he'd never do something like that. By the end of it, I think your dad believed him. I know I did.”

“That's what good liars do, Jay. They lie. Good.”

“Well.” Jazz corrected her gently with a little nudge to her ribs. “They lie
well
. But I'm telling you, Sammi, I have a radar for bullshit, and I didn't get it from him.”

“And how do you know?” Sammi demanded. “How would you know? You barely know him.”

“I know how to read people.” Jazz folded in her lips for a moment. “When my mother died when I was kid, my father couldn't deal with life and he became an alcoholic. I had to take care of him, but moreover, I had to take care of myself. And I had to figure out how to do that at a very young age. I learned who I could trust and who I couldn't real fast.”

“Oh.” Sammi stared at her friend. “I never knew that.”

“Of course not. I never told you. I've never told anyone that. My father died of cirrhosis three years ago in Philly, when I was living in Detroit. I didn't find out about until after the fact, when social services called to let me know.”

“I'm so sorry, Jay.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. “The point is, I got really good at reading people, and that skill has only gotten sharper over the years. I may not know Cillian like you do, but I can tell when someone's lying. And that boy was not lying. He didn't do what you think he did.”

“That's a little too convenient.”

“Maybe so, but it doesn't make it any less true.” Jazz tapped her fingers on the counter. “He loves you, Sam.”

Sammi snapped her head around to look at Jazz. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Sammi shook her head. “No. I don't believe that, either. Someone who loves somebody would never do what he did. Just because you want us to be together, Jay, doesn't make the situation any different than what it is.”

“You know what I think?” Jazz put a hand on her shoulder. “I think you're terrified of being hurt, because you love him, too. I think it's easier for you to act like you don't care because it's safer than being vulnerable.”

“Is that what you think?”

Jazz shrugged. “That's what I know.”

“It doesn't matter.” Sammi's eyes burned and she viciously ripped open another bag of espresso beans to grind. “Even if I did buy his story, which I don't, we're better off apart. I'm better off alone. The trial made me see that—I'm not ready to be with anyone. I'm not over what happened to me. That disgusting piece of shit Roger Eich might be going to prison for the rest of his shitty life, but I'm not over it. I'm not ready.”

“Sammi...”

“I'm not.”

Luckily, the morning rush began to trickle in, ending the conversation and her urge to break down.

He doesn't love me. He's just a fantastic liar.

A figure moved up to the counter, dressed in the familiar camouflage of an Army uniform. She caught a glimpse of the sleeve from the corner of her eye and her heart jerked erratically in her chest.

Not him.

“Medium coffee, please,” the soldier said, offering a friendly smile and completely oblivious to the startled look she flashed him.

“Sure.” Sammi grabbed a to-go cup and poured fresh brew into it. Cillian was the only soldier she'd ever known, and now, he would forever be linked to camouflage in her mind. The soldier at the counter even kind of sounded like him.

Or maybe you just want him to.

She shook her head as she handed the soldier the coffee. “It's on the house. Thanks for your service.”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Well—thank you. That's so nice of you.”

Her lips pulled into a taut smile. “Have a nice day.”

For a moment she faltered.
Maybe it's true. Maybe he was telling the truth.

She couldn't think about it anymore. It was too stressful, too painful, and she had enough on her mind—like the showcase, which was just six days away.

The dance was ready. Her costume was ready,
she
was ready—from a physical ability standpoint. But she was so distracted, so heartsick, that the chances of the performance turning into a complete clusterfuck were definitely in her favor.

That night after work, she lay on the floor of her studio at the rec center, stretching her legs and staring at herself in the mirror. It was the first time since she'd been back from New York that she'd set foot in the studio and attempted to rehearse.

Her mind was about as far from being focused as was possible. She was tired and the day had just
sucked
, and she just wanted a pint of Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, her cat, and her TV.

And silence.

She'd had enough of people she didn't know looking at her, whispering about her, pointing at her—which is exactly how the day at the café had gone.

I'm no longer Joe Carnevale's youngest daughter, workin' the coffee bar, I'm a victim. To them, I'm just a fucking victim.

“You are gonna fail if you don't pull your head out of your ass,” she informed her reflection. She leaned forward, resting her forehead on her arms. She had no energy, no drive.

I don't want to be here. I don't give a shit about this dance. I don't give a shit about anything right now.

Except...

“Don't go there,” she growled out loud. She lurched to her feet and began a furious series of fouettes, anything to be physical and distract herself from her thoughts. She turned and turned, ignoring her training and not bothering to spot, until she got dizzy and stumbled back to the floor.

“Stupid, stupid.” Angry tears sprang into her eyes.

He loves you.

“No, he fucking
doesn't!
”

Her scream echoed off the walls of the studio and she reached for something, anything, to throw. Her hands closed around the hardbound notebook she used to write down ideas and dance routines and hurled it violently across the room.

She put her hands on her knees, hunching over, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Get it together, Carnevale. Just breathe.
She pulled in some deep, shaky breaths, her heart still pounding, more from emotion than the fouettes.
Do not cry...you've cried enough.

Suddenly, there was only one thought in her mind. One thing she knew for sure would help calm the tumult of untamable emotion in her. One thing that would distract her from the pain.

The sharp, sweet bite of a razor on her skin.

“No. No, no, no.” Sammi gripped her head.
I can't do that. I promised.

You promised who? The same person that made promises to you, and broke them?

“No.”

She was all out of things to throw, so it was time to go. Rehearsing was useless. Her heart wasn't in it. She packed up her things and left the building, pausing on the sidewalk. Going home was all she wanted to do, but since her emotions were still high and the temptation of hurting herself was still on her mind, she needed to distract herself until the urge to cut passed.

Yogurt. Yogurt's good. Ain't ice cream, but it'll do.

She started up the block, her head down, staring at her feet. She willed herself to take more deep breaths.

What did Dr. B say? Breathe and count. Breathe and count.

She'd only gone a few steps when she glanced up; this area of the block was so familiar, because she'd traveled back and forth between it so often to go from the gym to the rec center. Her feet slowed to a stop as she looked in the general direction of the gym. Nostalgia and wistfulness waved over her.

Is he there right now?

“Well, well. If it isn't the lovely Sammi.”

Sammi jumped, turning in the direction of the voice.
Not another reporter.

It wasn't—Carl Wilhelm walked toward her from across the street. She frowned.

“Hey,” she replied cautiously.

Carl jerked his head toward the gym up the street. “Thinkin' about comin' back? We miss you there.”

“I don't know. I'm focusing on dance right now. What—what are you doing down here?”

Carl's eyes trailed over her. “Just takin' a walk. Remember you tellin' me you taught down here.”

Did I?
Sammi shifted uncomfortably; her leotard, yoga pants and sheer, light sweater suddenly felt too revealing under the sweeping, penetrative stare he gave her.

“Y'know, if you came back to the gym, I could give you private lessons. If you want. And you wouldn't have to worry about anything 'cause I'll make sure you're well taken care of.” He took a step closer, and Sammi took a small, coordinating step back.