Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (27 page)

Cillian shrugged, which was stupid, since Matthews couldn't see him over the phone. “Nothin'. Actually, uh—I went to see Lee's folks today.”

There was a long pause. “Wha—how are they? What'd they say?”

“They're good. It was good to see them. We've gotta get out there more, bro.”

“For sure. Hey, maybe we can take them to dinner soon. What do you think?”

“Good idea. So what's up?”

“How far from Boston are you? Can you meet me downtown for lunch in an hour? My treat.”

“Sure. You don't have to spend your money on me, though. I'm cool.”

“Shut up, Killy. Meet me at the sandwich shop, the one we always used to go to.”

Despite it being the lunch hour, he managed to find a spot just across the street from the sandwich shop. Matthews stood out front, finishing up a smoke.

“When you gonna quit that shit?” Cillian asked.

Matthews looked up and smiled. “Hey, Killy.” They clasped hands and Matthews held on a little longer, giving him a comforting pat on the back. “How's the ribs?”

“Tight,” Cillian admitted. “Uncomfortable.”

“Take care of that shit.” Matthews pulled open the door, ushering Cillian inside.

They sauntered to the counter, and placed their orders. Cillian got a giant turkey club, his stomach rumbling in anticipation.
I think it was yesterday morning, last time I ate.

Matthews paid for their lunches and accepted a tray with three large brown paper bags on them. Cillian wondered who the third one was for and glanced around for Jess. Maybe she'd agreed to meet them for lunch, too.

“Come on.” Matthews grinned.

What the hell is he so excited about? Is he gonna propose or something?

Cillian followed him toward the back of the deli, passing tables and booths full of people. There was one table in the back corner near the big bay window. Cillian saw a man sitting in one of the three chairs at the table, his back to them. He was dark-haired and dressed in what looked to be an expensive navy suit. Matthews strolled right over to the table and set the tray down.

“Oh, thanks,” the man said.

Matthews smiled down at him and pointed over his shoulder. The man followed the movement and turned, and Cillian felt genuine shock as he recognized him.

Bradley Wilcox.

Cillian's eyes shot to Matthews as Wilcox got to his feet. He was much taller and bigger than he appeared on television, because every time Cillian had seen him on TV, he was sitting down.

Cillian eyed Wilcox as he extended his hand. Finally, Cillian shook it.

“Uh. Matty?” He looked at Matthews uncertainly.

“Hey there, Cillian,” Wilcox said. “It's great to finally meet you. Why don't you have a seat, and some lunch, and we'll talk?”

Matthews only grinned at him again, looking like a little kid, and pointed to the only other available chair. Cillian took it, glancing between both men.

“What's this all about? What are you doing here?” Cillian unfurled his sack and pulled out his sandwich. “Isn't it against executive code of conduct to hang with the peasants?”

Matthews shot him a look and kicked him hard under the table. Wilcox only laughed.

“Is that how you think I look at you?” he asked. “I don't. I'm sorry if I haven't been very visible. My work keeps me pretty busy.”

“Too busy to attend your own tournaments and keep an eye on things to make sure they're handled fairly?” Cillian asked bluntly, folding his arms.

Wilcox considered his words as he took an enormous bite from his sandwich. He nodded as he chewed. “You have a point. It's not intentional, though.”

“So, what's up?” Cillian shrugged. “You didn't call me down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit.”

“Jesus, Cillian,” Matthews said, his brows drawing together.

Wilcox locked eyes with Matthews and grinned. “You weren't kidding about him.”

“Kidding about what?” Cillian frowned at Matthews.

“About you being a no-nonsense hard-ass dickhead. Sometimes.”

“Listen, Cillian, you're absolutely right,” Wilcox said. “I didn't call you down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit. I called you down here to talk to you about Ithaca.” He paused to wipe his mouth. “Your friend here started blowing up my phone earlier this week.”

“How did you do that?” Cillian lifted a brow at Matthews.

“I told you, I got contacts in the MMA world. I know people who know people.” Matthews reached out and clasped his shoulder. “I always got your back, bro, just like you always have mine.”

Wilcox nodded. “When I got back home, I started getting bits and pieces of everything that happened over the weekend. That your girlfriend was assaulted by fans and publicly humiliated—really sorry to hear about what happened to her, by the way. Also heard you fired your manager, and that you lost the tournament when everyone else who scored it outside the judges' booth said you won.” Wilcox fixed him with a piercing stare. “All of these things were very interesting to me. So, I watched as much footage as I could get, including your bout with Cavasso. I scored your fight with him seven times, and each time, Cillian, you came out the winner.”

“Not according to the judges.”

Wilcox sipped his raspberry iced tea. “There's an old saying: when you grease the palms, it makes the fingers slippery.”

Have to have money to do that. But why would anyone want to see me go down that way?

“I keep my judges very well paid to stay fair. They don't want to lose those salaries. And when I threatened that, they were only too happy to rat out their little...shall we say, on-the-side benefactor.” He paused for another sip of tea. “Carl Wilhelm thinks he's a whole lot smarter than he is.”

It was exactly what Cillian suspected, but the impact of hearing the news jarred him as if he'd been punched in the side of the head.

“It was a dumb fuckin' move,” Wilcox went on. “My judges are suspended indefinitely. I had a new set of judges come in and score your fight, just to keep things honest. You won.”

Cillian's head swam. “So, what does this all mean, then? Isn't it just water under the bridge, now?”

“This means that Carl Wilhelm owes me a big, fat fuckin' fine and will be forever banned from entering fighters in any MMA tournaments. If he can't enter fighters into the big, high-dollar purse tourneys, no one is gonna want to work with him. He doesn't manage any clients, he doesn't make any money. He's going to have to find a new line of work entirely.” Wilcox shrugged. “He's also gonna lose a lot of business at that gym.”

“Doesn't matter,” Cillian said. “He was gonna close it anyway. That's the whole reason I entered the tournament. I wanted to buy him out. He retains majority ownership, so he can do whatever he wants. In fact, he's buyin' me out Monday. So even though it's great to know that
you
know I won, it doesn't change the fact that I'm losin' my father's business anyway.”

Wilcox arched an eyebrow at him and reached into an interior pocket of his suit coat. He drew out a large white envelope. “Maybe this will help you out.” He slid the envelope across the table toward Cillian.

Cillian glanced at it, then up at Wilcox, who looked back at him impassively. He picked up the envelope and hesitantly tore it open and pulled out a thick piece of paper. He realized he was holding a check. It was made out to him, and it was for the amount of one and a half million dollars.

He gaped at Wilcox.
Gotta be a mistake...there's way too many zeroes on this thing.

“You won, Cillian,” Wilcox said simply. “Fair and square.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “Never let it be said that Bradley Wilcox is an unfair man.”

“This is for one and a half million. The purse was for one.”

“Consider it reparations for your pain and suffering.” He polished off the last of his sandwich. “And a bribe to come back to the tournament next year.”

Cillian's mind whirled, hardly able to accept what he held in his hands.
Ronan's Gym is going to stay Ronan's Gym.

“Cillian?”

Cillian snapped his head up, and saw Wilcox holding out his hand. Cillian shook himself and grabbed it, giving it a firm shake.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilcox. I really do appreciate this. I don't know what to say.”

Wilcox wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin into his bag before crumpling it. “Winning's winning. Thank you for being a part of the tournament, and I wasn't kidding about that being a bribe for next year.” He winked and clapped Cillian on the shoulder. “Thank your buddy, here, too. He really had your back. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I've gotta get back to the office.”

Cillian watched Wilcox stroll out of the sandwich shop and shook his head at Matthews. “I don't even know what to say, man.”

Matthews grinned. “You're my best friend. My brother. I'm not about to allow you to get fucked in the ass over some bullshit. You won that, fair and square, like he said. That's yours.”

“I owe you, like, a cut or something.”

Matthews shook his head. “No. I don't want any of it. But I do want you to get the gym back, and tell Carl Wilhelm to suck a bag of dicks.”

Cillian stared down at the sheaf of paper, reading his name and the amount over and over.
I don't know what I did to deserve this, but...thank you.

Matthews went on. “Shit, you could sue him for blackmail, damages, a whole bunch of other shit. Sammi could, too. He should
give
you that gym.”

Cillian shook his head. “We'll see what happens. I've got a lot to think about. I hope she does sue the shit out of him, but that's for her to decide. Between me and him, it's just about the gym.” He stood, collecting his trash. “I gotta go, bro. I got life decisions to make. Hey—thank you. For everything.”

Matthews got to his feet, and they embraced. “Anytime, brother. It's the least I can do—after all, you did save my life.”

Cillian walked out to his truck, his head spinning.
I should call Pop. I should call Mel. I should call Baz, tell him not to worry about looking for another job, and that he's got a raise coming...

But there was only one person he wanted to talk to more than anything.

Sammi. God, I miss you.

He looked hard at the check in his hand. He needed to get a lawyer. He needed to deposit the money. He needed to see to it that Melody and the kids were taken care of, for years to come. He needed to take back what was rightfully his—the gym.

His hands shook as he recalled what Baz told him Carl had done to Sammi. He wanted to rip Carl apart with his bare hands.

You tried to take everything from me. Now I'm taking everything, you piece of shit. Everything.

His gut looped in on itself as he thought of her.
She went there looking for you. She needed you last night.

He couldn't help feeling like he'd let her down—again.

As he drove to the bank, he turned the corner and passed the little studio space that Sammi wanted. He pulled over to the curb and sat in the cab of the truck for a moment, staring at it.

He'd let her down in a horrible way, but now he had the chance to give her something, to make her dream a reality. The means to do so was folded into his pocket right now.

A slow smile curled up the corner of his mouth, and he took out his cell phone again, dialing the number posted on the “FOR SALE” sign in the window.

“Yes, ma'am. I was calling about the property downtown, off Province? Yeah...I'd like to buy it.”

In the span of twenty-four hours, Cillian had enough money to breathe, had a legal letter drafted to Carl Wilhelm advising him to sell his gym property to one Cillian Ronan for the price of fifty-thousand dollars, and made another small property purchase.

Feeling fuckin' accomplished.

Cillian folded the sheaf of papers he'd just received carefully so as not to lose anything before he turned and glanced at his sister across his dining room table the following evening. She was grinning at him.

He couldn't help a half-grin back. “What are you smiling at, you weirdo?”

“I'm just so happy for you, Killy. This is huge. Your life is going to change in a major way...
has
changed.”