Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (31 page)

Cillian couldn't live his life knowing that he'd released the best thing that had ever happened to him because of guilt. Staying away wasn't doing either of them any good. And even if Sammi decided she was through with him, he had to see her face, had to speak to her, to let her know how much he cared—that he loved her.

If she wanted him gone after that, that was her decision, but she had to know, and he had to try.

Fifteen minutes to showtime.

Sammi lapped her tiny dressing room. Her nerves were a slithering mass of worms in her belly, and suddenly, she gagged, racing to the trash can in the corner for the fourth time in the last half an hour. Nothing came out, but she was trembling all over, a sweaty, clammy mess.

She peered at herself in the mirror of her small lighted vanity as she patted a tissue along her hairline to dab up the cold sweat that beaded there like condensation on a glass. She'd spent almost thirty minutes applying her makeup and didn't want her fits of near-vomiting to destroy it. Her face and lips were covered in heavy foundation, she'd enhanced her eyes with dark eye shadow and black eye liner, and dusted a little cool contour powder in the hollows of her cheeks. It was far too heavy for normal wear, but underneath stage lights, it would ensure her features could be seen.

The thought that she'd be perfectly visible to every set of eyes in the room made another wave of nausea roll through her gut. She shut her eyes and took deep breaths until the urge to vomit passed.

There was just one thing left to complete her costume. She snipped off two pieces of narrow black tape with her manicure scissors. Once in place, they would form an X over her lips, illustrating the song's theme of involuntary restraint of freedom, thought, desire, and the year and half she'd spent soul-silenced by the trauma of her past.

She took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror.
Any last words?
The silly thought made her smirk, then she composed her face and carefully applied her tape.
Really hope I don't actually have to puke. That's gonna be a problem now.

Sammi sat down on the stool at the vanity and worked her feet into her pointe shoes, lacing the ribbons nice and tight around her ankle. Nausea twisted her stomach again, and she shut her eyes.

Don't focus on the audience. Focus on the dance.

She paced around the room some more, mentally ticking off on her fingers her tasks to ensure she was ready: she'd stretched and had warmed up. Her brand new pointe shoes were nice and broken in, flexible and shaped to fit precisely to her foot. Makeup, hair, and costume were complete.

All that's left to do is just...get up there.

She shut her eyes as she paced, drawing in deep breaths through her nose and wishing she could swallow gulps of air; she was lightheaded with stage fright.

I wish you could be here...

Despite her convoluted feelings about the tournament situation, and whether or not Cillian had played a part, she wanted him there. She wanted him to see the labor of love that had evolved into this performance. And his quiet presence, the silent strength he possessed that he could lend to her with a simple glance, calmed her more than any anti-anxiety pill.

When her eyes stung, she shook her head rapidly and blinked several times to clear the tears so they wouldn't ruin her eye makeup.

He's not here. You're going to have to get used to that. You danced for twenty-three years before knowing Cillian Ronan. You can dance for three minutes without him.

Sammi had heard somewhere once that sometimes people came into a person's life for a season to fulfill some sort of purpose, or teach a lesson. Then, it passed. She'd learned a lot from Cillian, and had learned a lot about herself. The thing that made her want to break down and cry was that she never expected that Cillian was just a season.

There was a knock on her dressing room door. Sammi reached out to open the door. The stage manager, a young woman named Jen wearing headphones with a microphone attached to one side, stuck her head in. She held a clipboard.

“Hi, Sammi. I just wanted to let you know you're on deck.”

Sammi nodded, giving Jen a thumbs-up, and followed the stage manager backstage.

“Hey,” Jen whispered. Sammi glanced at her, expecting her to tell her something was out of place with her costume. Instead, she put her hand lightly on Sammi's arm. “I apologize if this is too forward, but I just wanted to say that I read your story in the paper, and I think you're really brave for testifying. You helped get that guy off the streets for good, and you should be really proud of yourself.”

Sammi blinked at her, surprise and unexpected pleasure at the sincere words filling her.
Shit. Do not cry.
She gave Jen another thumbs-up.
Thanks, Jen.

Jen smiled and patted her shoulder, then pointed toward the wings of the stage. “When this act goes off, you're up. Break a leg.”

Sammi's stomach erupted with a fresh burst of nerves as she moved in between the curtains. Her heart pounded and she breathed hard through her nose as her head went dizzy again. Her hands and feet were suddenly freezing cold and she tightened all of her muscles—she was trembling uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and lowered her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

Be still. Think slow. Breathe deep. Block them out—all of them. It's just you and the stage.

As the music faded away, a trance-like calm settled over her, like a foggy cloud drifting around a mountain peak. Then, the houselights went out.

In pitch blackness, the calm ordered her body onto the stage, her mind quieted. The toes of her pointe shoes thudded gently on the wooden floor as she moved to the center, then knelt. All of her muscle fibers seemed to tremble and vibrate throughout her entire body, but it was with a preparedness to move, not with fear or nerves.

Her body was ready to do what she was born to do—dance.

There was a long silence, and then an audible inhale of breath from the singer, followed immediately by the opening strains of the song. The houselights brightened minutely to a soft blue glow behind her, making her just visible to the audience.

Then, Sammi pushed everything out of her mind—the stage-fright, worrying about making stupid mistakes, losing the studio, her secret being shared with the world.

Even Cillian.

She gathered all of those things up, and dumped them into a dirty laundry hamper in the closet of her mind and shut the door. Her mind transformed into blank space with room only for the music, the emotion, and the movement.

Showtime.

Cillian jogged into the Orpheum one minute to seven, tugging off his cover. He ignored glances from people as he went by; he hadn't had any time to change out of his uniform. It was over an hour drive from base to downtown, and he'd taken Baz's advice to stop and get some flowers—a mixture of stargazer lilies, tulips, hydrangeas, and baby pink roses. He couldn't tell which was which, but he'd begged the girl at the floral shop to put together the biggest, most beautiful bouquet she could, and she'd told him what was in it when she was through.

The theater was dark and silent, save for soft noises of a throat clearing here and there, someone shifting in their seat, a cough, a sniffle, a whisper. He stood at the back, unable to see if there were any available seats.

Looks like someone's on stage...

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the stage lights were low, barely illuminating a figure kneeling on the floor. Then, he heard what sounded like a deep breath, followed by strains of a vaguely familiar song. The houselights brightened just enough for him to see Sammi center stage, dressed in black with what looked like a black X over her mouth and stripes of neon red paint on her body—one stripe on her chest. One stripe on the inside of each thigh. Several small stripes on the insides of her ankles. He understood immediately.

Her scars.

She slowly rose to her feet, extending each leg high into the air gracefully in time with the music, executing a few slow, graceful turns, before suddenly, the beat burst to life and she danced with strength and energy.

The height of her leaps, the straightness of her legs, the fluidity of movement, the absolute grace she embodied, and the ease with which she executed her complex movements made his heart stop in his chest. He could barely see her face, but she'd never been more beautiful to him. He'd seen her dance one other time, but her emotion, her passion, her soul that she bared for all to see right now was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

Her eyes moved across the audience, but Cillian knew she wasn't really seeing anything or anyone. She might be in the same room with them all, but right now, she was a million miles away.

She spun on the tip of one foot, her head back, her long hair streaming out behind her, her arms down at her sides and her hands gracefully poised. The body paint flashed as she spun. She bore her scars boldly, shamelessly, defiantly.
This is who I was,
she seemed to say.
This is what I did.

The houselights suddenly brightened to their full strength, catching the fierce look in her eyes as she came out of the turn, her leg extended at hip-height, straight out to the side. She took a few running steps and leaped, her legs extended straight out to the sides, toes to a perfect, painful-looking point. Cillian's eyes widened.
She has to be six feet in the air.

She landed and executed a leap/turn combination and as the music wound down, the passion and anger seemed to leave her. Her movements slowed and gradually, as the music faded out, she resumed her original position, kneeling on the floor, in the middle of the stage, before the lights went out.

A wild, ear-piercing whoop sounded from somewhere near the front of the stage, immediately followed by thunderous applause and cheers from the entire theater. People rose to their feet, clapping, and the houselights went back up, centering on Sammi as she blinked, her eyes glistening. She curtsied deeply, her head bowing in recognition of the appreciation of her performance, one hand over her chest. Then she straightened and ran gracefully off-stage.

Cillian let out a long, heavy breath, surprised to discover he'd been holding it in, feeling his heart thudding in his chest.

Gotta find her...now.

He slipped out the door to the theater and walked into the lobby, trying to find a way backstage. He saw someone wearing a T-shirt with the Orpheum logo on the front and hurried over to her.

“I'm looking for the dressing rooms. I need to find a performer—Sammi Carnevale?”

The stagehand looked him over, noting his uniform and the gigantic flowers in his hand. “Yeah, dressing rooms are down that hall. She's on the left, about halfway down. There's a sign on her door.”

“Thanks.”

He turned in the direction she pointed. The hallway was packed with performers—dancers going over their steps, singers running through scales, musicians strumming guitars. He elbowed his way down the hall until he located the seventh door down on the left. Sammi's name was printed out on a simple sheet of paper, and he knocked on the closed door.

The door opened slightly and Sammi peeked out; her eyes were watery and her face was splotchy.

She's been crying.

She stared up at him, the look on her face going from cautiously curious to amazed to furious to hurt, in a matter of seconds. Her mouth opened and shut and opened again.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly. “Please.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then stepped back silently and opened the door wider to let him through. He slipped into the tiny room, his heart beating hard as she shut the door and folded her arms across her chest.

For several long minutes, they sat in silence. She stared at the floor, and he stared at her.

God, she's beautiful and I miss her.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you.” He held out the flowers. “These are for you.”