Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (16 page)

He looked down into her face as his insides clenched in that strange way. “You’re welcome. I just—I want you to know you’re not alone. I’ve been through some shit—maybe not like yours. But I know what it’s like to feel like you’re suffering alone. And you don’t have to.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes glistened in the dim hall light.

Cillian jammed his hands into his pockets and took a step back, preparing to wish her a good night and beat his retreat. He started when her small hand reached out to touch his forearm. His eyes flew to her face as she stepped closer, and he froze when her arms slipped around his body tentatively.

For a second, he was so surprised he couldn’t move.
She doesn’t like to be touched—but she’s touching me…

At her touch, Afghanistan disappeared completely—for tonight.

He shook himself and slowly slipped his arms around her in return, gathering her close and feeling her cheek press into his chest.

“You don’t have to feel alone, either.” She gave him a tiny squeeze and then let go. “Goodnight, Cillian.”

He couldn’t speak, and he stayed in the hallway as she went inside, listening for the sound of her three locks turning. Then he slowly walked away.

It took a moment for him to slide the key into the ignition, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that something massive had shifted between them, something confusing and uncomfortable because it was different. Different, and…good.

He’d brought her to the desert with him, and she rescued him and brought him back home.

Cillian yawned enormously as he opened the door of the gym at four the next morning. His entire body felt like it was sagging, as if telling him he needed to be horizontal and unconscious.

Like normal people at this hour.

After dropping Sammi off, he’d gotten home around two and slept for about ninety minutes before getting up again. He ground the heels of his palms against his bleary eyes, stinging from exhaustion, then gulped a mouthful of strong black coffee.
Why I don’t do late nights.

Since he’d shirked his cleaning duties the night before, he had half a gym to sanitize, and the bags and weights were calling his name, his shoulders calling for the release of nervous energy that made them unconsciously hunch and tighten up. The tasks of cleaning and training seemed monumentally huge for a moment, however, and he considered forgoing it all to just curl up in his desk chair and pass out.

Despite his exhaustion, the warm, glowy, not-unpleasant feeling that only happened around Sammi had intensified last night and remained in his chest this morning. It was as if they’d been watching each other across an enormous divide, and last night—this morning—that divide had been narrowed.

Grabbing a bottle of sanitizer and a clean cloth, he ambled toward the ring. As he got closer, he noticed a small object in the middle—Sammi’s prescription bottle. Hoisting himself up into the ring, he knelt down and scooped it up. 

“Shit.”
What if something happens to her today and she needs them?

He’d call her. Then he remembered that the number listed on her member record wasn’t in service, either because it was phony or she’d changed it since filling out her application.

“Well, shit.”

He looked thoughtfully down at the bottle.
Guess I get to deliver this in person.

The thought of seeing her again made the warm, glowy, not-unpleasant feeling in his chest pulse, and suddenly, he wasn’t that tired anymore.

Cillian had intended on slipping out during lunch to drop off Sammi’s medication, but as the day barreled along at breakneck speed, it wasn’t until a quarter to six that he was able to leave. Sammi hadn’t called the gym about her medication, as far as he knew.

Because she doesn’t need it? Hasn’t noticed? She feels weird about last night, doesn’t want to see me?

He drove straight to the café; he’d read the sign on the door before and knew it closed at eight, so the chances of her being there were good. When he pushed through the door, he noticed a couple of college kids on one side, working at a table covered with textbooks, and a couple of women wearing business suits on the other side, eating salads and chatting, but there was no one behind the counter. The bell over the door tinkled musically and after a moment, Jazz came out from the back, smiling when she recognized him.

“Hi.”

“Hey. Sammi around?” He pulled the medication bottle from his pocket and held it up. “She left this at the gym last night. I wanted to get it back to her earlier, but I was wicked busy today.”

“No, she’s not here, sorry. She left a little early to go drop off the deposit at the bank before it closed, then she said she was going to the studio.”

“She doesn’t teach tonight.” It came out like a question. “I thought she taught on Wednesdays.”

“She does. She went to work on a new dance. She
thinks
I don’t know she’s working on something, but I do. Anyway, she seemed a little stressed out today and said she needed to stretch and decompress. You can take it to her at the Y.”

“I don’t wanna bother her if she’s working. I can just leave it here with you.”

“Or,” Jazz said pointedly, “you can take it to her at the Y. Just call her and let her know you’re coming.”

“I don’t have her number.”

“Shouldn’t you have that by now? On account of her being at your gym every single night, and all.” She withdrew a piece of paper from underneath the register, jotting a number down, and then slid the scrap over the counter across to him.

“Won’t she mind you givin’ out her number?” Cillian took the scrap and tucked it into his pocket.

Jazz shrugged. “It’s not like you’re a stranger.”

Cillian turned to go then stopped and looked back at Jazz. “She say why she was stressed out?”

“Could be a lot of things. I understand she had a bit of a late night last night.” She lifted a brow at him before continuing. “She got some mail she wasn’t particularly happy about, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. And, she’s upset that her favorite ballet is coming into town and she can’t go see it.”

“What ballet? Why can’t she go? She working?”

“Tickets are just really expensive and she can’t afford it. I would’ve gotten her tickets but I’m just a broke college student, reduced to eating ramen.” She sighed dramatically.

Cillian smirked. “Thought that counts, right? Guess I’ll go look for her at the Y, then.” He turned and headed for the door, then stopped again, his hand on the knob. “What’s the name of that ballet?”

Jazz tilted her head, eyeing him. “It’s called
Giselle
. It’s next Thursday, at the Orpheum, eight o’clock. Oh, and her favorite restaurant is La Cucina. In Downtown Crossing. It’s, like, a two-minute cab ride from the theater. In case, you know, you find yourself down there. Next Thursday. Around eight.” She smiled so innocently that Cillian couldn’t help chuckling.

“Duly noted. Thanks.”

Sammi breathed hard as sweat beaded her forehead and rolled into the small of her back, creating a tiny oasis. She glared at her reflection in the long mirror that covered an entire wall of the studio before stalking over to the stereo system encased in a small wooden entertainment center to restart her song.

It was just good exercise, she told herself, rolling her ankle in the socket.
I haven’t created a real dance in so long.
She’d been working for almost an hour, just letting her body and training take over, pushing her conscious thoughts to the back of her mind.

The opening strains of the song seeped from the stereo and Sammi stood still for a moment, her eyes closed. As the singer’s haunting, melodic voice flowed around her, Sammi began to move, her eyes still closed. She let the notes, the voice, the melody control her movements as she moved across the floor. Her muscles strained with fatigue, but she refused to be tired, pointing her toes sharply, her thigh muscles aching as she forced her legs straight up in controlled grands battements, her calves tensing as she pushed up en pointe, turning precise pirouettes and fouettes, her head turning faster than her body.

As the melancholic song reached its climax, Sammi leapt through the air, each leg extending sharply in front of and behind her, her body light as though it weighed nothing at all. Her feet landed in a perfectly turned out position as if she were feline, hardly making a noise except for the clunking of the hard box of her pointe shoes landing against the wooden spring floor.

Yes. Yes.

She was born to do nothing else with her body except dance.
This is where I’m free. This is where I’m safe.

She opened her eyes to watch herself in the mirror. Her body was strong, her dance emotional; her muscles and training took over and moved her body for her, ignoring the commands of her brain to stop because she was tired. It was nothing she’d rehearsed prior to this exact moment; she was just moving, but she was telling a story with her body.
My story.

The song trailed off and she came to a stop in front of the mirror, leaning over to put her hands on her knees and catch her breath. She glanced at her reflection again, seeing tears forming in her eyes, and blinked. Salty water trickled down her face, and it was strangely beautiful. Her fingertips trailed her cheek in the mirror; it was safer than touching her own face, feeling her own tears, because of how bad they’d burn.

A movement reflected in the mirror caught her eye, from behind the studio’s window. Sammi whirled around.

What’s he doing here?

She scrambled to her feet, quickly brushing the backs of her hands over her cheeks, and hurried to the door. Cillian stepped into the studio, his eyes gentle and intense at the same time.

Wasn’t planning on an audience…awkward.

“Hi.” Her cheeks flamed as she looked up at him, praying all traces of tears were gone from her face. “What…what are you doing here, Cillian?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out. “You left this at the gym.”

Fuck, my meds. Nice going, Sam. You’re lucky nothing happened today.

“Thank you.” She took the bottle from him and stared at him in disbelief. “You came all the way out here just to drop this off?”

“Didn’t know if you’d need ‘em.” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, I don’t know shit about dance, but that, what you just did in there—that was…good. Amazing.”

Sammi swallowed, his words making a lump form in her throat. Why are you getting emotional? “Thank you.” She held up the medication bottle. “And thanks for this.”

“No problem. You doin’ okay today?”

“Sure.”

“No…” He shook his head. “I mean,
really
okay? I’m—I’m sorry about last night, Sammi. It was too much for you. I should’ve known—should’ve seen—”

She reached out, lightly touching his arm. “Cillian, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know. And I promise—I’m okay. How are you?”

One corner of his mouth lifted a little. “All right.”