Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (3 page)

“What seems to be the matter?” Sammi asked, a laugh threatening to erupt from her throat.

“I was trying to find some sriracha and then I tripped over my own two feet and upended a bag of flour. Sorry, not everyone has your grace.” She swiped off her clothing and ran a hand through her hair.

“What do you need sriracha for?” Sammi glanced at the counter. There were three muffin tins, each holding a dozen freshly baked cupcakes with little holes cut in the middle. They smelled sweetly delicious, the rich scent of cocoa wafting into Sammi’s nose.

“For the ganache.” Jazz hustled over to the stove. “Grab it for me?”

Sammi lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Rarely do I question your culinary genius, and I’m not about to start today.” She pulled a bottle of the sauce off the shelf and handed it to Jazz. She was stirring a saucepan with thick chocolate sauce in it, and squirted in some of the sriracha, giving it a firm whisk.

When the ganache was ready, she carried the saucepan to the counter and methodically filled a cupcake, then piped on a generous amount of peanut butter buttercream. She presented Sammi with the little cake and a triumphant smile.

Sammi shrugged gamely, tugging down one side of the wrapper, and took a monstrous bite, immediately tasting the rich chocolate in the moist cake and the smoothness of the peanut butter frosting. Then the strange, spicy flavor of the ganache hit her and she tilted her head, moving it around in her mouth curiously.

“Well?”

“It’s…weird.” Sammi nodded, taking another bite. “Weird and damn delicious. How’d you come up with these?”

“I need a change. Something that ain’t green—I never made so many shamrock cookies and so much green buttercream in my life. Two days later and I’m still having nightmares about it.”

“Don’t know if you noticed, but you live in Boston. Nobody does St. Patrick’s Day like Beantown.”

“I know, but this is Little Italy. I thought I was safe here. Anyway. I was just messing around and thinking of which flavors would be unique and delicious together so I whipped these up, and as it turns out, I really am the shit at what I do.”

“I’m so glad to see you stayed humble about it.” Sammi looked at her watch again. “You finish up with these, I’ll start cleaning up front. It’s ten after seven.”

“In a hurry? Off to Total Body Testosterone?”

“Hey, I like kicking the shit out of a punching bag. You should try it.”

Jazz shrugged, spooning ganache into the rest of the cupcakes. “I hope you can knock this incognito crap off soon. The fact that you haven’t been wearing nail polish is kind of annoying.”

Sammi glanced down at her unmanicured fingers and tucked them into her hoodie pocket. “Pretty sure someone there might notice a guy with painted nails.”

“I suppose. Tell me, how long do you expect to keep this up?”

Sammi frowned, her stomach knotting. “I don’t know.”

“There are plenty of gyms in Boston, where you might feel safe enough to be who you are.”

“I don’t feel unsafe, exactly.”

“Oh, really?” Jazz’s voice dripped sarcasm. “So, you wear fifty sports bras and dress like a dude ‘cause it’s super-fun?”

Sammi rolled her eyes and grabbed the metal pitchers she steamed milk in. She carried them to the back, dropping them into the sink to wash them. “I just don’t want any guys messing with me, and that’s the best boxing gym in the city. Murphy Ronan ran it for years. And his son runs it now—he’s a war hero.”

“Which means nothing because you don’t train with him, or even talk to him. You don’t train with
anyone
, so what is it really helping?”

Sammi’s hands stilled in the soapy water. Eighteen months ago she couldn’t handle even being out in public. Now, she was working out at a boxing gym. Even if it was incognito, it was on her terms, under her control.

“It helps. I know you don’t get it. But…it helps me.”

Jazz sighed and shook her head as she finished filling the cupcakes and reached for the pastry bag of buttercream. “I hope so. I don’t ever want to hear you tell me what you told me again.”

Instantly, dark, terrifying memories flooded Sammi’s mind and the pitcher she held clattered to the floor as her hands shook violently. The room spun and for a moment, she thought she was about to be sick.

Jazz rushed over, her eyes wide. “Here, sit down.” She guided her to a chair, as Sammi tried to suck in deep breaths through her nose. Her entire body was now wracked with tremors. “Do you need your meds?”

Sammi nodded, her head bobbling on her neck, and wrapped her arms around herself.

Jazz immediately went to the black messenger back hanging on the coat rack at the back of the café and rifled through it quickly, coming up with the amber medication bottle and popping the lid. She’d done this enough times to know exactly where in the bag Sammi kept her meds, exactly how many to give her, and how much water she needed to drink.

Jazz grabbed a cup of water and brought it over, dropping two anti-anxiety pills into Sammi’s outstretched palm. She folded her arms and watched her swallow the meds.

“Okay?” Jazz wrung her hands.

No
. “Gimme a sec.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I didn’t mean anything by it—I just want you to be all right.”

Sammi gave her a half-smile. “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re gonna be okay?”

“Sure.”

No. I’m not going to be okay.

Sammi stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, winding an ace bandage around her chest over the two snug sports bras she wore. No matter how many times she’d done this, it was the most annoying part of going “incognito”, as Jazz liked to say.

There was no way to completely flatten out her full breasts, but binding them and wearing loose layers helped conceal them. She secured the bandage and turned to the side, examining herself; she’d gone from a C cup to an A, and that was as flat as it was getting.

She slipped on basketball shorts and then sweat pants to ward off the chill, tucking the hems into a pair of high-top athletic sneakers. Next came a wicking tank top, then a T-shirt, then a hoodie with the sleeves cut off to mid-bicep, followed by another zip-up sweatshirt. The layers masked her feminine curves and gave her the appearance of a short, slouchy boy.

“Except for this,” she grumbled to herself, eyeing her hair.

A lithe little shape sauntered into her bedroom; Rocky, her sleek, smoke-gray, green-eyed cat blinked lazily up at her before gracefully leaping on the bed. He sat on his haunches, staring at her, and then yawned deeply.

“Don’t judge me, Rock. We’ve talked about this.”

Rocky purred noisily as he lay on a pile of her pillows, watching her through slitted eyes as he folded his front paws under his chest.

She turned back to the mirror and carefully wound her long, dark locks on top of her head into the sleekest bun she could manage, sighing. Forget wrapping her breasts—concealing her hair was the most annoying part.

It’s worth it to be ignored. Nobody sees me. Nobody talks to me. People leave me alone.

Sammi finished up with her bun and popped her Yankees cap on her head. Her hair looked good—except for the little flyaways near the nape of her neck.

“Hairspray,” she muttered, and went into the bathroom to spray them down. As she set down the canister of spray, her eyes fell on her razor. It was still in the sink from when she’d used it earlier after she’d gotten home from the café. At the sight of it, her ankle pulsed with a sharp, aching little sting.

Abruptly she turned away. It was time to work out.

When she got off the bus at 9:25, she pulled her sweatshirt hood over her head and walked toward the gym, trying to ignore the way her stomach tensed and knotted as she went. My terms.
I’m here on my terms.

Everything she did lately, she did according to that mantra. She worked at the café on her terms. She worked at Cliff’s on her terms. She taught dance on her terms.

And she came to the best boxing gym in the city, whose clientele was ninety-nine percent men, on her terms.
And I’m the one percent. No pressure.

As far as Sammi could tell, she flew under the radar at Ronan’s. She’d definitely gotten a few curious looks here and there, but the guys generally left her alone. They were friendly with each other, so it was strange that she was the one standoffish person. A couple of them had even tried to talk to her, but she’d just walked away before they could engage her in real conversation and discover her little secret.

At the door, Sammi took a deep breath to steady herself. Entering Ronan’s Gym always made her queasy. It was like walking into a different planet—one whose atmosphere was humid, reeking of male sweat and Old Spice, one where loud, deep voices trash-talking, good-natured or otherwise, pounded in her ears and closed in around her. The ring was never free of bloodstains at the end of the night.

She’d had boxing training before with a personal trainer, in New York, because it was empowering, and fun, and a new way to stay in shape. She would’ve liked a trainer here in Boston, but she was content to observe the talented fighters at work, trying to mimic their movements in her own workouts.

And, as she peeked around her favorite bag, glancing from under the brim of her baseball hat, the best one of them all was currently at work in the ring.

Cillian Ronan shook out his hands at his sides, facing off against his sparring partner, the built, ruddy-skinned Asian guy with a buzz cut that worked at the gym. They were fighting in a kickboxing style, rather than a traditional boxing one. He lifted his gloved fists into a guard position, almost casually. It was easy to see he was enjoying himself, enjoying the duel. The dance.

He was in his element.

Sammi tilted her head and watched his feet, his fast, confident movements. He landed a kick, leaping past his doubled-over opponent, then with a quick shuffle of his feet, switched his direction, casually yanking up a pant leg as he resumed his guard position on the other side of the ring. The guy was a beast, but there was something lithe and graceful about his movements.

He grinned at his partner, who’d just landed a jab to his chin. Sammi had seen Cillian around the gym for months now, and had seen him on TV plenty after the local stations went berserk with his heroics overseas. His Army picture was always shown, the one where his face was so serious. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him smile before.

She took in the symmetry of his face, the hard clench of his square jaw, his steely pewter-gray eyes. From seeing him on the TV reports of his heroics overseas, she knew he was a good-looking guy, but the camera hadn’t done him any justice. His light brown hair was in a regulation military high-and-tight, but these days he sported a beard, heavier than a five o’clock shadow but not full-on lumberjack.
Which is great, because it would be a shame to conceal those lips
. The thought alone made her face flush, but she couldn’t help the way her eyes lingered on his mouth for a moment—he had the most sensual, full lips she’d ever seen on a guy, and he usually had a toothpick stuck between them, and they would purse around it in the most distracting way.

Not the only distracting thing about him…

Her eyes slipped lower as she scanned his body, the muscles outlined beneath a second-skin, sleeveless wicking shirt. His shoulders were round, biceps large and sinewy, pectorals defined. He radiated complete power and authority, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he could sweep the floor with every guy in there.

His left arm was covered in a tattoo sleeve from shoulder to wrist, and he had a tattoo covering his right pectoral, shoulder, and shoulder blade, with a few more designs around his right forearm. She’d never been close enough to see what they were in detail, but even from a distance, the quality of the ink was unmistakable.

Maybe you should ask him about his tats in your chatty moments on the way out
, her sarcastic inner voice jeered.

Cillian stood by the door most nights at closing time, toothpick in his mouth, hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for her to finish up. He’d tried to talk to her on a couple of occasions—the last time as recently as a couple of weeks ago, when he’d asked her a puzzling question.

“Are you okay? You got bullies at school? You need help?”

Instead of providing an answer or even asking what the hell he meant by that, she’d rushed off. He hadn’t tried to speak to her again.

“Give it up, kid,” a voice said behind her, making her jump. “You’ll never be that good, and he would never waste his time even tryin’ to make you halfway decent.”

Sammi tensed and caught herself before she instinctively looked over her shoulder.

“I see you in here all the time at these bags, never talkin’ to nobody, actin’ like you’re better than everyone, when really you’re just a little prick who’s just wastin’ his time.” The voice was sharper now, murmurs of agreement by two more voices.

He’s not alone. Shit, he brought friends. And he’s way too close…