Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (5 page)

He and his buddies from the old unit—Matthews, Meyer, and Lee—stood in front of a tent in the desert, dressed in their battle uniforms and sunglasses, their arms slung around each other’s soldiers as they mugged for the camera. They’d taken a fuckton of pictures on that deployment, at Meyer’s insistence. Cillian would have preferred not to immortalize his time at war, but he went with it for his buddy. The photo, the last one of the four of them all together, captured their bond perfectly—brothers-in-arms, brothers always.

Cillian’s eyes zeroed in on Lee, standing between him and Matthews, wearing his big goofy grin. That smile was so familiar that looking at it was bittersweet, like coming home after a long, homesick absence but not knowing what to do with himself when he got there. Lee used to smile all the time—so much, in fact, that he’d gotten in trouble for it during basic training when a drill sergeant got in his face.

“Soldiers don’t smile, recruit!”

“Sir, no, sir, but I can’t help it, sir, this is just my face!”

Cillian snorted involuntarily, and his shoulders pulsed with the ghost of an old ache at the memory—Lee’s response had earned them a hundred pushups a piece.

He could always count on Lee to make him laugh, and during the darkest moments of deployment, he relied on that to get by. It was easy to forget Lee was capable of breaking, too. And after the patrol mission they’d been assigned to near Husseiba, outside of Ramadi, he broke.

So did everyone else, including Cillian.

Suddenly, sounds and images assaulted his mind—the bright, flaming sunfire burst from a roadside IED and the strange, muted buzzing noise in his ears right after. The smell of burning fuel, and the heat of fire like an inferno closing in all around him. Bodies uniformed in American camo slumped unconscious over steering wheels. The strange, involuntary dance of bodies being peppered with bullets. Raging, wordless shouts of an enemy filled with nothing but pure hatred mixed with the terrified cries of children too young to know what was happening. Feminine screams of pain and the word “
Saa'adinii
!” over and over.

Help me. Help me.

“Fuck!”

Cillian squeezed his eyes shut as sharp pain lanced through his body and for a second, he thought he might be having a heart attack.

He crouched down, because it seemed like the only logical thing to do against the physical pain in his chest, and put a hand down on the floor for balance. The scratchy fibers of the cheap carpet were enough to distract him and his eyes popped open to stare down at it.

Gotta get this cleaned soon. Cheap-ass landlord didn’t do it when I moved in like he said.

Cillian drew in some more deep breaths, and the images of that awful day started to fade.

Do the other guys go through this? Or is it just me? Did Lee go through this?

He knew what Meyer would say, because he’d heard him say it countless times.
“Dude, it’s war.”
Then he would blow trademark Marlboro Red smoke hard from his lips, as if to punctuate his statement.
“There is nothing fucking nice about war. People die. And our job is kill people and blow shit up. We’re soldiers. This is what we have to do. No one said it would be pretty or easy. But we do it, ‘cause we’re Army strong. Hooah?”

And it would be exactly what they needed to hear in that moment, so they would shout, “
Hooah
!” in return.

Cillian had never been good about adhering to the strict guidelines of the Catholic faith he’d grown up in, but he believed. There was only one reason why they’d made it out alive that day in Husseiba—it just wasn’t their time to die. He kept the votive lit as a silent thank-you to God for Matthews and Meyer, for himself, that they’d all made it back home safely.

And he kept it lit for Lee.

Cillian clenched his jaw so tight he was afraid he cracked a tooth. He gripped the edge of the shelf so hard his knuckles were white.
I should’ve gotten you some help. I should’ve made you get help. I should’ve told the guys, the commander…somebody.

His eyes stung and his vision blurred. He tilted his head down for a moment, using the fingers of one hand to rub his eyes.
I’d do another deployment to go back to the day we took that picture. We were at war, but we were together.

Before heading to his room, Cillian realized he’d never gotten around to relighting the candle. He struck a match, holding it out toward the wick. For a moment, he stood rooted to the floor, staring into the flame, trapped in the memories of that day on patrol when everything broke.

“Baz, why’s four hundred bucks in fees missing from the system?”

Cillian frowned at Baz across the desk; it was late, he was tired, he was at the end of his patience, and bookkeeping was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Dude, I don’t know.” 

“Well, there’s at least twelve people who didn’t pay by the fifth, and today’s the twenty-fifth.” Cillian brought his fingers up to his temples. “We’re getting ready to bill again for next month. Didn’t you mark off who paid and who didn’t in the computer?”

Baz slowly shook his head. “I just collected the money. Nobody around here does cards or automatic transfer or whatever. Everybody uses cash or checks.”

Cillian rolled his eyes. “Who the fuck uses checks anymore? Who takes checks anymore?”

“Uh…we do, dude.”

“Gotta find a better way to do this,” Cillian muttered, more to himself than to Baz as he looked through the pile of documents on his desk. He sighed and chewed at his toothpick as he frowned absently at the Army paperweight on his desk, his eyes lighting across Army Strong scrawled on the base of the weight.

“So what do you want me to do?”

Cillian opened his mouth to reply when the sudden sound of shouting erupted from the gym. His head snapped toward the door.

Shit. Fight.

He was used to fights breaking out despite the sign on the door and the warning in the contracts; with all that testosterone flying around, and guys thinking they were bigger, badder, and tougher than the next, it happened. It reminded him of boot camp, training schools, and deployments—all that male ego in the air would eventually come to a head and explode. Cillian had his share of brawls in those environments. Nowadays, he was almost always the one to break them up, and it was always a pain in the ass. But rules were rules, and it was up to him to keep order in the facility and maintain an atmosphere of peace and calm.

“Figure it out.” Cillian pushed away from the desk. “And I expect you to come up with a better tracking system. You can’t just take cash, man, it doesn’t work like that.” Another shout echoed in the gym.

“Better go handle that.” Basanta stacked some papers together.

“Yeah, yeah, I am. And you better handle that.” Cillian stabbed his toothpick in Baz’s direction before shoving it back between his teeth, using his tongue to shuffle it around to the other side of his mouth as he headed out of the office into the gym.

The blowing fans and the recently fixed air conditioning immediately raised goosebumps on his bare arms. He only wore a black Army T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and baggy gray sweats, the laces of his shoes loosely tied as he strode out toward the small cluster of bodies near the punching bags. It didn’t look like anyone was throwing any punches, at least not yet; he didn’t want to get involved unless physical violence actually occurred. When it came to words, they were all grown men and could handle their own hurt feelings. If they wanted to take it out on each other in the ring, that was fine by him. But he had a zero-tolerance attitude when it came to violence outside the ring. He hated bullies.

The group of guys had their backs to him, so he leaned inconspicuously against a corner post of the ring, flipping his baseball cap around so it sat loosely on his head with the brim pointing to the back.  He folded his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his biceps as he cocked his head, trying to listen to what they were saying. From what he could tell, it was Mickey, Charlie, and Isaac. He couldn’t remember their last names but each of them had sparred with him a few times.

“You always walk around here like you got a little fuckin’ attitude. You think you’re better than us, or somethin’?”

“Yeah, Charlie,” Mickey laughed. “Don’t be mad ‘cause all his body mass is in his dick and it’s bigger than yours.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” Charlie shot back, before turning back to the object of his wrath, who was concealed from Cillian’s view by Charlie’s huge form. “Listen, you little fuck, I don’t like the way you act like you’re too good to speak to anyone.” His hand flew out in a push, and Cillian straightened up when he heard a little answering grunt.

Carnevale.

“He’s definitely too good to talk to you now, Charlie,” Mickey said, chortling as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

Cillian took one step toward the group. “Knock this shit off.”

Every head swiveled toward him. “Killy,” Isaac said. “Look, man—”

“I don’t wanna hear shit. Leave the damn kid alone. Back the fuck up,” Cillian snapped.

Suddenly, Isaac stumbled back, as if he’d been shoved. “Bad idea, you little shit.”

Isaac yanked on Carnevale’s T-shirt to haul him in, and the kid instinctively jerked in the opposite direction. Cillian lunged forward, but not before he heard the sound of material being ripped and came to an abrupt stop. Everyone, including the kid, froze. For a moment, he stared, unsure exactly what to make of what he was seeing.

Under the tatters of the torn T-shirt, Cillian saw a flash of smooth, soft-looking skin, the abdomen flat and gently muscled, like a woman’s torso. The waist narrowed above low-slung sweatpants before curving out into hips whose shape was uniquely, utterly feminine. His eyes rose higher, seeing layers of tightly wrapped duct tape over a black sports bra.

Charlie reached out and slapped the underside of the brim of the kid’s hat, pushing it off. The hat fell to the floor as a long, dark brown ponytail fell past the kid’s shoulders. Cillian’s mouth fell open.

Not a scrawny boy. A girl—a woman.

“It’s a broad.” Charlie sounded shocked. “A fuckin’ chick. What the fuck?”

Her shocked brown eyes met Cillian’s for an instant before she tried to whirl around to flee. Isaac’s hand shot out to grip her upper arm, and then he shoved her against the wall, holding her there, and Mickey pressed in on her other side. Her eyes flashed between them like a frightened, caged animal and she jerked uselessly in his iron grip.

Ronan. Snap out of it.

“Now, now,” Mickey hissed at her. “That’s not very fuckin’ nice-a you. Shovin’ Ike like that? I don’t think so. Damn, you do look wicked good, though.”

“Shit,
now
.” Charlie laughed. “She’s been a boy this whole time, might be a dyke.”

He grunted suddenly as Cillian shoved him out of the way, and slammed a hand heavily down on Isaac’s shoulder.

“Let her go.” He grit his teeth so hard, an ache went through his jaw.

“Killy, man, it’s a fuckin’ chick sneakin’ around here,” Mickey said, as if that totally justified his actions.

Cillian tightened his grip on Isaac. “You have one second to let her go before I dislocate your shoulder.”

Isaac released his hold on the girl and she stumbled back, her eyes still wide with fear.

“Get your shit and leave.” Cillian shoved Isaac away and then yanked Mickey away from her by the front of his shirt.

“Aw, come on, man. We weren’t gonna do nothin’ to her—”

“Bullshit. Get the fuck outta my gym. I see you here again, I will personally fuck you up.”

Mickey glared at him. “You gonna kick us out over a
broad
? You know about this or somethin’?”

Cillian took two steps until he was nose to nose with Mickey. The other man cowed slightly and winced, feeling the anger and violence radiating off Cillian.

“I gotta tell you to leave again, it’s gonna be a real bad night for everybody.” His eyes bored into Mickey’s. “Now, get the
fuck
outta my damn gym.”

He stood still in case they wanted to call him on his bluff, but Charlie shook his head. “Let’s get outta here, guys.”

They gathered up their duffel bags, grumbling to each other, and walked out, casting looks at Cillian and the girl over their shoulders.

When they were gone, Cillian let his hackles down and glanced at her. She’d sunk to the floor, staring after them, her brown eyes still huge with fear and shock, her body shaking. He took a hesitant step in her direction.

“Uh…miss, you okay?” She continued to stare past him as though he hadn’t said anything. “Miss?”

Finally, her glassy eyes shifted to him, and for the first time, he took in the features of her face. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, her face unlined and soft. Her pale olive skin was smooth, creamy, with high, rounded cheekbones, a delicate, slightly upturned nose, and a pretty mouth, pouty with pillow-like pink lips. Dark, silky brows arched away from her large brown doe-eyes, eyes that chilled him with the depth of haunted pain they held.