Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (6 page)

She’d be beautiful…but those eyes…

He slowly crouched down in front of her as her gaze began to sharpen. She blinked rapidly, long, thick, dark eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks like the beating of butterfly wings.

“Miss?” he tried again in the same quiet tone. He extended a hand toward her.

Her eyes flicked down to his hand and immediately widened. She sucked in a breath and recoiled from him violently.

“Don’t touch me,” she said hoarsely, and Cillian quickly backed up, lifting his hands in the air.

“Okay. Sorry. It’s all right.”

He backed up several more paces and kept his hands in the air as she scrambled to her feet, clutching her tattered T-shirt to her body as she fumbled to zip up her sweatshirt. She turned to grab her hat from the floor, and he caught a flash of her eyes filling with tears as she bit her lip, her face crumpling. Her expression wrenched his heart and made him feel like shit.

It was common knowledge that women didn’t come here, but only because they never had. Cillian hoped that everyone would come to the gym, men and women alike, and learn something about health and fitness. He wanted women to learn how to defend themselves effectively and had even discussed with Carl the possibility of hosting a women’s self-defense course.

Now, the only woman that had ever come to the gym had not only felt it necessary to disguise herself for months, but had ended up getting assaulted, anyway.

You’re an asshole. She’s never gonna want to come back, and who the hell could blame her?

The girl moved past him in a flash, even as he turned after her. “Hey. I’m really sorry about those jerk-offs. Let me help you out—can I call someone for you?”

“You can leave me alone.” She shoved through the doors and was gone. Cillian blinked in surprise and stared after her. He had no idea how long he stood there like that until he heard footsteps behind him.

“What the hell was that?” Basanta asked. “
Who
the hell was that?”

“That was that little kid, Carnevale. Except he’s really a she, and she just got assaulted on our property by Mickey, Isaac, and Charlie.”

“What? Where are they now?”

“Kicked ‘em the fuck out.”

“What about her?” Baz jerked his chin in the direction that the woman had gone. “She gonna call the cops or something?”

“Maybe. Can’t blame her if she does.” Cillian stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I feel like shit, man. This type-a shit don’t happen here, not on my watch.”

“Think her name’s really Sam Carnevale?”

“Shit, who knows? If she felt the need to dress up like a dude, she probably would’ve used a fake name.”

“Carnevale,” Baz repeated aloud, muttering it again to himself. “Carnevale.”

“What?”

“Nah, it just sounds familiar for some reason.” Baz rubbed his chin. Then he snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Caffé Carnevale, in the North End. Hull Street. Italian family place, it’s like a coffee shop and a bakery. My ex-girlfriend took me there once.”

“Think it’s her place?”

“Maybe her family’s or somethin’. Not that I know how many Carnevales are in Boston.”

Cillian folded his arms and frowned, looking outside.
You should’ve done something. You should’ve done more.
He doubted he’d ever get the chance to apologize, because she was probably never coming back.

Sammi hurried into her apartment, sucking deep, noisy breaths. She was still shaking violently, and all she could think of was the feeling of hands on her body, yanking, trying to hurt her. There were already bruises forming on her upper arm where she’d been grabbed. She’d already taken a dose of her medication, but it hadn’t kicked in yet, and she needed to calm down now, or she was going to pass out.

You know what to do…

Even as that knowledge filled her mind, her eyes burned with angry tears. The one thing she needed to simply deal with being alive sometimes was the thing she despised most about herself.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this…

She hurtled down the short hallway to her bedroom, ignoring Rocky’s startled gaze from where he was perched on the edge of the couch, and stumbled into the bathroom. Her hand fumbled clumsily in a counter drawer until she found what she was looking for.

A triple-bladed razor.

She dropped onto the seat of her toilet, yanking her pants down, trying to find any patch of bare skin. Her hands trembled as she positioned the razor over the inside of her ankle. Old scabs there were almost healed, and there were plenty of scars, marking all of her old pain.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sammi dragged the blade across her skin, waiting for the sweet sting of pain. Her body always tensed in preparation for it, but she needed it, needed that sharp burst of pain to feel calm, settled. After she felt it, she stared at the wound, waiting for the blood to bead up along the cut like tiny rubies. 

The beads multiplied until a single droplet formed and slid down her ankle, and she mopped it up with a tissue, pressing against the wound. She felt calmer now.

Calm, and ashamed.

Sliding to the floor, she lay there, motionless, letting the sting of the wound roaring in her skin soothe her.

“What’s up?”

Jazz looked up from the counter where she was whipping up a batch of chocolate chip cannoli filling as Sammi walked into the kitchen during the afternoon lull.

“We need more whipped cream.” She headed back to the refrigerator to pull out cartons of whipping cream and half-and-half.

“Okay. Oh, the new syrup bottles haven’t been unpacked yet.”

She’d gone into the kitchen with the intention of striking up some conversation about anything. But the moodiness that persisted since the night at the gym last week kept her quiet. Jazz peered at her over the top of her glasses as Sammi located the box under the sink and pulled out two bottles.

“How you doin’?

Sammi shrugged, placing the flavored syrups on the counter next to the cream. “Fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Jazz poured a bag of chocolate chips into the stand mixer. “Sure, you are. I know my little Samuel, and she’s not this quiet and…grumpy. Still upset about last week?”

“Over it.” Sammi pulled open a cupboard door and retrieved a glass mixing bowl and measuring cups.

“You think?”

“Yes. Look, you were right all along. I’m done with that place. End of story.”

“If you’re sure.” Jazz tilted her head. “Are you?”

Sammi turned away from the heat of her friend’s stare to grab the metal canisters that would hold the whipped cream. “Yep.”

Jazz nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, at least you tried. That was pretty damn brave of you.” She went back to her dough, and Sammi appreciated her leaving it alone.

She whisked cream and half-and-half with more force than necessary, unable to control the surge of fury that accompanied memories of the situation. The anger had less to do with the actual assault, and more to do with how scared she’d been, how out of control of her reactions she was. Thinking of it in hindsight made her sick with rage—at the three guys, and at herself.

And she couldn’t stop thinking about the way that Cillian had tried to help her, kicking the assholes out and asking her if she needed help. He’d looked so worried about her, his brow creased up with concern, a frown on his face as he crouched down next to her. She might have appreciated it, but then he’d reached out for her, and she responded like a cornered animal—biting off his head and running away.

Bravery, my ass. I’m a coward.

The bell over the door jingled just as Sammi started to pour the cream and syrup mixture into the metal canisters. “I got it, gimme a second.”

Jazz quickly wiped her hands on her apron. “I got it.”

She hurried to the front of the cafe, and Sammi could hear her talking to someone as she carefully finished pouring the mixture with a minimum of spillage and screwed on the cap. She flipped the canister upside down and leaned one hand on the counter, shaking it vigorously as she stared off into space.

Jazz came back to the kitchen, biting at her lower lip, looking as though she wanted to smile.

“What?” Sammi cocked an eyebrow.

Jazz cleared her throat and went back to mixing her cannoli filling. “Just a customer out there. Wants a drink or something. You’re up.”

“Okay.” Sammi picked up both canisters of whipped cream and headed out into the café, slipping behind the counter and leaning over to put the canisters in the fridge. “Hey, there. What’ll you have?”

“Latte, please.”

The deep male voice was low and rich and a little bit gravelly and its familiarity suddenly clutched at her. Slowly, she straightened up, and found herself looking into a pair of earnest pewter-colored eyes.

Cillian Ronan was sitting at her counter.

Cillian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in Little Italy. It was one of those neighborhoods he knew existed, but rarely had a reason to venture to. Actually, never had a reason to venture to was more like it. Restaurants and shops boasted signs in Italian, pizza shops offered hot slices in glowing neon red signs, and fresh flowers stood in tubs outside floral shops. Historic buildings with curved façades had been renovated into condos. The colors of green, white, and red manifested themselves in flags billowing proudly on the sides of buildings, in signs, and on awnings.

He couldn’t help appreciating the overall ambiance of the friendly neighborhood, arguably one of the nicest and safest in Boston. He trudged down the street until he saw the inconspicuous storefront of Caffé Carnevale. He pushed through the door, the little bell over his head jingling gently.

The first thing he noticed was that the café was totally empty. The second thing he noticed was that it was filled with a sweet, delicate scent that hinted at delicious pastries, mingling with the rich, heavier scent of roasted espresso. He couldn’t help taking a deep breath.

The café was small but cozy, with wooden tables and chairs around the room on one side, and an exquisite long mahogany bar with stools on the other. Behind the bar was a long counter with espresso machines and a wide variety of syrups and flavors for coffee beverages, canisters of coffee and espresso beans, blenders, a variety of teas, and rows of white cups and saucers and mugs.

He glanced at the wall next to the bar, which was covered with several framed pictures—a middle-aged, smiling couple, a grinning African-American girl with funky red glasses, and one of the exact person he’d come to see.

Sammi Carnevale. General Manager.

She was the same person he’d seen at the gym, but in this photo, she looked totally different—her face was open and light, and there was no fear in her warm brown eyes. The wide smile on her face was genuine and sweet, and a dimple dug into to each cheek.

Damn. She’s beautiful. 

A young woman came out from what he presumed to be the kitchen and stepped behind the bar. She had deep bronzed skin and short hair. Her glasses were purple. Cillian glanced up at the photos again and confirmed that this was Jazz Jackson, “Pastry Artist Extraordinaire”.