Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (18 page)

Sammi rushed through the lobby of the hotel, dragging her luggage as she went outside to wait for the car service Joe had ordered for her. Her eyes veiled with thick tears, and during her wild run back to the hotel, it started down-pouring and still hadn't let up. Her hair plastered to her skull, hanging in limp, wet ropes down her back. Her gray terry jacket soddened to a dark gray, clinging miserably to her skin. She'd gotten a brief glimpse of herself in the mirror in her room to see her mascara running down her cheeks. Her emotional distress kept her from noticing the difference between shaking with nerves or with cold. People gave her a wide berth, staring at her like she was out of her mind.

I am crazy. I was crazy to think that this could have ever worked out.

She didn't know who to trust, what to think, or who to blame. She just wanted out.

Her cell phone vibrated for the millionth time, and it was, of course, Cillian. He'd been calling and texting nonstop for the past hour.

CILLIAN:
I can't leave, they won't let me leave. Sammi, I'm fucking scared to death. Where are you? Call me back, please. Baby, I'm so sorry about this. I need to know you're ok.

I'm sorry, Cillian. I don't know what to say to you right now because I'm not okay...

Her heart broke at the thought of him worried out of his mind about her. She wasn't sorry for running from the arena without a word to anyone—if she'd stayed, she would have completely broken down. But she hated the thought that she'd caused him to suffer.

All she'd been able to do was call Niq, sobbing, who'd had Vince call Joe, and she relayed what had happened.

“Daddy got you a car service, it's gonna take you all the way to the city.” Niq had been completely calm; she'd inherited their mother's cool head for catastrophes, while Sammi was always all emotion.

“B-but it's so exp-pensive,” Sammi stuttered through her tears.

“Don't worry about that. He's sending you to Uncle Rizzo's in Bensonhurst. We're meeting you up there, ASAP.”

“It's g-getting late.”

“Sammi, shut up.” Niq's voice was full of love and affection. “We're your family. We're here for you. Now, go pack your bags, and wait for the car.” She paused. “Have you talked to Cillian?”

“N-no. I d-don't know what to say to h-him.”

“You gotta say something, babe. He's probably worried sick.”

Now, Sammi looked down at her phone.
I need to tell him I'm leaving. And I need to tell him I'm sorry.

For a moment, she shut her eyes, wishing she was still with him in his dressing room. It wasn't his fault. He wouldn't let anything happen to her if it was within his control. It wasn't his fault.

She started to type out a message.

“Sammi?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of her name, and she felt a jolt of alarm—Carl was standing right next to her. Immediately, every muscle in her body tensed and her shoulders bobbed away from him, as if she was sparring in a ring.

Why is he so close?

“What?” she snapped.

He held up his hands. “Hey, I come in peace. I called your name but I guess you couldn't hear me over the rain. I was just checkin' to see if you were okay.”

“
You
want to know if I'm okay?”

“Look, I know shit got fucked up earlier today, but it was truly just an accident. I know Ronan got all bent outta shape about it—when he gets pissed off, there's no reasoning with him. But I would never leave you hanging like that—I know how important you are.” He tilted his head and smiled at her. “What are you doin' out here?”

“Waiting for a ride.”

“You're leaving?”

“Why the hell would I stick around?” Sammi swiped an angry hand across her cheek. “To be humiliated some more?”

“I'm sorry. Ronan know you're leavin'? Where you goin'?”

Sammi glanced away. “I haven't spoken to him yet. I'm going to the city—as everyone knows now, I'm testifying on Tuesday.”

“I'm sorry about what happened in there.” Carl reached out, placing a hand on her arm. “That's terrible. I hope the right people get in trouble for what they did.”

“The right people? You mean, you don't know? Aren't you supposed to be super connected to everyone?”

Carl frowned. “Hey, look. I might be a lot of things, and an asshole is definitely one of them, but I'd never air out someone's personal business like that. Besides, I never even knew that about you, anyway. How could I share it with someone? Did you talk to someone about it here? A reporter, maybe?”

“Hell, no.” Sammi shook her head. “The only person who knows about it is Cillian.”

Carl held her gaze for a long time, his face blank. “Well, we can count him out. Right? He'd never do that.” But it sounded like a question, and suddenly Carl couldn't look her in the eye.

The ball of dread in her stomach grew six sizes.
No. No.
She shook her head at the nasty idea that sprouted in her mind.
There is no way in hell Cillian would ever...

She wrapped her arms around herself.
He hates publicity. He has nothing to gain from saying anything about it.
Her arms started to prickle with lack of blood flow as she clutched herself tighter.
He wouldn't. He couldn't.

Her arms dropped, feeling like lead weights.
He doesn't hate talking to the press that much. He did interviews yesterday. And the media always loves a sob story...

“Stop.” She covered her face.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sammi shook her head, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

Outside, a black SUV pulled up, bearing the logo of the company her father had told her he'd used. The driver got out, holding up a white piece of paper that said “Carnevale” on it.

Sammi turned to heft her bag, and then her purse slid off her shoulder and some of the contents spilled, splashing into a wet puddle on the sidewalk.
Just great.
“Shit.”

“Let me help.” Carl helped her gather up her things, and pulled the heavy duffel onto his shoulder and picked up her tote. “Come on.”

Sammi decided not to argue and went outside. “I'm Carnevale,” she told the driver, and he nodded, opening the door for her. Carl loaded her bags in and leaned against the door.

“I'll tell him I ran into you, but you better call him later. He's got a lot on his plate right now. He wanted to drop out of the tournament.”

Sammi's heart leapt into her mouth, her insides shriveling. “No. You can't let him.”

“I know. I want to see him succeed. They wanted to kick him out for what happened, but I talked 'em down. He can stay.”

Sammi felt a small wave of relief, but narrowed her eyes at him.
Like you actually give half a shit about him.

Carl reached out and touched her hand. “I better get back. You take care, Sammi-girl.” His smile made her queasy guts flip over like a pancake. “Let me know if I can personally do anything for you.”

Sammi pulled her hand back. “Thanks.”

It wasn't until she was on the interstate and heading to her family that she felt calmer. She was ready to talk to Cillian now, though the thought of the driver listening to her conversation made her uneasy. Text. She could text him.

Her hand slipped into her back pocket—nothing.
What?
She checked the pocket again, then pawed through her purse. No phone. She dug into her tote, then her duffel.

“Dammit,” she hissed, drawing the attention of the driver. She chewed her lip—she must have dropped it when she spilled her purse, but Carl had given everything back.

Did he?

More confused than ever, Sammi tilted her head against the window, staring at droplets of water sluicing down the glass.

She had no idea what was going to happen, but the hard ball of dread in her gut told her that nothing was ever going to be the same.

Cillian returned to his hotel room after another grueling two hours of waiting.

Murphy and Baz had ushered him out of the Armory, shielding him from the press who screamed his name to get a quote about what had happened immediately following his fight. They wanted to know about Sammi, where she was and if she was okay.

If only I knew that...

Now, he paced his hotel room, staring at his phone. Miraculously, it was still intact, but the screen was shattered. He needed a new one, but that was the least of his concern.

He'd been calling her practically nonstop, but it rang and rang until the voicemail picked up. Eventually, it started going straight to voicemail. That either meant her battery died, or she was ignoring his calls as soon as they went through.

Please don't let her hate me.

He opened another text message, raking a hand through his hair as he tried to figure out a new way to beg her to call him.

“Killy.” Murphy's hand dropped onto his shoulder. “You gotta relax, son. You still have to be on tomorrow.”

“Fuck the tournament!” Cillian exclaimed. “Do you think I give a shit about that when my girl's missing?”

“Give her some time, son. You have no idea what she's going through right now.”

Cillian threw his phone onto the sofa, then himself, leaning forward to clasp his head between his hands.

There was a knock on the hotel room door. Murphy peered through the peephole. “It's Baz.”

Cillian looked up as Baz entered the room. “What's going on?”

“I just got off the phone with Carl.”

“What'd he want?” His hackles rose at the mention of Carl's name.

“He said to tell you that he saw Sammi at the hotel earlier. She had her bags.”

“
He
saw Sammi? Why the fuck would he go there and see Sammi?” Cillian got to his feet, fists clenched.

Basanta held up his hands. “I'm just telling you what he said, bro. He didn't explain shit to me. He just said that he saw her, she was leaving, and he said that she—” Baz faltered.

“She what? She
what
, man?”

He sighed sadly. “He said Sammi doesn't want to see you anymore. That you need to stop calling her. She said she doesn't want you at the trial.”

Cillian felt the blood drain from his face. He shook his head rapidly. “No. I don't buy it.”

Baz took a step toward him, his voice gentler than Cillian had ever heard it. “Kills, it's possible she's just overwhelmed right now. She's upset. Give her some time.”

“I promised her I'd be there for her at the trial.” A huge lump formed in his throat, but he kept his voice steady and steely.

“I know, dude. But—you have to respect her wishes on this. Right? This is her thing...her important thing. You can't do what she doesn't want you to do.”

“Never thought I'd say this,” Murphy interjected quietly, “but Baz has a point.”

“I
don't
believe she would say that.”

“Son, she probably didn't believe she would ever have her personal business shared with the entire world.” He squeezed Cillian's shoulder.

He dropped back onto the sofa. “Fuck.”

Basanta sighed and sat down next to him. “It's really late. You can't get a hold of her—and now you know, she's not ready to talk to you. So, you gotta concentrate on you, now. You've gotta focus on what you came here to do. Right?”

Cillian stared at the floor.

Basanta slung an around him. “C'mon, man. You gotta get some sleep. We have an early day tomorrow, and you've got three fights ahead of you.”

Three fights means I make it to the end.
“Oh, you think so?”

“I know so.” Basanta patted his shoulder. “C'mon. Sleep. I'm the trainer, you have to listen to me.”

Cillian was too tired and emotionally drained to argue, so he laid down on the sofa pullout bed. Basanta left, promising to be back promptly the next morning at nine, and Murphy bid him a quiet goodnight before shuffling into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Cillian pillowed his head on his arm, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.
I'm not gonna be able to sleep. I'm not gonna be able to sleep well again until she's next to me.

The pain boiled up in his chest, in his heart, threatening to unleash through his eyes. He fought the tears back as he picked up his cell phone.

One more message. Please, Sam—answer me.

CILLIAN:
I want to give you your space, if that's what you need. I'm here for you, Sam, I want to be here for you always. I understand if you don't want me at the trial anymore. It's totally up to you. I just need you to know that I'll always be there for you, because you're safe with me. I promise. I love you.