Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (17 page)

“Yes! This is a blast!” She grinned widely, her head swimming a little from her third pint of arena beer.

He nodded. “Good. Listen, just came to let you guys know, he's up next. So get ready!” He held up a hand and Sammi high-fived him before he jogged off.

The press box where the two commentators set up shop was in front of them, off to the side so they didn't block the view of the cage. They'd waved to the Ronan family once, before immersing themselves in the fights. She could hear everything they were saying, which was distracting and threatened to ruin the overall experience.

“Hopefully they won't talk too much during Cillian's fights,” Melody said, gesturing toward the press box. She was on her fourth beer, and Matthews was double-fisting by now.

“Doin' okay?” he called down the row to Sammi. She nodded back enthusiastically, giving him a thumbs-up. Matthews grinned and toasted her with a beer.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed again and some heavy metal song started playing as the announcer called up the next fighters. Sammi listened hard; she couldn't make out his name, but she could see a solid young man arrogantly dancing down the aisles. He had a mohawk and his entire torso, including both arms, was covered in tattoos. He seemed incredibly amped up as he slapped hands with fans on his trek toward the cage.

The lights dimmed a little again and this time. The opening notes of “Bulls on Parade” by Rage Against the Machine boomed through the arena, and her stomach clenched in excitement.

“Our next fighter hails from Boston, Massachusetts. He stands six-feet, one-inch tall, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds. Representing the United States Army and making his debut to the MMA world, fighting out of the blue corner—Cillian 'One Shot One Kill' Ronan!”

She stood up on her seat to see him as he walked down the aisle beneath the spotlights. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled low over his head and obscuring his eyes as he made his way to the cage. Fans, male and female, screamed, and signs bearing his name, some with hearts, rose into the air.

He's already famous.

Her heart swelled as she watched him. His hands were jammed into the sweatshirt's pockets, and his shoulders seemed bigger than normal as he strode toward the ring. He was so utterly masculine, and once again, it tapped the primal, all-female part of her that identified him as “mate”.

Cillian acknowledged none of the attention, solely focused on getting into the cage. He was close enough to see clearly now, perhaps twenty feet away from their seats, and Sammi bit her lip as he quickly stripped off his sweatshirt and handed it to Basanta, right behind him. Sammi held her breath as he entered the cage, and allowed herself a moment to admire his smooth skin, gleaming beneath the bright lights, highlighting the high points of his taut muscles. Basanta handed him his mouth guard, and he shoved it in, shaking out his arms as he focused intently on his opponent.

When the bell rang, he held back, waiting to see what Mohawk would do. The young man flew at him with a series of lightning fast kicks and punches, but Cillian deflected and side-stepped his blows, not concerned, not worried, just focused. He was studying Mohawk, getting a feel for his style.

Mohawk launched another kick, toward Cillian's head. Cillian lashed out with an arm, winding it around the man's leg and pulling it in tight to his side. He blocked a flailing, startled punch from Mohawk before sending his fist directly into the middle of the man's face. Mohawk's head flew back and he crumpled to the mat, sliding out of Cillian's grasp. His eyes were open, but it was clear he was seeing nothing at all.

The fight was already over by the time Mohawk slowly sat up, looking dazed.

Sammi was astonished, and elation burned through every cell in her body. Her mouth was open to scream before she knew it.

“That's how it's done! One shot, one kill!” Matthews shouted, pumping his fists in the air.

Melody jumped up and down, cheering at the top of her lungs and hugging Sammi tightly. “
Go, Killy!
”

Cillian heard them and glanced over his shoulder, flashing a brief, bright smile. He started to cross the cage toward them.

The ESPN commentators glanced over their shoulders at the Ronan family. They'd done that several times so far. But this time, they were looking directly at Sammi.

“Seated behind us, Ryan, is the family of Cillian Ronan, better known as Boston's hometown hero,” one of them said. “He's never fought publicly before, but he's already got a huge following, thanks to his heroic efforts in Afghanistan last year, where he saved the lives of several Army soldiers.”

“That's right, John. Ronan's got a huge fan-base here to support him already, lots of patriotic folks here. He's got a good team with him, too, with Jonathan Basanta as his trainer, who's been no stranger to the MMA cages over the past few years. Cillian's father, Murphy, formerly a champion boxer himself during the seventies, is his cornerman this weekend. We see his sister, Melody, in the audience, along with his buddy, Joshua Matthews—another former MMA fighter, and one of the soldiers Cillian rescued.”

“Quite a group there, Ryan. We also see another one of Cillian's guests, that young lady next to his sister who, up until now, has been a bit of a mystery.”

Sammi's head snapped up, and even Cillian paused near the door of the cage, fixing the two unaware commentators with a piercing stare.

“Ryan, we've been informed that the young woman is Cillian Ronan's girlfriend, Samantha Carnevale. We just received word that she's in New York not only to attend the tournament this weekend, but also to testify in the city at the trial of Roger Eich, who, as we all know, faces charges for multiple rapes in the Tri-State area. His trial is nearing its end, and Ms. Carnevale's firsthand witness testimony as one of his alleged victims could be the final nail in the proverbial coffin for him, putting him away for life. We wish her the very, very best and applaud her bravery.”

A strange, lightheaded sensation settled over Sammi like fog. Suddenly, the arena was as silent as the outdoors during falling snow; everything had an odd muted quality. For a moment, she couldn't move. Then her heart jerked a shaky, staccato rhythm in her chest and her knees buckled.

Do not faint. Do not. Not when every single person in this fucking arena is staring at you.

Her eyes swept over the horrified expressions on Matthews' and Jess's faces, to Murphy shaking his head at the floor, to Basanta staring at her in open-mouthed disbelief. Melody leaned toward her, her eyes huge, mouth moving. Sammi couldn't hear a word.

Then she looked at Cillian.

Even beneath the bright lights, his face looked pale. His eyes glittered darkly as they locked onto hers, his mouth drawn into a nothing line. His fists clenched tightly at his sides and all of his muscles seemed to swell.

Everything felt like slow motion.

Cillian burst out of the cage and rushed toward the press booth. Basanta leaped forward and caught his arm. Murphy rushed after him to help restrain his son, Matthews on his heels. Three grown men were almost not enough to hold Cillian back.

Sammi's eyes shifted around the arena, the only part of her body she could move. It was too much—the pointing, the whispering that intensified to one loud, buzzing noise in her ears. Everyone was whispering about her. Everyone knew her dark little secret.

She was no longer a person anymore—she was a rape victim. And everyone, everyone, knew it.

The half-full cup of beer fell from her hand as she whirled. She yanked out of Melody's grasp and ran, fast, swift, light, out of the arena, down the concrete corridors until she instinctively reached the back entrance of this nightmare circus.

She barreled through the doors and just kept running.

“I'm gonna fucking kill him.”

Cillian paced like a starving lion in his dressing room, his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides. The fact that he'd just won one and had secured his position in tomorrow's first set of fights was lost on him.

“Killy, dude—you gotta calm down.” Basanta patted the air, keeping a safe distance from Cillian on the other side of the dressing room.

“I can't.”

Cillian wore a path back to the other side of the room, checking his phone for the thousandth time. Sammi hadn't returned any of his calls, responded to any of his texts, and she wasn't answering the phone. The sick feeling that had made itself at home deep in his gut as soon as the commentators had started talking about Sammi intensified. He wanted to punch through the wall.

“She won't answer. What if something happened to her?”

“Right now, you just gotta stay calm, bro. Here.” Basanta tossed him a bottle of water. “You're lucky you didn't make contact with John or Ryan. You'd be in jail for assault. We don't even know if you can stay. Your pops is still talkin' to them.”

“If somethin' happens to her, I will be in jail.” Cillian threw the bottle onto a table. “I wanna know how that bastard found out about her. Rape victims are supposed to be protected by the law.”

“Dude, you don't know it was Carl.”

“Baz, do I look like a fuckin' idiot to you? Same day I can his ass, and then that shit about her comes out on national fucking television?”

“Maybe she can sue or something.” Basanta shook his head. “That's foul, man. I'm really sorry about it. Sorry for her. I had no idea.”

“You weren't supposed to,” Cillian muttered, grabbing for his cell phone again. His hands still shook.
She's gotta be so upset, so humiliated. Sammi, come on. Answer...

Her automated voicemail kicked on. “Fuck!” He refrained from throwing his phone across the room; it would do no good for him destroy his only method of contact with her for now.

Then, his phone rang and he answered immediately without checking the screen. “Sam?”

“Nah, bro. It's Carl.”

Every muscle in Cillian's body swelled with rage. “You fucking piece of shit!”

“What you should be sayin' to me right now, Killy, is 'thank you'.”

“For fucking
what
?”

“Because I told them not to eject you from the tournament. Because I told them you still deserve to be here.”

“You sold her out to the fuckin' press!”

“Hey, all I did was answer a few questions. They wanted to know who she was, so I told 'em. They dug up the rest. Don't know how, don't know from who, but nothin' is sacred, Killy. Not even the case file on a rape vic.”

“I will fucking destroy you,” Cillian said, his voice shaking. “You think you can take everything away from me, but you can't!”

Carl laughed. “What am I tryin' to take from you, Killy?”

“I know all about your fuckin' plans for the gym.” Cillian breath heaved and he saw the perplexed look Basanta threw him out of the corner of his eyes. “I know you're planning to get rid of my father's business. You've been fucking me over since day one, you piece of shit, but it ends now!”

“That's rich, bro. First of all—yes. I'm closing that shitty little hole. It's been a failing business since Murphy opened it thirty years ago, and it ain't gettin' any better, even under my management and the draw of a war hero like you. I'm gonna do everyone a favor and turn it into a moneymaker. Good Irish boys in Southie like you would rather drink than punch each other in a shitty gym. They can punch each other in a much nicer gym that I'll be opening by fall.”

“You can't do that.”

“No? Last I checked, I'm the majority owner. Ain't a civil court around that would be in your favor. Money talks, bullshit walks, haven't you heard that? Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna buy you out, Killy. For a bargain price, at that, and you'll accept it. Ronan's Gym is gonna be mine to do whatever I want with for dirt cheap, and there ain't fuck-all you can do about it.”

“Try me, bitch.”

Carl laughed. “You don't have a pot to piss in right now. So just try to relax, Killy, enjoy the rest of the tournament. And watch your fuckin' mouth when you talk to me, 'cause we both know I own your ass.”

He disconnected, and this time, Cillian did hurl his phone across the room.