Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (19 page)

Cillian lay on the floor with his legs straight up against the wall in his dressing room at the Armory the next morning. It was his favorite way to stretch, to relax, to focus on what was coming. It helped him calm his thoughts and get into the mindset he needed to be in to be successful.

Problem is, none of that is happening. There is no peace.

Sammi's departure and now her silence fucked him up, and had it not been for his family and Matthews, he would have thrown in the towel and gone home. Much like he'd told Carl, Cillian had one job, and that was to make sure Sammi was taken care of. He'd failed. Regardless of how it had happened...he'd failed.

Carl...

Molten anger roiled his blood, making it rush loudly in his ears as he thought of the man. He'd been so focused on Sammi that he'd pushed aside his unpleasant chat with Carl on the phone. And hearing that piece of shit had actually gone after her, and that she'd used him to send her message...

You better pull your head outta your ass and do what you need to do out there today. Because you no longer have a job to go home to...or your girl.

No job to go home to, no family business to go home to. That hurt him to the marrow—that a business his father had built with his own two hands was going to be destroyed, because Cillian had failed.

Murphy had said nothing about the loss of his gym in favor of a nightclub. But because of the way Cillian was feeling, his father had to be sick at the thought of it, too.

There was a knock on the door. With a sigh, he rolled to his feet and opened the door. Murphy stood before him, and behind him was Ryan Callahan and John Shiloh, the ESPN commentators who had outed Sammi.

More molten-lava anger boiled his blood as he glared at them.

John spoke first. “We're here to apologize. I just wanted to let you know that I was
given
that information about your girlfriend. We meant no harm.”

“That's fuckin' hilarious,” Cillian said icily.

“Honestly,” Ryan chimed in. “Marty Brown was supposed to give us the scoop on your story from Afghanistan—he was prepaid by the network for that interview. When he didn't get that, he got something else.”

Cillian stared at him levelly. “And fuck whoever he hurt in the process, right?”

Ryan sighed and shook his head. “No, of course not. Look, is she around? We'll make an apology to her.”

“She's gone now.” Cillian realized he was practically snarling. “So save your bullshit.”

“Listen, we were just passing on the information,” John said in a way that made Cillian want to break his neck. “People saw you two together, people saw you come get her from the crowd outside, people are curious. And everyone knows about the Roger Eich case. No one knew she was one of his victims, though.”

“Yeah. This little thing called protecting a victim's identity. Way to fuck that up.”

“Look, we came down to talk to you and apologize,” John said. “To let you know we meant no malice, we just shared the information we were given. Period.”

“Let's be real, fellas. You're facing a potential lawsuit and the network told you to come here and talk to me. Right? The person you really need to talk to isn't here, and I hope she sues the fucking brakes off your asses. Now, get the hell out of my face, and if you ever get in my personal life ever again, I
will
fuck you up. When there won't be anyone to hold me back. You copy?”

John blinked at him, his face impassive. “You need to check that temper, Ronan. It's gonna get you in deep shit one day.”

“Wanna make it today?” Cillian clenched his fists at his sides.

“Son.” Murphy had been silent the entire time, but now, he placed a warning hand on Cillian's chest. “Watch it. Don't you do anything stupid.”

“Get out of here,” Cillian said again, his voice quietly dangerous. He pressed against his father's hand, firm on his chest, as he leaned toward Ryan and John. “And that's the last time I'm asking nicely.”

The commentators both swallowed, nodded, turned and left.

“Cillian, you gotta stop threatening people.” Murphy shook his head.

“I don't give a shit,” Cillian countered, annoyed. “They're fucking with my life. And as far as Marty goes...”

“Gone. I looked. I even asked some of the fighters if they'd seen him and none of them have. I'm sure he's aware he broke the law. I just don't understand how he could've even gotten that information about her.”

Cillian shrugged angrily. “He's a reporter. He's got contacts. I'm sure a few bills here and there to someone at the courthouse could get him whatever information he needed. Or he ran her name through some kind of database.” He shook his head. “It was never about her anyway. He just did it to fuck with me. He was pissed off I didn't have time to do his interview and fucked up his money. But Carl is the responsible one—he set me up. Set her up.”

Lowlife piece of shit. That's who I should really get my hands on.

“Sorry about Sammi, son. I know how much you wanted her here.”

Cillian's guts twisted. “It's better this way. She shouldn't have had to go through any of this shit.” He cleared his throat. “Pop, I gotta get back to it.”

Murphy clapped him on the back lightly, understanding and sympathy on his face. “Sure, son.”

Cillian returned to the bathroom, lying on his back and stretching his legs up, heels against the wall. It was better that she'd left, he thought. This was no place for her, not with everything going on.

But that understanding did nothing to heal the rapidly growing fissure in his heart.

Despite the “apology” Ryan and John issued Cillian, they were now on a mission to ridicule him and his performance as much as possible. They were seated right next to the cage, they had microphones, and they apparently thought he was deaf.

He was struggling against his first opponent of the day, one of the amateurs that had progressed from the first bout. The first few rounds made it clear the kid was wily, strong, and fast. His strikes felt like sledgehammers, his kicks felt like his feet went right through Cillian. He'd just taken a low roundhouse to the thigh, and his bone hummed deep beneath layers of skin and muscle.

Suffice it to say, Cillian had underestimated him, based on the film of the fighter he'd studied. Either that, or this kid had made huge leaps and bounds in his training since then.

Regardless, he was putting up one hell of a fight and now in the fifth round, Cillian was growing increasingly pissed off.

“Ronan certainly seems to be struggling today, huh, John?”

Cillian looked over his shoulder for a split second, seeing Bryan watching with a condescending smirk on his face. It took every ounce of self-control Cillian had not to jump over the edge of the cage and strangle him.

“Maybe it had something to do with the departure of his girlfriend yesterday evening,” John said.

“I did notice she is not in attendance today. Some fighters just can't handle having their significant others here with them at things like this.”

Are you fucking shitting me?

The sudden surge of fury proved to be just what he needed to put his opponent down. He blocked a flurry of strikes, shoved the kid back, and leapt out of the way of a sweep kick, before feinting to the left and bringing his knee to the kid's face. When his opponent stumbled back, Cillian jumped onto his back and put him in a chokehold until finally, blessedly, he tapped out.

“Finally!” John called sarcastically. “That's fifteen minutes of my life I'll never get back.”

“You know, you come to expect a certain standard of performance from a national hero,” Ryan agreed. “Especially when he's a soldier who teaches combative techniques to other soldiers. And when he falls short, well...it's just sad.”

Cillian whirled around and glared down at them, his chest heaving. They both looked back up at him, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. After a long moment, Cillian stalked out of the ring, out of the arena, and back to his dressing room until it was time for his next bout.

He didn't have to wait long; his next card was called sooner than he anticipated. He was facing off with Richie Marsden, one of the most challenging fighters there. If he beat Richie, he would move on to fight against Clay “The Punisher” Cavasso in the final round. These two were the ones he had been most concerned about.

Easy plan: knock Richie out ASAP.

He was faster than Cillian, though Cillian knew he was stronger, and he seemed to have tireless energy, where Cillian was weary, though whether it was mental exhaustion or physical was hard to tell.

The first three rounds between them were brutal; they both shed blood, they both got lumped up, and both were trying to go for the knockout strike that would end this dance and allow one of them to progress to the final round.

I ain't gettin' knocked out. Those fuckholes behind me would love that too much.

Finally, in the fourth round, when Cillian's back was pressed against the mesh wiring of the cage wall, he tucked his chin and ducked a lightning fast left jab from Richie, and as Richie's fist connected with the wiring, Cillian's shot up and out in a brutally forceful and knife-sharp uppercut. Richie's head snapped back, his eyes rolling, and blood and at least one tooth flew from his mouth as he stumbled backward and finally toppled over on his back.

“A knock-out,” Ryan said behind him. “Praise Jesus!”

“I hope this guy teaches quicker than he fights,” John said, bored. “Cillian Ronan advances to the championship round. Richie Marsden wins the fifty-thousand-dollar purse. Ronan's got the hundred-thousand-dollar prize secured now if he loses, and is one step closer to that one-million-dollar purse.”

Cillian slammed out of the cage, casting a glance at the two commentators who studiously avoided meeting his gaze, and wished they'd both get into the cage with him for even just one round.

In the end, it was Cillian against The Punisher.

Clay Cavasso was very quiet, keeping to himself and avoiding the reporters and the fans during press day and post-fights. He silently focused on Cillian the second they went eyes-on with each other.

This is gonna be a challenge.

There was no real animosity, no anger, no misdirected violence. They were there to do a job, to hopefully win, and to leave it at that. Nothing more, nothing less.

That made Clay his most challenging opponent yet.

Five five-minute rounds, with a minute break between each. Thirty minutes until he found out which direction his life would take, unless he could get in a knock-out early on.

Shit. That ain't happening. This kid is a beast.

The bell was rung, and Cillian and Clay went to war.

After the first couple of brutal, seemingly never-ending rounds, Clay was the last one standing with him for a reason. After ten minutes, Cillian was already tired, and he could tell Clay was flagging, too. They were equally matched in strength, speed, and skill.

Ain't about skill now. This is gonna come down to luck.

Cillian heard the roar of the crowd, heard the voices of the commentators, but he couldn't focus on those things, was unable to focus on anything but the man in front of him. However, as the third round commenced, he became aware of a figure at the base of the ring next to Basanta, hands clutching through the mesh wire of the cage.
Matthews
. He was right there, encouraging Cillian with wordless shouts.

Clay was like his mirror; they punched the same way, they predicted each other's moves accurately. It was turning into an exhaustive stalemate as they struggled to land strikes and kicks, and block others.

Cillian felt the air whoosh out of his lungs when Clay caught him with a surprising body shot to the lung the instant before the bell rang, signaling the end of the third round.
That's why they call him The Punisher.

He tried not to double over, gripping his side as he stumbled backward.
Just two left. Pull it together, Ronan.
His back hit the cage wall, and Matthews grabbed and shook his ankle.