Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (25 page)

“Yeah, I'm good. But thanks.” She tried to step around him, but Carl stepped in her path again. She stepped the other way, and so did he.

He smiled down at her. “What's the rush?”

“I don't want to miss my bus.” She tried to step around him again, and this time, he caught her around the waist and pushed her against the brick wall of the building. The physical contact made fear-laced adrenaline jet through her system, and her heart rate sped up.

“What're you doing?” She wanted her voice to sound indignant, threatening, but it came out in a high, raspy squeak. The squeak of a terrified mouse caught between the claws of a cat.

“Just wanna talk to you, is all.” He stepped very close to her. “Didn't you get a new phone yet? Why don't you give me your number, and we can hang out?”

“I'm only giving it to my family and friends.” Her hands came up instinctively to rest flat against his chest, trying to push him away. It was as effective as throwing a sheet of paper at a charging bull; he only seemed to like the fact that she was touching him now, too, and leaned in even closer.

“Ain't I a friend?”

Sammi frowned, drawing her head back, fighting the panic tearing at her throat. “Carl, I barely know you. Please, back up.”

He pressed closer until his body was flush against hers and she was pressed into the wall. “Let's change that.”

“Stop it!” She tried to push him again, but he grabbed her arm and pushed her back, a little more roughly.

“Is this about Ronan?” he asked in a low voice that terrified her.
I've heard that voice before...
“You still hung up on him, or what? Forget about him. You need a real man.”

“What happened between Cillian and me is none of your damn business. Now get out of my way!” This time, she didn't even get a chance to move, because he pushed her against the wall and held her there.

“I been nothin' but nice to you.” His face was a whisper's breath away from hers, and Sammi immediately felt every muscle in her body tighten.

I know that voice. I know those words...I've been nothing but nice to you...now you owe me something in return...and I'm going to take it...

Her breath began to come in pants and the edges of her vision blackened. She was back on that desk, facedown.

No...you're not going back there. You will
never
be on that desk again.

“I don't take kindly to people tellin' me 'no'.” Carl brushed his lips against her ear, and she recoiled. “And
you
know better than anyone what happens when you say no...”

Get angry. Stop being scared and get fucking angry.

She reveled in the way a hot, red rush of fury elbowed its way through the fear. Her vision cleared, and suddenly she felt invincible. It was reflex for her to drive her knee into his groin as hard as she possibly could.

As Carl stumbled away, hunched over and clutching himself, Sammi darted around him and took off running. Her bus wasn't here yet, and she didn't want to run back into the rec center, when no one was there and he could easily follow her inside.

She ran to the gym.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Who the hell do you think owns this place?

It didn't matter; the gym was full of people, it was closer than the yogurt shop, and she hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe,
he
would be there.

Sammi barreled through the front doors. There was no one at the front desk, and the TV was off, but the gym was full of noise from the people working out there. She rounded the corner, heart jackhammering in her chest, looking, searching.

Please be here...

“Sammi?”

She whirled around, catching her breath. She let it out in a disappointed stream; it was Basanta.

Still, a familiar face...

He walked over to her, his normally jovial face creased with concern. “Hey, you all right? You look—well, you look terrified.”

“Carl just—he just—he tried—”

“Slow down,” Baz said, holding her lightly by the shoulders. “What happened with Carl? What are you doing here?”

“He-he was waiting for me at the rec center, I don't know how he knew I was there, he tried to talk to me, he kept pressing me against the wall, he wouldn't let me leave—”

“Sam, deep breath, come on.” Baz mimed taking in a deep breath, encouraging her to do it. “He harassed you?”

“Y-yes.” Sammi wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug. “He s-said he doesn't take no for an answer—he said that I should know better than anyone w-what happens when I say no...”

Basanta's face darkened. “What a fuckin' piece of shit.”

“Baz, is—is Cillian here?”

He shook his head, sadness filling his dark brown eyes. “No. I'm sorry. He—he doesn't work here anymore.”

“What?”

Baz sighed. “Carl fired Cillian, and he's gonna buy him out. Ronan's Gym won't be the Ronans' anymore. Shit, by July, it won't be a
gym
anymore.” He looked away angrily. “I don't wanna work here without Cillian. But I don't have another job lined up yet, so I'm stuck. But after hearing what he just did, I—”

“I—it's okay. I don't know why I came here.” Sammi stepped back. “I was just scared. My bus isn't here yet, and—”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know. I left him outside the rec center. I kicked him in the balls and ran.”

Baz lifted his brows. “You—okay. Good work. You want a ride home? I'll call a taxi. On the house. The gym. Whatever.”

Sammi shook her head. “You don't have to do that. The fare from here to there would be—”

“It's the least I can do. Hold on.” Baz pulled his cell phone out and ordered her a taxi. “Soon as you can get here, bro.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Taxi's in the area, be here in a second. I don't know how much it'll be—just take all of this, and you can pay me back some other time.”

“Baz—”

“Just take it.” He half-smiled. “Killy would beat my ass if I let you take the bus.”

She looked down at her shoes. “How's he doing?” She bit her lip.
You're not supposed to care, remember?

Baz shrugged. “Not too good. Lost the tournament, lost his gym. Lost his girl.” He looked at her pointedly.

“I've been told that the whole thing was a lie. That he didn't sell me out.”

Baz put his hands in his pockets, tilting his head. “What do you think? Do you really—I mean,
really
—think he would do somethin' like that?
Especially
to you?”

“No,” Sammi said softly. “But I've learned over the years that anyone is capable of anything.”

Baz glanced around her to look outside. “Taxi's here. Let me walk you out, in case Carl's around.”

“Don't, um, tell Cillian about this, okay? I don't want him worrying about me. I mean, this.” She was afraid of what he might do if he found out; moreover, she wasn't his to worry about anymore.

Baz merely lifted an eyebrow with her and held the door open. “Take care, Sammi—”

“What the fuck is this little bitch doing here?”

Sammi and Basanta both turned sharply, as Carl limped up the sidewalk. He glared at Sammi.

“Get her off my property. Now.”

“It ain't yours yet,” Basanta snapped. “And she can do whatever she wants to do, you piece of shit.”

Carl drew himself up, his eyes boring holes into Basanta. “What the fuck did you just say to me, Jonathan?”

Basanta squared his shoulders. “You heard me. Sammi, get in the car.”

“You wanna lose your job, bro?”

“Baz,” Sammi hissed. “Don't do this.”

Baz snorted, shaking his head. After a moment, he reached up and ripped off the name tag pinned to his T-shirt.

“If it means I don't have to work with a disloyal, rat bastard, fuckin'
snake
piece of shit like you, then fuck it. Fire me. And go to hell.” He threw the name tag at Carl.

“You got ten minutes to get your shit and get the fuck out!” Carl limped inside the gym, slamming the glass door shut behind him.

Sammi looked at Basanta, her mouth hanging open. “Why—why did you do that?”

He sighed deeply and nudged her toward the cab. “Don't worry about me. Just get home. See you around, Sammi.” When she was seated, he shut the door and waved at her through the window.

As the cab pulled off, Sammi leaned her head against the seat.

You should never have gone there. You got him fired.

She thought again of the one thing that could ease the maelstrom of violent emotion in her, and her resolve not to give into it faltered.

He still wasn't sure what he was doing—even after he'd made the decision last night, decided to not discard the idea when he'd woken up, and gotten into his truck this morning to carry out the idea.

His brain told him he was doing the right thing. His heart, and the painful twist of his insides, begged him not to go. But he merely stopped to get coffee, and drove the hour to Franklin.

Cillian rolled slowly down Beech Street, coming up to a neighborhood of condos to his left. He'd never made this particular drive before; Mr. Shing Li and Mrs. Wen Zhang had moved out of their family house on the opposite side of town to downsize into a condo. It was just the two of them after all, now that their son Jensen was dead.

He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand, on which he'd hastily jotted down the address of the Li household. Beech was empty at this hour, because most people were at work at nine on Friday mornings. The truck rolled to a stop, vibrating gently with the thrum of the engine. Cillian stared out the window.

What are you doing here? What are you doing?

He sat there for a while, staring out the window into the small, quiet-looking neighborhood. The condos were all similarly designed, neat reddish brown siding, dark brown garage doors and trim. Tidy, manicured yards.

When he looked at the time, he realized with a jolt he'd been sitting there on the street in his truck for fifteen minutes.

Shit or get off the pot. You didn't drive an hour for nothing. You owe them—you owe him.

He slid his foot off the brake and turned into Hawthorne Village, crawling down the short road until he stopped in front of a cookie-cutter home. This one had an American flag at half-staff.

Two people were in the yard. One was a petite woman with chin-length silver-threaded black hair. She wore a beautiful white shirt with intricate floral embroidery and a high Mandarin collar, with a pair of worn dull green pants. She bent over a bed of lilies close to the house. The man was only a little taller, and his black hair was more salt than pepper. He wore a faded blue shirt tucked into jeans as he watered the lawn. At the sight of Cillian's large black truck at their curb, they both looked up, brows creased with confusion and wariness.

Cillian stared at them through his tinted windows, his heart hammering so hard in his chest it pulsed in his ears. A sick feeling filled his belly, making the coffee he'd sipped churn in his guts.

Get out. Get out, or go home.

He forced himself to pull in a breath to the bottom of his lungs, noticing his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. When he was a little steadier, he reached for door handle, sliding out of the truck, and stepped around the hood apprehensively.

Lee's parents' eyes widened at the sight of him. Mr. Li's hose slipped in his grasp, and Mrs. Zhang straightened, her knees wobbling a little.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

“Mr. Li,” Cillian said finally, his voice hoarse. “It's me—Cillian.”
Brilliant, Ronan. They've only known you for years.

“Of course,” Mr. Li said, quickly shaking his head. “Of course. I know. I—Wen, would you turn off the water, please?”

Mrs. Zhang scurried to the side of the house, eyes wide, to crank off the water. Mr. Li dropped the hose in the grass and took a step toward Cillian.

“Cillian,” he said softly, his voice still holding thick traces of his Beijing accent despite thirty-five years in America. “What are you doing here? It's been a long time. Since Jensen...”

“I should've come so much sooner,” Cillian said.

He'd forgotten how short Mr. Li was—no more than five-seven, five-eight. Mr. Li always used to joke that his son was a real American boy, since he'd grown to tower over his father at six-feet tall. They had the same smile, too. But that was just a memory, because Mr. Li's drawn face gave Cillian the impression he hadn't smiled in a long time.

“Is everything all right?”

“I just...”
No, it's not.
“The anniversary passed almost two weeks ago. I thought—I needed to come check on you and Mrs. Zhang.”

“Would you like to come inside?” Mr. Li gestured toward the door, where Mrs. Zhang stood on the stoop. “It would be nice to visit with you.”

“Yes, thanks, Mr. Li.”

He followed Lee's father and mother into the condo, feeling a little bit of relief that he wouldn't be assaulted of memories of the old house, the one that had Lee in it, filled with his vibrancy and his big, silly grin.

That relief was extinguished as soon as he stepped into the small foyer. Lee was still there, all right—immortalized in frames on the wall, on the piano, on end tables and display chests and the entertainment center.