Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  She shot him an arched eyebrow. “I’m a mess, even for a place like this. When you said breakfast, I thought we would be eating at your house. I haven’t showered.”

  The appraising look he gave her stopped her short. He likes my just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-sprinted-the-Pittsburgh-marathon look.

  He opened the door and ushered her inside.

  The place was packed. The aroma of fresh coffee and sweet buttery pancakes caused her stomach to pull a plié. With all the exercise, she was famished.

  A kind, old Irishman greeted them. “Keane, my boy. It’s a mighty fine day when you come strolling on in here. It’s been too long.”

  In typical Keane style, he didn’t say much but Logan saw him soften beneath the older man’s greeting. “Is there a table, Joe?”

  “For you, me bucko, there’s always a table. Especially when you’ve such lovely company.”

  Logan smiled at the elderly man, whose heartfelt greeting was like a warm hug.

  Joe led them down the narrow aisle to a back booth. She was surprised how cozy and clean the place was, with its old-fashioned table-top jukeboxes and red-checkered linen tablecloths.

  Settling into the seat across from her, Keane pulled off his cap, lowered his hood and unzipped his sweatshirt. The black shirt layered beneath hugged his pecs but hung more loosely over his abdomen. Logan fiddled with her own layers as she imagined his naked torso beneath.

  She had thought her favorite part on a man was his biceps, having grown used to Pierre’s strong, firm ones—which in retrospect seemed like ant hills to Keane’s Mont Blanc. Yet, the breath-catching glimpses of Keane’s bare abdomen each time his shirt rose up...nope, she was a certifiable abs-aholic, wanting more and more.

  “Need something?” His eyebrow raised, and damn, if his eyes weren’t twinkling. Totally aware of her perusal.

  She looked down at the checkered napkin and fiddled with the brass ring. Wishing her embarrassment would steal away with her lustful thoughts. If Pierre could only see her now, all hot and bothered. She wanted to laugh, thanks to the handsome man across from her. A virtual stranger responsible for saving her job, her livelihood and her sexuality.

  Joe returned and distributed the menus, along with a pot of coffee and some cream.

  Chancing a glance up, she nearly dropped the menu. Keane wasn’t even looking at it. Instead, he’d put a toothpick in his mouth, sprawled back in his seat, and with something that looked like a predatory grin, was studying her.

  Not knowing what to say, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “Do you know what you want?”

  “Yep. Sure do.” His reply was immediate, and given in such a low, sensual voice, that this time the menu did slide from her grasp.

  “Ah, hum,” Joe cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “What will it be this morning? The usual for you, Keane?”

  “With a glass of water, too.”

  “And you, young lady?”

  The heat rose in Logan’s cheeks. She’d been so busy devouring the man-candy across from her, she hadn’t any idea what was on the menu. “Um, how about a grapefruit sprinkled lightly with sugar. And a Greek yogurt. If you don’t have Greek, any old regular yogurt will do, I’m not too picky.”

  Joe chuckled, and kindly remarked, “What does this look like, the Ritz? Me dearie, you’re in an around-the-clock meat and potatoes type of place. However, let me see if I can whip up something more refined for a sweet lass like you.”

  “No, I don’t want to be any trouble. Whatever Keane is having will do for me.”

  A few minutes later, she was regretting her decision. Joe placed not one, but three dishes in front of Keane. One was a steaming plate full of vegetables, mostly broccoli mixed with carrots and a sprout that looked like alfalfa. The second plate had a tower of buckwheat pancakes—Joe had informed her of the special batter he made just for his boys. But the thick sirloin on the third one, rare enough to jump off the plate and bite you back, made her glance around nervously. No way was she eating an enormous slab of meat. Steak was reserved for special, once-in-a-blue-moon splurges.

  Frowning, her eyes shot toward Joe, who was watching her reaction with merriment. The same in-on-the-joke look was etched into the raised corners of Keane’s mouth. Joe’s laugh, when it finally came, was a loud burst of pleasure. Keane’s, however, was a low, melodic rumble which caused her heart to thump wildly.

  Logan rolled her eyes. “Very funny, you guys. I almost had a heart attack thinking I’d have to eat all that.”

  To her relief, a plate of cottage cheese, mixed fruit and Canadian bacon was set in front of her. Her stomach growled out a hello.

  “I’m thinking you’ve been in me place before,” Joe commented, studying her thoughtfully. “You look familiar.”

  She glanced around nervously and spotted the television on the wall over the counter.

  “Food’s getting cold.” Keane’s comment sent Joe on his way.

  Logan tried to convey thank you with her eyes, but Keane was looking at his plate while stabbing at the vegetables with his fork.

  They ate in silence. He wasn’t one for long conversations, that was as clear as day. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was more like a contented lull between two people who’d spent an active morning attaining endorphin buzzes from well-worked bodies. His well-worked body.

  Logan grinned at the thought.

  “That good?”

  God, she would have to stop doing that—the object of every fantasy she’d ever had was sitting right in front of her, and wouldn’t you know it, she was blatantly eyeballing him with the same consideration that he’d given the steak.

  “Really good. The cottage cheese melts in your mouth,” she said sarcastically. “Now, how about you fill me in on this week’s plan. From what I understand, you’re expected to fight two different opponents in two different bouts each night, for three nights straight. That’s six consecutive fights.” She paused, thinking how crazy it sounded. He must have read her expression.

  “It’s not like championship boxing. You’re in for twelve rounds if you’re lucky, and done. In MMA qualifying bouts like these, the fights end quicker. You win and move on until you’re the last guy standing. That’s how you make it into the big event. That’s what getting to Tetnus is all about.” His tone had lost its playful quality and she gave herself a mental kick for turning their light-hearted morning into something heavier.

  When it came to the topic of fighting, Keane was all business. Instantly serious, more somber, and downright surly at times.

  Right now, she was hoping for the least of the three evils—serious.

  “Is it enough time for you to get ready?” she asked casually. “You have to win...”

  “So, you’re suddenly an expert on training fighters?” He chewed a piece of meat and stared at her. A bit of juice coated his full lips and instead of feeling intimidated, she felt...warm.

  “Why are you giving me such a hard time about this? You agreed to fight—which I really appreciate—but I don’t want to see you lose. Or get hurt. Sal said the key to winning a fight was something about the right balance of technique and strength when grappling on the mat.”

  Keane snorted, then licked at the pool of juice in the corner of his mouth.

  Joe cleared his throat from his spot by their table. “If this doesn’t beat all. You’re riding me boy about his training? Not to butt into your conversation or anything, but you don’t know who you’re talking to, lass. He wadna have any problem grappling, boxing, or with anything else. This boy’s a MCMAP, a Marine Corps martial arts teacher with a fourth-degree black belt. He trains the other blokes how to fight. Jimmy, me nephew, was always brimming with wild tales about Keane, and how...”

  Drop it, Joe,” Keane rasped in a hoarse, raw-sounding voice.

 
Logan straightened in her seat, wondering at the change in him. Seconds earlier, he’d been devouring her with his eyes. But now, in a blink, his gaze had narrowed and his body was tight with tension.

  Joe stopped, his mouth wide open. “Your gal, she doesn’t know about Jimmy?”

  “We’re on a need to know basis. And she’s not my girl.”

  Logan felt a rush of breath escape her. Keane’s words, and the brutal way he said them, cut like a knife. Not my girl. It was like he’d grabbed hold of their sweet morning rapport and mercilessly crushed it within his fist.

  She wasn’t the only one shaken by his abrupt change in demeanor.

  Joe folded his arms across his chest. “But you brought her in me place. I haven’t seen your mug in months, maybe a handful of times since Jimmy’s funeral. What else was I to think?” The Irishman’s eyes filled with sorrow. “His death...it wadna something you could control, lad. How were you to know?”

  Keane shot to his feet and the plates on the table rattled. “Holy fuck, Joe, shut up.”

  Logan sat back in her seat, and gaped up at Keane.

  He’s lost a friend.

  Sympathy welled up inside her, overshadowing her own hurt. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Ease the pain that had unexpectedly surfaced from somewhere deep inside of him. That’s what this was, right? Keane’s way of dealing with his friend’s death? Yet his rough manner made her think twice about consoling him.

  Keane wasn’t a hug-loving type of guy. Especially now.

  His abrupt shift in personality made him downright mean, uncharacteristically so, with the way he was glaring at Joe.

  The Irishman looked wretched, wringing his hands and wavering on his feet, and studying Keane intently, as if he was looking at a total stranger, too.

  Logan unclasped her numb fingers from the tight knot she’d made on her lap.

  And Keane...oh my God. He seemed both furious, and devastated. Like someone who’d just found out about a close friend’s death. But hadn’t Joe said the funeral had already taken place?

  This warrior, this handsome male with a strength and fortitude that was mind-shattering, this private man whom she’d stalked and pestered into fighting in the qualifiers, had some serious issues of his own.

  Deeper issues than those she’d already picked up on.

  The internal struggle playing out in him spoke volumes—his troubles reached way beyond the booze, the pills, the hard living. Issues that would take more than a few sips of herbal tea to resolve.

  Would she be able to help him? Had the teas, exercise, even her companionship, been a source of relief for him?

  Or not at all?

  Keane stared down Joe, and the Irishman fixed his gaze on Keane, until in the unspoken way of men, they came to some kind of nonverbal accord.

  “Let’s go. We’ll sprint back.” His voice was deceptively calm. Normal. She wasn’t fooled. Still, relief washed over her. Whatever had played out in Keane’s head, he’d gotten a hold on it.

  “Another time, Joe,” he said abruptly. Keane patted the old Irishman on the arm and softly added, “Sorry.”

  She followed him out into the bright, Pittsburgh sunlight. With a nod in the direction of home, he took off running. She watched him sprint away, as if the devil had nipped him on the heels. With a sigh, she started after him.

  Chapter Seven

  FIGHT CAMP: The time leading up to a bout, when a fighter is rigorously training

  The next few days were more grueling than boot camp. It was like Jimmy’s ghost rode around on his shoulder, fueling his guilty conscience. One wrong punch is all it took, buddy. The constant reminder was bad enough. But bearing down on his other shoulder—even more relentlessly—was Logan. The woman had more willpower than a Marine in basic training. Even in the face of a mean, sleep-deprived bastard like himself.

  She’d gotten too close. Thanks to Joe, she knew too much about him for his liking. He didn’t need her sympathy. She seemed like the type who dreamed of “saving” a guy...little did she know he was beyond help.

  Every time Jimmy came up, he found himself striking back, until his message was clear—this topic of conversation wasn’t up for grabs. Not that she didn’t try. Despite being verbally lambasted, he still caught her looks of concern. Her pity.

  Which is why he pushed himself hard, and dragged her along for the ride. Two goals to accomplish: shape up fast and wear her ass out. No, his routine provided little room for discussion or prying, and left them both exhausted by the end of the day.

  The streets were quietest at daybreak. A few miles added on to his daily run, broken up with intervals of strength training, ate up the better part of each morning. He made a habit of stopping in the same spots so she could, every so often, catch up to him. He respected her for not idling around somewhere while he hit the pavement. Grudgingly, he liked how she took every hill, obstacle and deterioration in the weather in stride. And for a ballerina, she had a strong set of lungs.

  If he wasn’t so fucking tired from the nightmares plaguing him, he might have found humor in her following a fighter’s diet. She had taken over the task of grilling steaks or sautéing a mixture of chicken and vegetables served over brown rice. No complaints about their bland, lean protein and whole grain diet, eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With the substitution of grapefruit for steak, she followed the regiment wholeheartedly.

  Each meal was accompanied by one of her teas. The verdict was still out on if they helped, though his headaches seemed to be less frequent. Her constant brewing and straining seemed to say, “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

  Smart woman. She’d caught on to his game.

  It was a pain in the ass having someone eyeballing him twenty-four/seven. But he had to admit, she’d given him something to keep his mind on—her.

  Two hours of weight-training came after breakfast. The first day, after they had returned from Joe’s place, he made it clear her company wasn’t needed. The idea of her standing nearby and counting his reps would be a distraction that might get them both killed, which is what he informed her in an abrupt, less-than-gentlemanly manner. She’d stalked out, all stiff-backed, from the bare-bones gym situated between his bedroom and the guest room.

  He’d thought about how he’d barked at her earlier and felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the crushed look that had fallen across her features. Which is why he hadn’t chased her away when she’d suddenly sauntered in wearing a tight little body-skimming number.

  “This is the only room with a mirrored wall. You don’t mind if I practice, do you? There’s plenty of space.”

  He had begrudgingly grunted in response. Hell, just because he was a miserable bastard didn’t justify hurting her. Letting her stay was an unspoken apology. Or so he had told himself.

  Ten seconds into lifting, the real reason had become apparent.

  The black tights and low-cut leotard hugged every tight curve of her long, magnificent body. Her muscles flexed as she completed series of squats. Her arms circled up over her head and then back out in front of her. The reflection of her satisfied smile in the mirror had made him add an extra weight onto the bar, prolonging the pleasure of watching her move.

  At present, he found himself lifting more repetitions than planned but it wasn’t enough. Reality sank in as she pivoted on her toes...nothing but a beautiful distraction was to be had here. Besides, his home gym wasn’t equipped to meet his needs. He needed the punching bag, and would force himself to pick up a sparring match or two. “We’ll head over to the gym.” Like it or not—and who was he kidding? He struggled with this contradicting yin-yang of emotion daily—he was stuck with her.

  “Sal is going to be—”

  “Just change.” His gaze ran over her outfit one last time. “Wear the turtleneck.”

 
* * *

  They drove in silence to the Pittsburgh Fight Club. Inside, Logan headed off with Sal, leaving him to go about his business without disruption. Or so he thought, until two bouts later when he exited the cage and caught sight of who was bothering Logan.

  “Come on, honey. What’s he afraid of, the scorpion’s strike?” Jaysin Bouvine taunted.

  Keane stopped next to a punching bag, gave it a solid jab, and counted the seconds before he had to head over there. The fighter was making weird gestures with his head, swiveling it around and side to side. Probably ate paint chips as a child, with that kind of pick-up strategy. Yet the thought of the guy hitting on Logan pissed Keane off.

  He pulled a punch, pausing to glare at Bouvine as Logan turned her back on the asshole and moved over to the Octagon stairs, putting distance between them. Knowing she didn’t return Bouvine’s interest didn’t make it any better. It took every ounce of discipline he had not to pound the smirk off the jerk’s face.

  Pulling his arm back, Keane thrust it forward with all his strength. Envisioning Jaysin’s head. The fact that he’d followed Logan home that time made Keane consider fighting him. Give that bug on his head a solid pounding.

  “Call that a jab? The bag is about all you can handle, O’Shea. What’s keeping you from a real bout? Come on, man.” Bouvine’s voice took on a begging quality, like a small boy demanding someone play with him.

  But when he swiveled his head and winked at Logan, Keane snapped.

  “Let’s go.”

  Bouvine jumped, thinking Keane had just invited him to spar and suddenly looking very nervous. His face fell as Keane walked over to Logan and touched her arm.

  “You’re leaving? You chicken shit.”

  Keane caught the look in Logan’s widened eyes. She assumed he was stupid enough to jump at Bouvine’s bait. Could she see beneath his rigid self-control to the wild, uncontrollable turmoil buried within? The thought made him angrier. He wasn’t about to put a beating on this idiot, to have Bouvine’s subsequent hospitalization weigh him down even further. Without comment, he nudged her ahead of him.