Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 11

  “We’ll be back tomorrow, Sal. Schedule him for a few bouts...with the same fighters as today. Not Jaysin, okay?”

  “Anything for you, my love,” Sal hollered back with admiration in his voice.

  On the run home, Keane sprinted out ahead of her. He heard her shout out, “Wait up!” but ignored it. Bouvine, Sal and every other fighter in the place would have waited. Hell, they’d have given her a piggy-back ride home. Or, more likely, a ride of another kind. What was it about her that made him feel so responsible? So freakin’ protective? So close to forgetting about training in favor of beating the living shit out of that worthless ass?

  Fuck. Man-oh-man, images of her riding him hard were like relentless punches, stirring his blood up past the boiling point. If he was gonna be back in the cage again, he needed to get a grip, and fast. He picked up his pace.

  Once home, he headed for the back room, locked the door, and began a series of grueling lifts. Until some semblance of sanity returned.

  * * *

  Keane emerged from the back room so abruptly the bath towel nearly toppled off of her. They were both wet, her from a well-deserved shower and him from a marathon session of lifting. He scowled at her, an all-too-familiar look. She didn’t mind, knowing his growl was worse than his bite.

  “Sweet Mother of Mary. Put some clothes on,” he barked, stepping past her.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why his mood had soured sometime between the gym and working out at home. Surely Jaysin and his taunts weren’t responsible for the sudden change? Something else was bothering him. Something she wanted to put her finger on so as to better understand him. Keane’s muscled chest rose and fell from overexertion, as if he’d tried to physically push away his troubles. A cold draft from the hallway caused her to shudder and for her focus to resharpen on his attire—or lack of it.

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black. You’re showing a heck of a lot more skin than I am.” To prove her point, she grabbed the waistline of his sweats and tugged them up a notch. Her thumb connected with the warmth of his abdomen and suddenly, she felt hotter than the shower she’d come from.

  He smelled all male, a mixture of Ivory soap and sweat. Beads of perspiration coated his bare chest and dampened his hair. She itched to reach out and run her fingers along the inky, moist path of his tribal tattoo. She shifted, and the movement accidentally caused her to release her grasp on the towel. In one fluffy cascade, it fell to the floor.

  She heard his sharp inhale as a flush spread over her body.

  Time was suspended, until his hands found her chest. Scooping from underneath, he cupped the weight of her breasts within his palms. His thumbs found her pert nipples. Gently, he pressed, circled and stroked them, then moved lower around her areolas.

  The warmth of his fingers sent shivers down her spine. But it was the note of desire in his voice that caused her heart to burst.

  “See how you feel in my hands? So soft, so damned beautiful. So perfect in every way.”

  She melted. The tenderness in his tone and in his touch gave her goose bumps. She leaned in to him, her entire body trembling with want.

  Fickle fate interfered as the invasive sound of the knocker on the front door interrupted the moment between them.

  “Finish this later,” he stated, his tone rough like whiskey, then broke away.

  Logan exhaled a long, disappointed breath. Her breasts still felt warm from his palm.

  Quickly she headed for her room, where she pulled on a new set of underwear, a long, loose pink sweatshirt and tight black pants. Running a comb through her hair, she heard Keane’s sharp greeting and the murmur of voices echo up from the foyer. Whoever was at the door was uninvited. Yet, it sounded as if Keane knew him. She crept to the stairwell and peered down.

  “You back? What happened, no one show up for training?”

  “Very funny. I told you it was a brief assignment. Decided to check in on you on my way home. When I left here, I was worried. You seemed...well, hello.” The handsome man in the foyer grinned up at her. A familiar, semi-fanatical smirk. One filled with recognition. He glanced back at Keane appreciatively. “You have company. Luscious Logan...”

  It was all he got out before Keane tossed him on his back in one, smooth move. The man’s hand shot out and tapped the wooden floorboards.

  “Damn Keane, let me up. I’ll apologize. Stupid thing to say. I get it.”

  Logan hurried down the stairs, worried for the apologetic man. “Keane, let him up. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “One more word, Stevie, and you’re outta here,” Keane warned, and removed his foot from his friend’s chest. With a nod toward the sofa, he left them and headed to the kitchen.

  Logan frowned as Keane returned with three beers. Drinking wasn’t part of their exercise routine. But before she could open her mouth, Keane shot her a look that said “suck it up.”

  “So, are you two a thing? That kiss was something—a worldwide event. I hear even Prince Harry has commented on it.”

  Logan just about choked on her Yuengling. Clearly, Stevie had no filter and the incident in the foyer had been dislodged from his very short-term memory bank.

  “Stevie—”

  Logan cut him off. “I heard Keane mention a recruitment center. Are you in the military?”

  Thankfully, Stevie was more than happy to discuss himself. “Yep, I’m home for good. Served three tours as a Marine, one in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. I’m helping a few recruitment centers get up and running. Came from New York and decided to check in with Coach here before I return to Ohio.”

  Keane drank deeply from his beer.

  “Coach? Did Keane train you to fight?”

  Stevie laughed and gave his friend a shamefaced smirk. “He tried, but mixed martial arts isn’t part of my arsenal. Pretty much sucked at it. Not that this guy wasn’t an exceptional coach, he was. Taught some of the best fighters in the Marines some mad skills. I’ll never forget the time our friend Jimmy pulled a Kimura in the championship round...”

  Stevie trailed off. For a moment, something passed between the two men. Logan searched Keane’s face but was met with only an intense scowl. Typical Keane. Memories had a way of doing that; one person’s fond remembrance was another’s nightmare.

  She inhaled sharply. Jimmy was Keane’s nightmare.

  Hadn’t she witnessed it at the luncheonette? Keane had visibly flinched when Jimmy’s name had been brought up. Now Stevie’s story was evoking the same dark response from Keane.

  Whenever she’d overstepped the boundaries, pushed the issue, Keane had shut her out with his sharp tongue. The threat of him sending her packing if she persisted loomed unspoken between them.

  And she couldn’t afford it—not with Jerry dangling that money at her. Not with the paparazzi monitoring her every move. These few days were a godsend, despite Keane’s mood swings—or rather steadfastly clinging onto one mood, that of sourpuss. Case in point was the tension rolling off him now.

  “How about I get dinner ready? I’ll leave you guys alone for some man time.” Logan didn’t wait for a reply and headed into the kitchen, fearing Keane might send Stevie packing if she didn’t get food on the table soon.

  As she seasoned two huge steaks for the stovetop grill and rinsed off lettuce leaves for a salad, her ears were tuned in on the conversation in the next room. A one-sided conversation. No surprise there.

  “Did you call that number I gave you?” Stevie whispered in an impossibly loud voice.

  Logan pictured Keane shaking his head in the silence.

  “I wish you would, Keane. There’s no shame in it. A lot of guys experience—”

  “Shut up or get out.”

  Turning the flame up high, she tossed the steaks on. No shame in what? she wondered.

  S
he took out a bag of edamame and arranged the green pods to steam over boiling water. Tossed with a dash of sea salt, the high in protein and vitamins soy beans were a better treat than starchy French fries. But Stevie’s turn in conversation made her clench a pod so tightly the seed turned to pulp.

  “Logan seems real nice, down to earth. Not what I expected at all for a celebrity. Are you two a thing?”

  She’s not my girl. Keane’s comment from Joe’s lingered in her mind. Funny, how a few days in his company had changed a simple attraction into something deeper.

  There was more than a physical chemistry at play now. An unspoken bond of sorts had formed. Granted, he was as complex as a Manet painting, the sum of many complicated parts. A whirlwind of colorful dots, some small, some large, and for the most part unpredictably placed, but fitting together beautifully as a whole. These glimpses of the real Keane, though few and far between, were the little moments she treasured most.

  A shared smile, rare but genuine—which made it all the more special. How his eyes followed her as she practiced her positions. The quiet companionship after a physically grueling day where she’d read on one end of the couch and he’d rest his head back on the cushions and close his eyes, awake but relaxed.

  Which is why Keane’s response to his friend’s probing...mattered.

  Still squeezing pieces of edamame between her fingers, Logan braced herself.

  Keane grunted. An unhelpful, non-descript sound that could be interpreted as either a yes or no.

  Considering her year, Logan should have felt happy his reply was so damned vague. But, she wasn’t happy. It mattered. He mattered.

  For the second time this month, Logan felt as if an invisible fist punched her in the stomach. A fight-changing punch, the kind that made record books. The kind discussed, reviewed and analyzed for years to come.

  Somehow, in the midst of the dismal debacle that was her life, she’d fallen for this MMA fighter.

  Chapter Eight

  REAR NAKED CHOKE: A common maneuver where a fighter catches hold of his/her opponent by the back

  “It all started with a wicked sand storm,” Stevie began, leaning forward to place his empty beer next to hers on the coffee table. Keane lounged next to him on the other side of the sofa, deep in thought as he swirled the last of the amber liquid around in his bottle. Stevie had been entertaining her with stories about his and Keane’s days as Marines. Entertaining her—not Keane, who seemed more distant with each new story and who had been slowly withdrawing from the conversation. The last few anecdotes included a third man, a wickedly sly prankster. Jimmy.

  She stretched out her long legs and leaned back in the kitchen chair she’d relocated into the living room, smiling encouragingly at Stevie.

  “Another time, our boy Jimmy was out for revenge. Someone messed with his alarm clock. He was late for roll call, but even more annoyed by the sand.”

  “Why would the sand bother him? Isn’t Afghanistan mostly desert?” Logan asked. She took another sip of her second, and last, beer. Tomorrow’s training schedule would be hellish with a hangover—not that Keane seemed worried, with his four to her two.

  “The Hindu Kush, on the border with Pakistan, is one huge cluster-fuck of mountains. In the 1980s, the Russians found out how desolate and wild they were when they were fighting the Afghans. We didn’t figure this out until much later. The hard way...”

  Stevie fell somber for a second, and Logan waited, hoping he’d reveal more. Tonight had given her a glimpse into Keane’s otherwise guarded past, and she hadn’t fit all the pieces together to form a perfect picture of him. Not yet, anyway.

  She glanced at Keane. His demeanor was like a storm brewing, anything but approachable; a subtle stiffening of his body like he’d thrown up an invisible wall and dared her to breach it. Something troubled him, and made her want to wrap herself around him and pull him in close. As if sensing her eyes on him, he looked up. His gaze held hers briefly, before he looked away.

  “However, we were stationed smack in the middle of the Rigestan, which in Persian means ‘country of sand.’” And I’m talking Sahara Desert-like sand, the kind that creeps into your pores and never leaves. Logan, have you ever been in a desert during the night?”

  “I spent a few nights on tour in Phoenix two summers ago.”

  “Well, the Rigestan Desert is a sand trap and if the wind gusts up, sand storms are common. Just so happened, one hit in the middle of the night while Jimmy was catching some shut-eye.”

  “I thought you slept in barracks or tents.”

  “Most times, we do...did. Anyway, the sand has a mind of its own. Bent on defeating you, just like the Taliban—though I’d take a mouthful of sand, any day. Isn’t that right, Keane?”

  Keane simply nodded and took a swig of his beer.

  “The entire day, Jimmy picked sand out of his ears, nostrils, you name it. Good-humored sport, he was. Joked about how the sand exfoliated his body so it was nice and smooth for the ladies.”

  Logan giggled. Back when she had money, a day at the spa exfoliating was common, though most patrons were female.

  “It’s getting late, Stevie.” Keane’s tone was low, but firm.

  “Okay, let me finish my story and I’ll be off.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Jimmy found out that it was Serge, one of the bosses who trained with us and one of Keane’s fighters, who messed with his alarm clock, making him late. He rode him all day long about setting up a bout until Serge couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Was Jimmy a strong fighter?”

  “The best, except for Keane here.”

  Keane drained the last of his beer and the bottle rang out as it wobbled around on the coffee table.

  Despite his darkening mood, Logan laughed. The news of his accomplishments in the cage gave her hope. Everything was going to work out this time. Jerry would get his fighter. Keane clearly knew how to handle himself and win, without getting hurt.

  She smiled. A year ago, she wouldn’t have been able to imagine herself in this situation. Being an Octagon Girl, never mind one shacked up with a surly fighter with a set of guns bigger than her neck. A man whose world was more foreign than the Hindu Kush.

  A big brute of a guy now glaring at his empty beer bottle like it had grown two heads. There was a tightness to his finely sculpted cheekbone and around those firmly pursed lips. Lips most of her ballerina friends would die for. Fascinating lips she wanted to feel pressed on her—every inch of her.

  Despite being at odds with her thoughts—not that they noticed, with Keane absorbed in his beer bottle, and his visitor popping edamame beans into his mouth like it was his last supper—she listened as Stevie continued. “Jimmy’s last fight—well, really his second to last fight—was one for the record books. I’m sure Marines will be talking about it for years. Unorthodox, to say the least. God, I get a stomachache from laughing just thinking about it.”

  “Let’s have it then. Make me laugh,” she prompted, her words lightening her spirits and clearing her head.

  “Let’s have it so you can be on your way,” Keane added, sharply.

  Stevie ignored him. “First, Jimmy covered himself in suntan lotion an inch thick, from head to toe. Everything except his fighting briefs. Then, he pulled the ol’ tar and feather routine, except instead of feathers, he used...”

  “Sand!” she exclaimed, catching on to the joke. “What did Serge do when he saw him?”

  “That’s the gem in the jewel case. He didn’t notice until it was too late. Every time he touched Jimmy, his hands, legs, chest—everything was smothered in soggy sand. He couldn’t get a grip on him. The match was over in the first round. I’ve never seen two more sorrowful figures in my life. Super Sand Men, that’s what we called them.”

  Keane stood, and waved to his fr
iend. “Nice of you to stop by. But, it’s late...”

  Logan jumped up as well, sensing Keane was going to pounce and not understanding why. “I’ll walk him to the door, Keane, if you’ll take the plates into the kitchen. Leave the left-over edamame on the kitchen table. I’ll wrap them up for later.”

  Clearly, the idea of her walking Stevie out did not settle well with him. He frowned down at her, then turned and gave Stevie a sinister look. Logan wondered, not for the first time, how they were even friends.

  “Got it, Coach. No need to worry on my account.”

  Now it was Logan’s turn to scowl. They’d effectively eliminated her from their conversation by using man code. With a loud sigh, she headed off toward the foyer. Stevie’s footsteps on the floorboards told her he followed.

  “So, you live here now?” he questioned.

  “Yes.” She ushered him onto the porch, not wanting Keane to catch wind of their discussion. “Stevie, I know he’s generally pretty gruff. But there’s more than that going on, there’s something bothering him. I want to know what it is.”

  “Listen, Logan, he’s changed. Didn’t use to be so mean, so quick-tempered. A lot of the guys...” He stopped, and rubbed his jaw. “Keane always did say I have a big mouth.”

  “Don’t let some stupid man code keep you quiet now. Come on, Stevie. I want to help him.”

  “Jesus, why do you women think a man can be fixed like repairing a car, or something? Sometimes, the troubles are so deep, so internalized, no one can help.”

  “I know you know the answer, Stevie. Is it...Jimmy?”

  Stevie looked down at the sidewalk, out into the street, up at the night sky—everywhere but at her. Tight-lipped. No help there.

  Logan tried another approach. “We’ve a few more days of training and then he’ll be fighting in the qualifiers. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

  Stevie snorted. “Does a grizzly eat bunnies for breakfast? Don’t worry about him fighting—he’s a warrior.” He retrieved his wallet and handed her his business card. “Listen, keep in touch, okay? Keane’s not so great at it.”