Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  She didn’t have to reply. Her expression said it all.

  “Jesus, why the hell not? Is this why you need me to fight?”

  “I don’t want to trouble you with more of my problems, Keane. And I want to talk about you fighting—”

  “Let me guess. You still own the co-op.”

  “Half. Well, more than half. But he put the mortgage under his name. He’s living there with my understudy. With the doctor bills, and everything, I haven’t been able to afford a decent lawyer. Not yet, anyway.” She said it so calmly, as if she was resigned to the fact that her ex had stolen money from her, and some other woman was reaping the benefits.

  She moved off the bed, gathered her clothes, and gave him a quick, shy grin before leaving the room. “Shower.”

  Keane watched her naked back as she exited the room. His bed suddenly felt empty.

  “I’m going to bash his teeth in,” he said to no one in particular.

  The first chance he got.

  Chapter Ten

  ROUND: A bout consists of three or five rounds—depending on the MMA organization—lasting five minutes each with one minute in between

  Logan told Keane she had a few errands to run. A cowardly fib because she needed time to figure things out. First, recovery time from the toe-curling sex. Even thinking about what they’d done made her cheeks warm.

  Second, time to reassess her feelings, and what she wanted from this relationship. Keane had made it abundantly clear he wasn’t the kind of guy to make long-term commitments. Was she okay with that? Her body sang out yes! oh-so-sweetly, knowing how she’d likely find herself in the horizontal position every night. A frightening, yet appealing thought.

  She was falling for him, a fighter, so clearly not of her world, and so not her type. Yet, he threatened to be rough and was nothing but... Well, he did hold back when he thought he might hurt her. He’d actually smiled, an earth-shaking, lusty smirk, when she’d found her pleasure. And, the big daddy of all surprises—not only did the somber brute of a man have a copper tin ceiling in his bedroom but he was proud of it.

  But last night was the first act in a limited engagement. Keane had made that crystal clear. As much as a repeat performance appealed to her, she knew it couldn’t happen. A simple fling, nothing more. Harden her battle-weary heart and mute her feelings for him. Besides, her priorities had shifted away from what mattered most.

  She needed him to fight, and win. Getting too intimate—her skin warmed at the very thought of just how intimate they’d gotten—confused things. Blurred the lines between what she needed from him and what she wanted from him.

  Logan quickened her pace. Sally was in town, the hometown stop on her Pittsburgh Ballet tour, and after it all ended, she’d be on her honeymoon. Her friend was living the dream and no way would Logan share anything but good news. Sally didn’t need a Debbie Downer dimming her spotlight.

  She patted her coat pocket and the newspaper folded inside rustled. The rental space sounded like a dance school paradise in the ad. The perfect square footage, a desirable location downtown, and easy access to outside resources, like the Pittsburgh Ballet. Hopefully, there would be good news to share with Sally, if the rental space described in the ad was as good as it said.

  * * *

  An hour later, Logan was in her seat, in time for the opening of a sold-out performance of Giselle. Man, her morning with the Realtor pretty much reflected her year—it sucked. Turned out the potential dance studio was exceptional, and exceptionally unaffordable.

  She bit back her disappointment and relaxed into her seat. The studio was a dance instructor’s dream, with a perfect layout and locale, except for the exorbitant $2,000 a month price tag. Double her budget. Sure, the deal with Jerry was lucrative—tentative, but lucrative—but realistically she was hoping to rent a large place with good flooring and plenty of wall space for under $1,000 a month, so as to save a bit more for start-up costs, renovations, advertising and marketing. She had to be frugal, and smart in her choice of studios in order to make it work long term.

  Watching the ballerinas drift across the stage, the tension in Logan’s body lessened. As an audience member, ballet had that effect on her—when she could breathe in the poetry of their movements without the fear of being dropped by a lame-ass partner. Sally was breathtaking, and Logan found the sharp disappointment that had accompanied her into the theatre vanish.

  Another rental space existed out there, somewhere.

  At the end of act one, she heard her name as the dancers were exiting the stage. Turning her head, she scanned the crowd for a familiar face. A few strangers made eye contact before hastily turning away. The tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention, but Logan ignored the familiar sense of dread as the lights dimmed and act two began.

  The tenderness between her legs as she shifted into the seat made her think of Keane. His touch, and the deep timbre in his throat when he groaned during climax. This morning’s smug grin had rivaled the one he’d had over the steak-for-breakfast incident and made her heart dance and her woman’s bits warm.

  Keep your eye on the ball, she reminded herself. Six victorious bouts and you’ll be home free. Hadn’t Sal told her Keane was the man to beat? A trainer of other fighters—Marines being the toughest in the world and all, right?—yet he didn’t find pleasure in it. What had changed for him?

  Thankfully, the ballerinas assembled onstage and the familiar routines took over her senses.

  Afterward, she headed backstage to chat with Sally, sing her friend’s praises, and...oh, hell, who was she kidding? For the first time in months, Logan wanted to confide something in her trusted friend. Something monumental.

  The second she entered Sally’s dressing room, her mistake became clear. All eyes swung her way. The door leading into the dressing room rattled on its hinges from being forcibly slammed shut. Cameras snapped and lights flashed.

  “Logan,” Sally called out in surprise. But the swarm of press blocked her path.

  “Are you still an Octagon Girl?”

  “How do you feel about Pierre LaFeur’s performance on this season of America Gets Its Groove On?”

  “Will you be part of the audience at his May performance of La Sylphide here in Pittsburgh?”

  “How does that hunk of an MMA fighter like your tatas?” The last was asked by a five-foot slip of a woman, who was clearly a traitor to her gender, and whose breast size was flatter than Interstate I-70. Yet, it was her question that brought silence to the chaos.

  Logan looked about helplessly, glad her alpaca knit coat masked her curves from the cameras, yet frustrated by the realization that she was trapped.

  When it became clear she wouldn’t answer, another reporter piped up. “Our sources confirmed your romance with Keane O’Shea is on, and is hot and heavy.”

  It was too much. They were too much. Notching her chin up, she demanded, “Your sources. Who might they be?”

  “Your landlady, for one.”

  Logan gasped. “Mrs. Debinska? She barely speaks English...”

  Two younger paparazzi exchanged raised eyebrows. One reached into his pocket, pulled out a tablet, handed it to her, and then tapped the Play button.

  Her mouth fell to the floor. A smiling Mrs. Debinska was on the front stoop of their house. The camera slowly panned in on the object in her hand. The audio kicked in, and a male voice enthusiastically narrated the clip. Stunned, all Logan heard him say was, “America’s New Sweetheart Reveals Buxom Ballerina’s Bra Size is a—wait for it—38DD.” The elderly woman held up her prize for the cameraman. A bra. An industrial-sized, no-nonsense, earth-toned bra. Her own bra.

  “That’s not my—”

  A reporter interrupted her. “Is there anything you want to say to your ex? After all, he’s been dissing you every chance he gets.”

  Was th
ere something she’d like to say to her ex? The question was as alluring as a slice of expensive Ahi tuna. But Logan bit her tongue. Throwing gasoline on a fire would only ignite it further. A foolish move. She’d get even with the jerk, in time. Instead, she brought the focus back to someone who deserved it. Sally. “My best friend Sally Jacklyn is on a world tour. I’ll gladly pose for a picture with her.” She smacked the reporter’s tablet against his chest, as if the action would erase that vile video. The way her year was going, it would likely go viral instead.

  Moving forward, the reporters stepped out of her way.

  “Oh my God, Logan. I’m so sorry. They’ve been at this all day. The dressing rooms are bursting with bodies. My director is thrilled with the media attention and is permitting it. I tried to warn you but your voice mail is full. Didn’t you get my text?”

  Logan threw her arm around Sally and smiled for the cameras. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” she whispered in Sally’s ear, quickly turning for another photo. Hard to remember a time when she didn’t mind having her picture taken.

  “Follow me.” Grabbing her hand, Sally tugged her into the small lounge connected to her dressing room. “No one enters. Got it, Stanley?” she told the huge bodyguard who’d body blocked them a pathway out of there. The door closed.

  Logan flopped down on a long, pillowed chaise, and Sally did the same next to her.

  “Are you okay? I’ve been sick with worry about you. With my schedule, I haven’t had time to track you down and demand to know why you aren’t returning my texts. The Octagon Girl gig sounded so promising, a chance for a new start. How was I to know that Pierre would stoop so low? You must be mortified. Devastated by his betrayal.”

  “Mortified, yes. Devastated...no, not anymore. Everything he’s done—ruining my life, my career, my future—has been to save his own reputation. All those practices where we’d worked on the positioning of his feet were a waste. You know he tends to keep them too close together. I really tried to help him correct that. Nothing helped. Bet the talk shows don’t know that juicy tidbit. All it would take is a slow-motion replay of The Fall and someone who knows what they’re talking about to run commentary on Pierre’s stance just before he drops me...”

  “I can’t believe you’ve kept quiet about this.” Sally sounded appalled. “It wasn’t like you came at him bare-chested and lathered in butter cream, or something equally slippery. Women have a way of restraining these.” She gestured to her chest. “It’s called a bra. Are your boobs bigger than your standard ballerina’s? Probably. Are they so incredibly massive they’d blacken your partner’s eyes at ten feet away? Not a chance.”

  “I should have stuck it out as a solo artist.”

  Sally shook her head in silent agreement. Then, she added aloud, “What a jerk! You need to make a public statement. Immediately. How long are you going to let him get away with his lies?”

  “I’ll get even with him when the right time comes. Going to the press, though, you can forget about it. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging him, or an opportunity to publicly humiliate me again. Being famous is one thing, but notorious—that’s a whole different animal.”

  “But Sophie Morelle loves that kind of thing. She’s been sticking up for you and your breasts the entire time.”

  “Sally, that’s what Pierre wants—craves. He’s a media pimp. Dancing isn’t enough of a high for him anymore. He wants to be famous, at any cost. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. What classically trained ballet dancer puts his career on hold for a reality TV show?”

  “One who can’t dance,” Sally exclaimed.

  “You know the expression ‘what goes around, comes around’? All this bullshit he’s dishing is going to swing his way. And I’m not going to be there anymore to prop him back up. That’s Anya’s territory now.”

  “Jeez, I’ve been so busy. Is there anything else I missed?” Sally demanded.

  Oh, yes. Her breath hitched thinking about it. About him. But how to begin?

  “Guess what else? I’m not frigid. Not by a long shot.”

  Sally’s pinched, pity-infused look dissipated. “Frigid? Who said you were frigid? I’ve known you since high school, know all about your first kiss, etcetera.” The question was rhetorical though; Sally knew as well as she did that the same jerk who was dragging her name through the mud had given her a complex. “Oh, my God! Tell me you got naked with the fighter.”

  Logan couldn’t suppress a smile. “You know the feeling you get in your cells, your body and soul, when you lift up on your toes? How every muscle fills with music? That’s what Keane is like...maybe even better.”

  “Holy shit! You’re a couple? That kiss did look pretty hot. And he’s gorgeous. Who would have thought someone who gets his face bashed in for a living could be so pretty? A real feast for the eyes...an eyegasm.”

  “Mr. Eyegasm has proven himself the expert source of some mind-shattering multigasms.”

  “Holy hell. Really?”

  Logan nodded, reaching out to smack Sally’s hand in a high-five.

  “Now we’re talking. Is it serious?” Her friend studied her face, reading her expression in the silent way that only best friends can communicate.

  Logan spoke, needing to clarify things before her friend got the wrong idea. “It’s casual...a temporary deal.” In an attempt to keep the discussion positive, she added, “To think I might have spent my life with a man who doesn’t know how to make my body dance.”

  “Wow, I don’t know what to say. I know that look. When you said his name, you were glowing with happiness. Good for you, Logan. It’s about time.”

  Logan frowned. It had been such a long time since she felt happy about anything, the emotion was nearly unrecognizable. Which made her say, “Hopefully, you’ll be back in Pittsburgh before fall.”

  The word fall startled them both. Yet, somehow it didn’t seem to sting as much as it once would have.

  “Logan, I have to ask you something...personal.”

  She sighed. If hordes of reporters had the right to demand answers, why shouldn’t she allow her best friend a shot? “Whatever you want to know, Sally. You are my best and dearest friend. I trust you completely.”

  Mimicking the way one of the paparazzi had rolled his eyes over her, Sally asked in a stern, serious tone, “A 38DD? Did your seventy-something, Polish-speaking landlady—America’s New Sweetheart, Mrs. Debinska—just bamboozle the paparazzi with the mother of all lies and pawn off one of her granny bras as yours?”

  The situation was so ridiculous—the whole scope of it was absurd—but Sally’s expression was priceless. Laughter welled up and out until the two of them crouched over with their hands on their stomachs. Just like old times.

  * * *

  Full of good cheer, Logan headed home after a lovely meal of fresh salmon and basmati rice with Sally at their old hang-out, McCormick and Schmick’s. In her haste to leave earlier, she’d forgotten her cell phone at Keane’s. Not that calling him was something she planned on doing—reporting in was such an I’m-your-girl type of action. But, she felt guilty that he might be wondering where she’d disappeared to.

  Until she caught sight of the woman struggling with Keane’s front door. An obnoxious blonde Logan had hoped never to set eyes on again. She had a death grip on the door handle with one hand while the other clasped the sides of her leopard-print blouse together.

  Logan halted dead in her tracks. Breathless from the invisible grip tightening around her windpipe and squeezing all the air out of her. With nowhere to hide, she tucked in her chin and prayed the woman wouldn’t spot her, frozen there on the sidewalk in front of the neighboring house.

  A myriad of emotions washed over her—primarily anger. She had resigned herself to having a temporary fling with Keane. Temporary meaning a few weeks, even a week, not
less than twelve hours. Despite his no-strings-attached warning, it hurt. And two women in one day? Too gross for words.

  The alpaca thief didn’t see her, now too busy trying to keep the front door open with both hands and her right hip. Her chest heaved with her efforts. There was no missing it, with her blouse flying open every time her hip hit the door.

  What the bleeding leotards was going on here?

  “Come on, hon-eeey. I waited for you at Finnegan’s last night, but you were a no show.” Rosie’s whiney voice was so loud the current patrons at Finnegan’s could probably hear her from all the way across town. “Let m-eee back in.”

  Logan wished she hadn’t heard. Or at the very least, had been at Finnegan’s and too drunk to let one woman’s long-winded wail crush the delicious daydreams she’d reveled in all day. A fool, that’s what she was. Hell, he’d warned her, but she’d gone ahead and wondered about an exclusive, if not long-term, relationship with him anyway. Now she had to worry how many other women would be showing up on his porch?

  At last, Rosie gave up and was headed down the sidewalk, buttoning her blouse. The front door opened, and a goose-down jacket came sailing out and over the blonde’s head. She scooped it up, struggled into it, and gave the front door a stiff middle finger before stomping off down the street.

  Mercifully unobserved, Logan stole up the sidewalk. With her hand on the doorknob, she moved to enter and proceeded to fall into the house as the door flew open.

  “Jesus, go home.” Keane’s voice rumbled in anger.

  The sight of his bare feet made her head snap up. Her mouth went dry. Keane stood before her with a white cotton towel slung low on his hips. Water matted the fine black hairs on his chest and head. She inhaled sharply and caught the clean soapy scent of him.

  Recognition mixed with irritation filled those baby blue eyes of his. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. Nothing compared to the anger building within her.