Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 15

  “Why do you care? It looks like you found a way to amuse yourself today. Last night was nice and everything, but I’ll know better than to hook up with Mr. Can’t-Keep-It-In-His-Pants again.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you disappear like that?”

  “I don’t know what pisses me off more, the fact that you could entertain another woman less than twelve hours after our...whatever, or the fact that you did the deed with that disease-infested thief.”

  “Shit, it’s not what you think.”

  “Proof you’ll fuck anything—serves me right for sleeping with someone like you. A fighter! Six months ago, you wouldn’t have even registered on my radar. What was I thinking?”

  “She just showed up.”

  Logan had been down this road before. When she’d discovered Pierre and Anya in bed, she’d kept quiet. Dealt with the hurt silently, privately. Now, she felt like yelling, with so much pent-up anger the tin tiles would fall off his ceiling.

  “She stopped by to see if I needed...anything.”

  “Humph, like someone to wash your back in the shower? Guess you did need something, huh? Clearly, you’re okay now.” Despite the bite in her words, her eyes betrayed her with a full body scan, checking him out from head to toe. The damned towel angled lower on his hip, revealing a good portion of hipbone and the small indentation below it. She inhaled sharply.

  “Look, if you’d been here seconds ago, you’d have seen me toss her out on her troublesome ass.”

  Point taken. Logan felt her anger lessen but pressed on, “So that was why she was buttoning up her blouse on the way out?”

  He shot her a piercing look. “She’s persistent. Hell if I know how she got in here. Picked the lock—”

  “I know you said this was temporary, that you didn’t want a relationship. I’ve accepted that. But don’t you think it’s insulting—and gross—to roll from one bed into another? Or is it okay when you shower together afterward?”

  “That’s not what happened. She threw herself at me. I wasn’t biting,” he said, clearly exasperated. “I’m not used to justifying myself, Logan. But nothing happened.” His body seemed to vibrate and the damned towel loosened as he moved.

  Her gaze lingered on the unstable knot at his hip. If he swung himself ever so slightly, that sexy dimple below his hipbone wouldn’t be the only part of him on display. She clenched her fist, refraining from tugging the bit of cotton lower. Who am I kidding? He’s my type, all right. An upward trade, from Snickers to Neuchatel truffle—if you knew enough to lick your way through the hard, gritty surface.

  Logan flushed. She’d known enough to do much more than lick.

  “Hell, after last night—” He didn’t finish his thought. “I warned you. We keep things simple and uncomplicated. But I’ve been straight with you from the get-go and I’m being straight with you now. Nothing happened. Take it or leave it.”

  Aside from the towel, he had nothing to lose. Maybe she was a fool twice over. She shook her head, struggling to believe him, and struggling to ignore the spark of desire flaring up inside. “I’ve been played before,” she confessed softly. “It’s difficult to trust again.”

  “Trust is about all I’ve got to offer.” Keane shifted on his feet and the towel another fraction of an inch. She didn’t dare more than a quick glance or she’d be lost. He pressed on, seemingly unaware.

  “Your ex Twinkletoes is an asshole. But, guess his type is more your speed...” His words sounded soft, wounded. Until his voice took on a sharper tone. “Last night was fun and all. But no more hook ups. No commitments, except for the fight. I want space and privacy. And no questions. We’re strictly business. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she murmured, wondering if her instincts were right, that her comments had gotten under his thick skin. That somehow, she’d hurt him.

  “Agreed,” she restated, a bit more firmly. Keane was a means to an end, after all. Last night—and this morning too—had been a mistake. She should thank him for refocusing her, reminding her of her priorities. A fun, unemotional, short-term fling with him worked in theory. But today’s afterglow and the way her heart churned at the sight of Miss Easywrap on the stoop should have sent warning signals to her brain. She’d been as unemotional as a surfer riding a tidal wave. Still was.

  The dimple just below his hipbone made her heart turn a cartwheel. As if she’d ever give up running her fingers along that brazen display of flesh. He’d awakened something within her, and she was reluctant for it to be extinguished. Besides, she could see his body reacting to her inspection, his penis rising at attention just for her. Clearly he still wanted her.

  What would he do if I reached over and tugged the bit of cloth from his hips? Instead, she inhaled sharply and made to turn away.

  “Look at me.”

  Her gaze lifted, and she wondered if he’d guessed her thoughts, conflicting as they were.

  “Jesus, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  He shook his head as if he wasn’t sure what to do about her blatant assessment, or his body’s undeniable response to it. Let him deny the attraction that always sizzled between them, no matter their mood or topic of conversation. The elephant in the room she was struggling to ignore.

  “We’ll focus on the qualifying bouts, and getting a good night’s sleep.” He moved past her toward his room. “That’s all,” he muttered.

  Logan headed to her room, irritation fueling each step. Keane would fight, and she should have been overjoyed. He was doing her a favor. Her livelihood depended on it. But their exchange left a bitter taste in her mouth. Was it because he’d given voice to what she’d been struggling to say—that theirs was a business agreement? Probably. As if she was just another notch on his belt, forgotten and dismissed. She flopped onto the mattress and willed herself to be just as unaffected by him as he seemed to be by her.

  Why did she feel like she’d danced her last dance?

  Chapter Eleven

  CUTTING WEIGHT: What a fighter does before a weigh-in to quickly drop pounds in order to meet the weight requirement

  As if Jimmy’s nighttime visits weren’t enough of a pain in the ass, Keane was now haunted by a shapely form in a skimpy pink tutu. One moment he’d been dreaming of fireman-carrying his injured friend out of an ambush, the scent of blood and gunpowder strong and potent. Then quicker than a car bomb, the picture changed.

  There was Logan, smelling like sweet vanilla cake and spiraling around on the tips of her toes. Her tiny skirt lifted with every turn, exposing flaming red panties. Worse still, she was topless, her full, luscious breasts bouncing freely. Keane ran his fingers along a brow bone. Nothing like waking up with a pounding head and a throbbing boner.

  Take care of business and maybe the headache will stop, he hazily thought, kicking off the bedspread and readjusting his body.

  A muffled noise came from his bedroom doorway.

  Immediately wide awake, his eyes shifted toward his dream-lurker, now standing in the doorframe. The early morning light cast an innocent glow about her, especially with that deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face. His morning wood blatantly filled his white boxer briefs, as her eyes fixed on him, and, just as blatantly, looked her fill. For Christ’s sake, she was acting as if she’d never seen a semi-naked man before—never seen him naked before.

  He flipped the covers off a leg, shifted on the bed, and looked away. But the damage was done. Her sweet yet naughty demeanor—a total turn on—was now imprinted on his brain. Damn, she was hot as hell. He liked that she wasn’t afraid to hide her desire for him. For a second, he contemplated getting her all fired up about something so her cheeks flushed pink and firecrackers sparkled in those green eyes of hers, and then tossing her onto the bed and sinking deep inside of her.

  But yesterday, there’d been hurt in her eyes, which remi
nded him of their agreement. No sex. Strictly business. A relationship was the last thing he wanted. Blissful aloneness, that’s all he wanted, along with a good face-pounding. No prying questions or sympathetic shoulder to cry on. He’d avoided plenty of the nice ones in the past, since they tended to cling tighter and cause more drama. Logan fit into this category perfectly.

  A shame. Besides his physical response to her, he liked her. There was very little not to like about her. Despite worming her way into his dreams and poking her nose into his business, he respected her for sticking up for herself, and demanding answers about Rosie—even if yesterday’s argument had triggered warning bells in his head. His sense of self-preservation said keep her at an arm’s length.

  “I wanted to tell you I’m not running this morning. I need to head down to the gym early and soothe Jerry, if that’s even possible. Though, the fact that he now has his fighter should do the trick.”

  Keane grunted and climbed out of bed. Ignoring the way her eyes widened, he opened a dresser drawer and pulled out clean sweats.

  “We ended on a bad note yesterday. I just want you to know that I am really thankful you agreed to fight. A few wins and I’ll have enough money for my dance school. Then, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She fell silent as he pulled on his sweats and a clean, white T-shirt. He frowned, mulling over this new bit of information—a dance school? So the Octagon Girl job was temporary? He frowned. For some reason, the news did not sit well with him. In their short time together, he’d gotten used to her just like those bitter herbal teas of hers.

  “That is, unless you want me to move back home to Mrs. Debinska’s sooner rather than later?”

  Shit, why did she have to be so damned persistent? She was his until the preliminary bouts were over. “No,” he said, harshly.

  She exhaled. “About last night—”

  He shot her a look as he tugged on some socks. “A business agreement. Your herbs for my fists.”

  “But you said the herbs didn’t help. That you needed...um...more.” More. His cock stirred at everything that one simple word contained, but he ignored it. Oh yeah, he needed more. More uncomplicated. Less likely to twirl around in his dreams in a skimpy costume. Less likely to fill his mind with images of her voluptuous body.

  He grabbed his sneakers, slid them on and quickly tied the laces. Anxious for this conversation to end and for his solitary run to begin before he changed his mind.

  Black—and pink-striped sneakers came into his line of vision. One stomped in front of him. He looked up. Her hands rested on her hips. “You are the most exasperating, closed-mouthed man I’ve ever met. A business relationship is exactly what I’m agreeing to. I know you don’t want sex, or anything. Bad idea going forward. But, this is awkward for me. Say something.”

  Fuck. It wasn’t a good idea—not at all. But sex was exactly what he wanted from her at that moment, with her breasts swaying and her luscious lips slick from her tongue. Her blond hair bounced, and her green eyes glimmered as daggers shot out of them. Her lips parted slightly in a breathless sort of way. She was stunningly beautiful in her rage. Even as she stomped her foot again, madder than a drill sergeant.

  He had to get out of there and fast.

  Abruptly he stood and made toward the door. Peace and quiet was what he’d settle for. Time to calm his tired mind and ease his throbbing temples. “Later.”

  “Jerry’s expecting you at the gym by noon for the weigh-in. I’ll see you there, right?” he heard her shout from halfway down the hallway.

  * * *

  Cameras flashed and Logan blinked. She forced her lips to remain frozen, twisted in an upward pose, as if scores of lenses and eager-eyed reporters weren’t fixed on her. At least Jerry had penned them in like sheep, corralled in the press booth at the foot of the stage.

  “Looks like your boyfriend is a no-show. If he’s not here in five more minutes, you’re done. Not only will you never work as an Octagon Girl again, that skinny, pantyhose-wearing ballerina boy’s interviews are going to sound mild compared to the bullshit I’ll say about you.” Jerry smirked and gestured to the mass of media. Countless cameras clicked, snapping away at this prime photo op.

  Logan inhaled a calming breath. No point in arguing with the man. Instead, she tried reasoning with him. “You changed venues, Jerry. Who knew you switched the weigh-in to the arena? Keane probably headed over to the gym. Be patient, he’ll be here.” She resisted rolling her eyes. Jerry’s last-minute change in venues was a real problem tonight, with fighters wandering in late and with two other Octagon Girls being no-shows. The new girl, Chloe, was hiding in the locker room, immobilized with a severe case of stage fright. Logan had been forced to handle the crowd single-handedly.

  Another silent prayer was issued. When Keane realized the weigh-in was bound to be more frenzied than a Justin Bieber concert, he might not show. Logan couldn’t blame him. She’d been stuck on this stage, a high-definition screen blaring highlights from previous fights overhead as a steady parade of fighters stepped on and off the scale and Jerry paced around like a mindless, squirrel-faced chicken.

  All fighters from every weight class weighed in tonight, in advance of the eighteen bouts to be fought over the next three nights. The winners of each bout would proceed on to the next fight, and so on, and so on, until the best fighters within their class battled it out to qualify for Tetnus. So far, twenty guys had stripped down to their boxers, stepped on the scale, and had made weight. Well, most of them had.

  Four fighters had been disqualified for being too heavy. There had been a big hubbub over something about Jerry fiddling with the weight requirements. Outrageous. How could he get away with such a thing? Yet Logan wouldn’t put it past ol’ Squirrel Face to manipulate things in his favor. She needed to speak to Keane beforehand, give him a heads up. Plus, she needed reassurance that Keane could now make weight.

  Where was he?

  Everyone except the featherweight fighters and the two men pumped up to be tomorrow night’s showcase fight—Keane and his first welterweight opponent, Young Gun—had weighed in.

  “Come on, man. We don’t have all day!” someone shouted from below. Logan kept her smile in place, even as Jerry shot her a scowl before heading for the mic.

  “Keep your fuckin’ panties on. Young Gun Willie is already backstage. We’re waiting for the Guillotine Grappler, Mr. Tap Out Central, and the fighter to beat, our own...um...”

  She felt like rolling her eyes. Some emcee he was, one too cheap to hire a professional broadcaster.

  “Boom-Yay O’Shea,” a voice squeaked from somewhere up in the rows of bleachers. An area assigned to hard-core MMA fans who ventured out into the cold Burgh winter to bear witness to several men taking turns on a scale.

  “Boom-Yay O’Shea,” repeated the crowd, easily pleased with the silly nickname.

  Twist my tutu. No way was Keane going to like this name, nor the entire spectacle playing itself out here. Nervously, she glanced up the ramp toward the entrance, hoping he hadn’t arrived and overheard.

  Jerry held his hands up, his palms facing the crowd, as if that might stop their chanting. Then, he spoke. “Let me remind you that tomorrow night Sunrise Sessions presents ‘MMA Monster Mayhem,’ an evening of tremendous, world-class MMA action. Doors open at seven and the first fight is at eight.”

  He sucked in a deep breath, and continued, “The fights are winner-takes-all format, meaning if a fighter wins, he’ll fight again that same night. If he wins the second bout, he’ll move on to the next night’s fights, until a victor in each weight class is announced the third night, after bout six.”

  She jumped as Jerry stalked up, his face lurching inches away. “Three more minutes,” he threatened. “Now get out there and entertain them.”

  “You want me to what? Dance?”

  “Dance? What the
fuck...no! What I want is for you to parade your luscious body around the stage and keep these guys excited. Show off another one of the new outfits I bought you. Didn’t you see them in your locker? There’s one for each series of bouts unless I fire your ass. See, you’re an ass-set too.” He leered the last words, his humorless attempt at a pun. The creep.

  The outfit in question wasn’t that flimsy. A bright aqua V-neck halter top was tied around her neck at the top and fell to mid-waist, covering her more effectively than some of the leotards she’d worn to ballet practice. Matching boy shorts hit the crease of her legs, but only in the front. The back was cut diagonally, so the bottom half of her cheeks peeked out. Clearly, the focus was on her ass-ets. Zippity-doo-dah.

  Wanting to distance herself from the squirrel-faced creep, Logan squared her shoulders, put her blue Nikes in motion, and did what Jerry demanded. She marched across the stage, halted, and struck a pose. The clicking of cameras told her she had their attention.

  Pivoting on her toes, she moved back across the stage and posed for the photographers on that end of the corral. Click. Click.

  As long as the cameras did the talking, Logan was fine with this...performance. Years of being onstage had prepared her. As she added more sway to her second sashay across stage, the realization struck that she was more than fine with this. With the media focused on the present rather than her mangled reputation, Logan discovered that for the first time as an Octagon Girl, she was the boss. She was in charge of her own notoriety. The audience was hers to win over their attention and respect, hers to perform for like she’d itched to do, hers to enjoy.

  Overhead, the television commentaries switched over to music videos. Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” had the audience singing, and Logan smiling. If she had to pick an anthem for herself, this would be it. Sure, she’d been down on her luck. But life was on the upswing.

  She hit the edge of the stage and pivoted smoothly on her toes, keeping her arms neatly at her sides, resisting the urge to stretch them overhead as she spun. Giving the press any reminder of her ballerina days would be a bad idea.