Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 16

  Halfway across stage, she glanced toward the entryway. Where was Keane? He’d given her a promise, albeit a reluctant one, and her trust was in his big, burly hands. Trust is about all I’ve got to offer, he’d said.

  He’d be here, all right. Hopefully before ol’ Squirrel Face pitched a hissy fit.

  A guitar solo rang out. She catwalked across the stage in perfect rhythm, her back straight, arms swinging slightly, feet crisscrossing, feeling like the Gisele Bundchen of the MMA world. Training alongside Keane had sculpted her muscles in a curvy, more obvious way than the firm, tight lines she’d acquired from dancing. The new lift in her backside being the most notable—and most obvious in this get-up.

  She stopped mid-stage, rose up on her toes, and twirled, landing to jauntily face the audience. They loved it—she could tell by the flashing bulbs and, smack behind them, from the grinning male faces in the first row. One bizarre guy in a Santa hat even blew her a kiss.

  Why, I’m grinning too! Incredible.

  With a toss of her head, she made a forty-five-degree turn, stretched one long leg forward, and continued along her imaginary runway. And mentally stumbled as she caught sight of the tall figure partially obscured by the temporary curtain hanging at the side of the stage. Fascinated, she watched a set of familiar yet furious blue eyes give her the once over. Keane. Jerry’s welterweight had finally arrived, as hardened and mean-looking as ever.

  The smile fell from her face. His earlier dismissal still stung. How dare he stand there, one massive muscle of irritation, and burst her small, fleeting bubble of happiness. Yesterday’s confrontation danced around in her mind, too. Strictly business, he’d said. Well, she’d introduce him to her business, that of being an Octagon Girl. Whether he liked it or not. Give him a taste of her...assets, and show him what he’d be missing with her new you-can-look-but-don’t-touch policy.

  The thought of his hands on her made her face warm, but pride spurred her on.

  She shortened her steps. Channeling her inner supermodel, she swayed her hips from side to side and thrust her breasts forward, hoping to catch his attention. Her mind played over every naughty moment they’d shared that last, mind-blowing evening, fueling her movements. She hoped it was all there, reflected on her face for him to see.

  Plastering a sultry smile on her lips, she turned first to the snapping cameras and then to the welterweight hidden offstage. Remember, this is just a business arrangement, dear Keane, she mentally scoffed, strutting closer and closer to him.

  He shifted, and she wanted to believe that slight movement was her touchdown, a sign of her effect on him. But, she wasn’t sure.

  She so wanted to be certain.

  Prancing closer, she noticed the way his arms folded across his black zip-up sweatshirt and his legs angled down in an inverted V. A casual stance, except for the tight curl of his fisted fingers. She didn’t dare make eye contact.

  Over her shoulder, she flashed the crowd another Cheshire Cat grin. Slowly, she stopped, pivoted on her toes, and twirled so she faced the audience. Just feet away from the sexy welterweight off in the shadows. Making sure her back was to him, she rose up on her toes and struck her best model pose yet. Boy, she’d give anything to see Keane’s reaction right now. Would he even notice the cut of her boy shorts?

  The music ended and so did her impromptu time-to-torment-Keane performance. Now what?

  Logan hesitated. She could exit toward Keane or walk back across the stage toward Jerry, who’d finished befriending the brunette and was back to shooting her dirty looks.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to make that decision. Jerry spotted Keane—she could tell because he threw his hands into the air in a my-prize-fighter-has-finally-fuckin’-arrived gesture, and was now hastily approaching the mic.

  “Uh, hum...ladies,” Jerry’s neck pivoted toward the brunette, “and gentlemen. I’m Jerold Batelli, Chairman of the East Coast MMA Federation.”

  “You said the same thing an hour ago, man! Where’s the welterweights?”

  But not everyone was displeased. The brunette reporter had her camera fixed on Jerry, as if to capture every nuance of his handling—or mishandling—of the weigh-in. Enjoy the fleeting sunshine, Jerry. Logan knew full well how the press was a fickle friend. One moment showering you with praise, and the next leaving you floundering on your ass. And, if there was someone in need of a thorough lambasting, it was that weasel.

  Jerry noticed the attention as well, and his chest swelled out like a baboon’s as he continued, “Welcome once again to Mellon Arena and to the event you’ve all been waiting for. This afternoon, we’ve been weighing in—get it, weighing in?—on our featherweight, welterweight, and heavyweight contenders.”

  Two-months-too-late Santa rolled his eyes in disbelief. As if he had room to talk in that get-up. Though stand-up comedy wasn’t exactly Jerry’s forté.

  Oblivious, he continued, “Let me remind you that in order to compete, featherweights must not exceed the weight of 145 pounds, welterweights 168 pounds, and heavyweights 265 pounds.”

  Keane had told her that making weight was always a pain in the ass. That fighters frequently had to cut thirty to forty pounds to do so. And how, in days leading up to a bout, fighters did crazy things to slim down. Fasting, electrolytes, hours in a sauna—whatever it took. Logan frowned, trying to remember what he’d said about the maximum for welterweights. Wasn’t it one hundred and seventy pounds?

  Unfortunately, she was certain that was it. Her mouth had dropped open when he’d told her his training weight and she’d wondered how such a wall of splendidly muscled man could be that light.

  “Shit,” she heard Keane mutter behind her. Logan stiffened. How could one curse word carry so much meaning? Although she didn’t turn around, she could feel Keane’s movements through the vibration of the stage, as he jogged or jump roped or whatever he was doing to make the floor sway under his sudden exertions. The rest of the air sizzled out of her bubble. Oh, hell. He was worried about making weight...which meant big trouble.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Let me first introduce the pretty ladies of the MMA, our Octagon ring girls.”

  Splitting leotards! Surely Jerry wasn’t planning on announcing her, being that she’d just spent minutes parading across stage.

  “New to the cage tonight is the charming Chloe Morris.” A stunning, drop-dead-gorgeous girl in an Octagon outfit matching Logan’s own walked out on stage. Logan blinked, wondering if this was the same person who’d been curled over a bench and moaning uncontrollably back in the locker room. Chloe made her way to Jerry, her face brighter than a cherry on an ice cream sundae. Yep, still nervous—you could tell by the way she wrung her hands together—and shy. Poor thing. Logan felt her embarrassment. Yet, the crowd didn’t care one iota and fist pumped the air in greeting. It pays to be beautiful.

  “Another newbie to MMA...Miss Rachelle Getz.”

  No one appeared on stage. Logan had an ample view of the other side, behind the curtain. It was empty. Another one bites the dust, Logan thought.

  “Rachelle Geeeeeetz,” Jerry trilled, craning his neck back toward the curtain. Chloe’s pink cheeks were nothing compared to the deep, crimson flush that spread across Jerry’s face in a blotchy webbed pattern. Yep, another one bites the dust. His Octagon Girl was a no-show. Logan could almost feel sorry for him, until she remembered how he’d treated her when she herself had missed weigh-ins. Rachelle was in big trouble.

  Jerry must have remembered as well, judging by the look he shot her. So much for mending matters with the ketchup-colored Squirrel Face.

  “I want everyone to stand up and put your hands in the air for the one, the only only...Luscious Logan!”

  “Asshole,” Keane snapped but, except for Logan, it fell on deaf ears. The audience had begun to chant “Luscious, Luscious, Luscious!”

&n
bsp; Logan was not about to join the red-faced party by the mic. Instead, she remembered Keane whispering her new nickname, how much she liked hearing it roll off his tongue in that sexy, low voice of his. The thought calmed her.

  How you treat this audience and the press affects the impression they form of you, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she seen that moments ago during her quasi-modeling strut? Clearly, she was the most popular Octagon Girl. Granted, Jerry had fired nearly everyone else, so in a way, it was popularity by elimination. But nevertheless...she was in control here.

  As she crossed the stage, another idea danced around in her mind. Keane needed to shed weight quickly. Maybe she could buy him a little time.

  Her arm shot up. In a gesture similar to the Queen’s wave, but with her fingers rolled in tight, she motioned into the air.

  The crowd loved it and fist-pumped back.

  Raising both hands overhead, she began to clap until the entire auditorium mimicked her actions. Then she strutted her stuff, making sure to move as far away from Keane as possible. Away from Jerry and Chloe too; the first, was definitely not pleased by further delays in his schedule, and the second looked so shocked, her mouth gaped open.

  “Luscious, Luscious, Luscious,” her fans chanted.

  In a year full of firsts, this one was a keeper.

  Chapter Twelve

  HIP THROW: When a hip is used to first knock an opponent off balance and then to flip them onto their back

  “Whoo, hoo! Loving them shorts, honey!” Sal hollered, coming to stand next to him. From his position behind the black curtain, Keane had a clear view of the events unfolding on stage.

  He sent an uppercut flying toward the curtain, trying miserably to ignore both the old timer and the sway of Logan’s sweet ass on display for the entire arena.

  “Look at her go. That’s my girl, working the crowd and all.”

  Keane kept up a steady jog. Even from this angle on the side of the stage, he could tell his eyes weren’t the only ones fixed on her ass. He sent another fist flying.

  “Glad I didn’t miss this.”

  “Shut up, Sal,” Keane shouted. What the hell is she doing? There was no explanation for the scene playing out on stage right now. Jerry spoke into his mic several times but the crowd’s chanting—Luscious, Luscious—drowned him out. The chanting from this crew pissed Keane off, so much so that he wanted to grab the guy with the brightest smirk from the front row and grind his nose into the stage. Right next to Jerry’s, after he got his hands on him.

  Jerry had intentionally riled these animals up. He was going to pay for it, too. Although, Logan seemed to be...what the holy hell was she doing?

  “What I wouldn’t give to be you for a night,” Sal muttered.

  Keane tossed another jab at the curtain and picked up speed. He wished the locker room had a sauna or even a hot tub, someplace to sweat out two pounds of excess water weight.

  “Jerry might have an eye for girly wear but there’s not much else good I can say about the guy.”

  “Is this even legal?” Keane demanded. Furious. So much so he wished the old timer would leave him alone before he did something he’d regret. Of course that asshole’s messing with the weight requirement was illegal, and stupid beyond belief.

  Nothing Keane hated more than going into a fight riddled with surprises. He’d made a habit of being careful, of evaluating ahead of time the skill level of his opponent, of weighing the odds of what the potential outcome might be. How the fight was being managed. Shit, was an honest, well-run fight too much to expect?

  Why cut the weight requirement by two pounds? It didn’t add up.

  “God knows, it should be. Those hips in those shorts are definitely illegal. Makes a man forget all about fighting and turn the old heart a-thumping.”

  What the fuck? Keane stopped mid-stride, barely holding off on turning the old timer’s head a-thumping, and glared at the irritating man. Sal shifted nervously on his feet as awareness of his mistake dawned on him.

  “Eh...um...we’re discussing Jerry. Right. Did you know about his change in venues? Waited around for a while until the kid at the smoothie bar told me about the arena.”

  “That fool lowered the weight requirement to 168 pounds,” Keane said, as he began a series of jumping jacks. Two pounds less than the standard UFC requirement didn’t seem like much. That is, it wouldn’t have been if Keane hadn’t hydrated with excessive amounts of Logan’s herbal teas to shake off a wicked headache. Dumb move. If he had known Jerry would be messing with the weight restrictions, he’d have waited until afterward.

  “God knows why, but Jerry’s probably using DREAM or another MMA organization’s weight classes instead of the UFC’s,” Sal replied, surprised.

  Keane jabbed in between jacks. Up-downs might do the trick but it was a risky move working out his muscles while trying to cut weight.

  Sal moved off to the side, came back with Keane’s jacket, and tossed it to him. “Put this on, it will help you break a sweat. I’ve some experience outmaneuvering the scale. If all else fails, you can file a protest about Jerry’s screwball switch with the UFC execs. I’m itching to do so, no matter what happens.”

  Jogging in place, Keane slid into his jacket. For once, the old timer’s training experience came in handy.

  Feedback from a microphone pierced through the chanting and the crowd hushed. “You’re walking a thin line here, Logan,” Jerry threatened in a low voice, which the mic picked up and carried. “Stand over by Chloe at the back of the stage...now!”

  “Aw, leave Luscious alone. She’s the only thing keeping me here while you get your fighters organized.” This came from a fan in the second row, an idiot wearing a Santa hat.

  Keane exchanged punches with the air, a right hook promised for Jerry, and a left upper-cut for the smug Santa Claus and his lame attempt at scoring points with Logan.

  Logan walked to the back of the stage, providing every guy looking to score with a full visual of her ass cheeks. She must have sensed his irritation because her eyes searched him out.

  For a moment, they stared at each other. Then her lips moved, mouthing, “Are you okay?”

  Damn how her concern bothered him. He turned away. Yeah, once Jerry’s nose bled from the face-plant he’d put on him after this whole debacle was over, then he’d be okay. Damn, why had that asshole changed the weight requirement?

  No logical answer came to mind. Jerry announced the featherweights and two smaller fighters took to the stage. Another break in MMA protocol. A lucky one. Clearly the asshole was riling the crowd up for his fight with Young Gun by saving their weigh-in to the end. It’d be a major fuck up on his part if Keane couldn’t shed the two pounds.

  One at a time, each man stripped down to his boxers and bare feet and stepped onto the scale.

  Keane picked up his pace. It was a matter of minutes before he’d be called on stage. Luckily, a handful of reporters had been allowed out of their pen and were snapping close-ups as the featherweights struck a few muscle poses.

  Jerry’s shrill tone filled the arena. Time was up.

  “Now for the men to watch, the pairing you’ve all been waiting for. Two amazing fighters. Welterweights with equal ability but very different styles.”

  Keane neatly alternated between a few quick jabs and a series of kicks. Every second counted.

  “First up, introducing Willie ‘Young Gun’ Reynolds.”

  He used the last few crucial seconds to beat out some high leg lifts. The weigh-in was going to be a crap shoot, a slight chance in hell he’d make it.

  “The official weight for Willie is 156 pounds.”

  “Where did he recruit this—” Sal muttered, but was cut off by Jerry. Not breaking pace, Keane shrugged off the heavy jacket and threw it at the trainer.

  “And now I want to b
ring onstage his opponent and the fighter to beat. Introducing The King of the Guillotine, Mr. Tap Out Central, our very own Keane ‘Boom-Yay’ O’Shea.”

  A fuckin’ circus freak show, that’s what this was. All he wanted was a good, clean and challenging bout. The kind of fight he missed. Keane gritted his teeth. For a second, he contemplated cutting out, until he caught sight of Logan on her tippy-toes, anxiously looking toward him. A less than subtle reminder of his promise.

  Without breaking stride, he jogged out and over toward the group surrounding the scale at center stage.

  A fist waved at him threateningly. A small, unfighter-like fist connected to skinny arms with barely any muscle tone. Those arms lead to a lean, tight chest shaped like a wannabe Marine recruit’s—one who Uncle Sam would send home packing within a day. And damn it all, wouldn’t you know the face topping it all off was...young. The kid wasn’t twenty, if that.

  This was Young Gun Willie? His opponent in the showcase match-up?

  He scowled at Jerry. The jerk simply shrugged his shoulders.

  Right then and there, Keane knew the truth—the change in weights hadn’t been a mistake or a result of Jerry adhering to an alternate set of guidelines. Jerry had done it so this unsuspecting amateur could go up a class and fight as a welterweight. Lose as a welterweight, too.

  Keane stopped jogging, knowing it was too late to dodge the inevitable. He wasn’t about to back out now, not in front of everyone. Not in front of Logan. He wanted to jab someone’s face in, anyone except the baby-faced sacrificial lamb Jerry’d recruited.

  Resigned, Keane stalked up to the scale, ignoring Logan’s anxious expression.

  Damn, the kid didn’t stand a chance. If Keane made weight.

  * * *

  Twist my tutu, what’s with him? Offstage, Logan had been trying to get Keane’s attention for the past few minutes. He’d briefly caught her look, then snatched his gaze away and blatantly ignored her.