Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 18

  Since he’d gotten the news of Jimmy’s death, Keane had taken care when selecting sparring partners and opponents. Tough, brawny meatheads out for blood were preferable. Well-trained professionals. Hard-heads who could take a punch and recover from a knock-out.

  “One day, I’m gonna kick your ass,” his reckless friend had joked.

  Little did he know how his promise had played out in Keane’s guilt-riddled conscience. Every night since his friend had died, Keane had had his ass kicked all the way from Pittsburgh to New York City, and back.

  Except, fighting was all Keane knew. Up until Jimmy died, it had been one of the things he most enjoyed. Now, it was a necessary release. Nothing more, nothing less. With carefully selected opponents, ones he couldn’t hurt too badly.

  Jimmy wasn’t the only reckless one. Why had he promised Logan he’d fight with freakin’ Jerry picking his match-ups?

  “Dessert?”

  Logan had changed into that sweatshirt that drove him nuts, the one that fell off a shoulder. Her shoulder was bare, creamy and smooth except for the mark his lips had left on it. She waved the can of whipped cream in front of his face.

  “Will this be too much sugar with the blueberries?”

  He studied her and contemplated what he wanted to eat with that whipped cream. It wasn’t fucking blueberries. Something must have shown on his face, and her cheeks flushed pink.

  Damn, she was an unexpected surprise. His renewed rush of lust was a surprise as well. And Keane didn’t dig surprises—hated them, as a matter of fact.

  “I didn’t know if consuming processed sugars before a bout was good for tomorrow’s performance.”

  Here we go. Her unspoken question was tactfully hidden there. Are you up to fighting? Shit, what was he going to tell her when he didn’t know the answer himself?

  She pulled out the chair next to him and sat. He had to give her credit for the way she silently waited for his answer. The blueberries were carefully spooned out into two bowls, the canister shaken vigorously, and whipped cream painstakingly spiraled on top of each dish.

  Still, he couldn’t keep his hand off her. Redirecting his attention away from that shoulder, he reached out for a piece of loose blond hair and curled the soft strand around his finger before tucking it behind her ear.

  The air sparked brighter with unspoken passion. She looked at him, green eyes alight with desire, her lips parted and ready.

  It would be so easy to clear the table with one swipe of his arm. Press her onto her back and use her nipple as the topping for his whipped cream pie. Luscious and sweet. And too sore from his rough attention.

  He hesitated. Her eyes widened in confusion. Then, he pulled the stupidest, most asinine move of all time. He kissed her. But not his typical foreplay kind. Not the kind designed to get into a woman’s panties or onto her knees. No, this kiss was light. Gentle.

  She withdrew, stood, and then situated herself on his lap. Leaning into him, she gently kissed his forehead, cheek and lips. Her eyes were filled with emotion, a mirror image of his own. Full of... Holy shit!

  His head snapped back. Moving her off his lap, he jumped to his feet. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe it was his cock doing the thinking here? That was the most likely explanation, though he didn’t want to dwell on it.

  “Gotta get up early before the fights. Get some sleep,” he heard himself say. Avoiding her eyes, he stalked out of the kitchen. Tomorrow, he’d fight and win. Find a way to make the kid tap out. Without fuckin’ killing anyone.

  * * *

  Every MMA fan within a hundred-mile radius of Pittsburgh was crowded into Mellon Arena for the first round of qualifiers. The crowd was a mixed bunch, from executives and blue collar workers to college kids and middle-aged fathers. All passionate about this emerging sport, and easily excited when their favorite fighter pulled a surprise Kimura, Muay Thai or any other technical move that showed off their spectacular fighting style. Or so Logan had heard; she wouldn’t know a Kimura from a kimono unless it showed up as part of a dance costume, not that she’d been dressed in any recently—except the red number.

  Her cheeks flushed at the memory.

  Hopefully, she’d find someone to serve as her translator for all these funny-named fighting terms. Tonight, after her Octagon Girl performances, she planned on sticking around for Keane’s bout. Curiosity played a part in her decision, but she was worried too.

  Her housemate was quite the enigma. One-two-three, he’d pinned her on the foyer floor and pushed inside her. Then four-five-six, she was crying out his name in a toe curling climax. The beautiful man’s stamina was mind-boggling—not that she was complaining. But that wasn’t what worried her.

  Since the weigh-in, he was either all over her or...withdrawn. After the final foyer tryst, he’d gone from blazing hot to Arctic cold in one second flat.

  Logan closed her locker and tugged at the hem of her shorts. Maybe she was over-thinking this? After all, Keane was up at dawn training and bulking up for tonight’s fight. She’d barely gotten a passing grunt out of him in the few times he’d taken a breather. But, he was here at the arena, and more importantly, he was ready.

  “Is it safe for little ol’ me to come in?” Chloe strutted around the lockers with a big ol’ grin on her face. Confident and carefree, a far cry from yesterday’s battle with the jitters. Logan was happy for her, impressed at how she’d overcome her shyness. This Octagon Girl might be here to stay.

  “The janitors are all a-buzz about the mysterious flood in the locker room. Water drippin’ off locker doors, lockers not anywhere near the showers. Large wet footprints...good thing I headed straight home. Lordy, who knows what I might have walked in on.” Dangling Logan’s blue boy shorts by the label, she waved them conspiratorially.

  Logan laughed. Wow, Chloe had a sense of humor, all right. Grabbing the shorts, she tossed them into a nearby hamper.

  “Rumor has it that drop-dead gorgeous fighter is ya boyfriend. He’s hotter than the devil’s anvil, for sure. Way dang envious!”

  “A mutual business arrangement, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right! Friends with benefits, and so on...sugar, I near about fainted at the weigh-in. That hunk is hot for ya. The way he’s fixin’ on ya, pretty much sums it up. M-I-N-E.”

  “It’s complicated.” Logan sighed. Now she sounded like a Facebook status. Once more, she yanked down the hem of her shorts. Today’s version were even smaller and more annoying, with the bits of red material gathering between her cheeks.

  Chloe, clad in an identical outfit, giggled.

  “Just you wait until you’re up in the Octagon ring, strutting around with the wedgie of all wedgies.” Logan tested the knot at her neck, making sure it was secure. Two miniscule strings were all this red and white tie-dyed tube top had to hold her in place. If her chest had been any smaller, it would have given her a uni-boob. “Guess Rachelle bailed. Jerry’s going to flipping freak.”

  “Jerry shmerry,” Chloe mumbled in a rich Southern accent. Every so often, it became more pronounced.

  Texas, Logan decided.

  “My daddy will have him fired if Jerry gets all buggy-eyed and puffy-faced on me again. Ya know, when he’s mad, he looks like an ol’ toad.”

  Yep, a Texas belle with a rich daddy, one who’d miraculously recovered from her nervousness back at the weigh-in. What Logan wouldn’t give to see Chloe serve Jerry a slice of humble pie.

  “Not a toad but a squirrel face. His eyes pinch in and his cheeks bloat out like he’s storing winter nuts.”

  Chloe burst into laughter. “I like that. Squirrel Face.”

  “Are you ready to check in with him and work out which bouts we’re announcing? I’m doing the welterweights.”

  “Ya certainly are.”

  Logan rolled her eyes. “You seem more comfortable
today, Chloe. Aren’t you nervous about working with this crowd?”

  They made their way around the lockers and over to the door. Perhaps she should have asked herself that same question, because her stomach tightened and her pulse sped up. She took a deep dancer’s breath, hoping to calm her nerves.

  “Nope. Not nervous,” her partner announced. “Not much of a drinker, but those five shots of Stolichnaya in my latte done did me good. Soon, I’ll be smilin’ like a half-mad bobcat.”

  Leaping leotards. Just add watch-out-for-pissed-drunk-Octagon-Girl to today’s list of worries.

  * * *

  The announcer’s microphone pierced their eardrums with a blast of feedback, hushing the crowd. Logan clutched her ring card tighter. It was time for the welterweight bout to begin. She hadn’t seen Keane all night. Hopefully, he’d been warming up in his locker room while she’d been busy strutting her stuff for two prior bouts.

  If she hadn’t been so concerned about Keane, she might have enjoyed herself. The fans and press had grinned and wildly fist pumped the air, enthusiastic about her appearances. It reminded her of those last precious performances at Lincoln Center when her future had been full of such promise. At the time, Pierre had turned green with envy. Oh, if she’d only known then.

  Logan yanked at her polyester wedgie. Aside from the wedgie, Squirrel Face and the tabloid press eagerly waiting for her to mess up so they could feed the drama hounds, the performer in her was beginning to like her temporary job as Octagon Girl. Hey, might as well enjoy the spotlight. And tonight she’d be heading home with a new, crisp paycheck.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, all eyes on your favorite busty ballerina and Octagon Girl, Luscious Logan Rettino.”

  Later, she was going to have a talk with this guy about straightening out his boring, repetitive rhetoric. Get over it already, buddy.

  She hoisted a number one ring card overhead. Knowing what to expect, she calmly moved down the ramp. Hundreds of eyes swung her way. A few steps up and she positioned herself on the rim of the cage. Cameras rose for a picture. With a hip thrust out, she took turns giving each of them a jaunty smile.

  “How about an interview, Logan?” one young reporter yelled up at her.

  A popular Aerosmith song filled the arena and saved her from responding. She pranced off in tune with the beat.

  Chloe waved up to her from a seat below, smiling and cheerful with several bouts under her wing. Fortunately, she’d made it through her bouts without trouble. The shots in her latte apparently had waited to kick in. The fan-boy babysitter in Logan’s seat next to her had better not get too comfortable.

  Before she knew it, her performance had ended. Glancing out toward the entryway, she searched for Keane. No luck. She propped the ring card up against the side of the stairs as she claimed her seat.

  Chloe leaned in. “This is my first fight.”

  “Mine, too.” Logan shouted back. Tonight, she’d announced the first few bouts but hadn’t stuck around to watch them. She never did. Instead, she’d headed into the arena’s underbelly, hoping for a moment with Keane. He was nowhere to be found. After that, Chloe had consumed most of her time, and at present, the little Texan lush was swaying in the seat next to her. Soon, Chloe’d be doing the Texas two-step, if she didn’t face-plant first. Better keep her next to me and within sight.

  The music took on an ominous beat. “Weighing in at one hundred and fifty-six pounds, with a black belt in Seibukan Jujutsu and with fists that pack a lethal punch, introducing welterweight Young Gun Willie.”

  Chloe burst into giggles beside her. “A black belt in Chewbacca juju-juice.”

  Logan grimaced.

  Young Gun Willie moved down the ramp. Confident. Determined. A close-up of his face filled the widescreen TVs. He pulled a reverse Mona Lisa, pressing his lips tight and mean while his eyes sparkled with delight. Logan wasn’t sure what exactly being an expert in “Chewbacca juju-juice” entailed. Or if it was enough to keep Keane at bay. She knew Keane was worried about fighting such a young kid—the fact he was doing so at all was a little surprising after his reaction yesterday. She hoped Willie would be okay in there, for Keane’s sake as well as his own.

  Willie made a grand showing of stripping off his clothing as he jogged around the inside of the Octagon cage.

  “Now introducing the King of Tap Out, the Guillotine Grappler, the man who forced Andy the Annihilator into submission in seven seconds flat. The one, the only, Boom-Yay O’Shea!”

  Logan jumped to her feet. Along with hundreds of other eager eyes, she searched the entryway at the top of the ramp. No music accompanied Keane’s introduction. Only the murmur of the anxious crowd was heard.

  Seconds seemed like hours. The buzz of the fans escalated. Logan bit her lip as her gaze fixed on that one spot, waiting. Hoping.

  A swarm of trainers—Jerry’s people—filled the entryway and began moving down the ramp. Keane was there, sequestered somewhere in the middle where Logan couldn’t see him. The image on the Jumbotron screen shook as the cameramen jockeyed for a clear shot of him as well. Finally, it steadied. And Logan grinned.

  In a typical fuck-you gesture, Keane had pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head and now kept his chin down as he approached the cage. She didn’t have to see his face to know what she’d find there. Clearly, this grand spectacle didn’t fit his low-key style.

  Keane entered the cage. Ignoring Willie, the crowd and Logan—did he even know she was sitting there?—Keane jogged in place and jabbed the air.

  Sal did see her, waving to her as he positioned himself in Keane’s corner.

  “How about both welterweights make their way to the center,” the announcer in the cage directed.

  Instead, Keane came toward her, toward Sal and his corner. His worked his hood off. Despite herself, Logan gasped. The way his jaw tightened, plus the narrowed slant to his eyes, he looked downright mean. Very unlike the man who’d kissed her so gently last night.

  Sweatshirt, T-shirt and pants were handed over to Sal in exchange for a bottle. Keane drank deeply and poured the remnants over his head. A fine line of water cascaded down his face, down his chest and along the swirl of his tattoo. Not enough to puddle the mat. But more than enough to make Logan’s mouth go dry.

  He shook his head like a puppy after a bath. Blinking away the moisture, his eyes fell on her. Briefly. He scowled and turned away. But at least Logan knew he’d spotted her. Knew she sat there, close to his corner. Just in case he needed her.

  * * *

  Fucking hell. He wished to God Logan had changed her mind. Keane had more than his share of problems right now. Not only did he have to worry about injuring this kid, but he knew, despite what she said, Logan had no clue how brutal a fight could be.

  He could see her out of the corner of his eye. When he landed a well-placed kick and caused the kid to stumble, she covered her face. When he let Young Willie nail him in the mouth and bust open his lip—an effective tactic used to draw the kid closer for a takedown—she jumped to her feet. He needed to ignore her. Focusing on the kid took every ounce of his willpower. He couldn’t afford a mistake. He might hurt him. Or worse.

  He took his time, let Young Gun run out of ammo from all the jogging about, defensive tucks and swivels he was so fond of using. The horn sounded. Five minutes had passed and Round One was over. Willie was winded, and grinning like a madman. The silly kid thought he’d done well.

  Keane followed Logan’s movements with the Round Two ring card around the cage toward the stairs. There was no avoiding her. Willie stopped and said something to her. Something that made Logan blush. Every muscle in Keane’s body flexed, ice-cold rage filling every pore. Right then, Keane decided he’d had enough with this kid. Time for a tap out.

  “Your lip! Are you okay? Why did you let him hit you like that? Put your hands up ne
xt time.”

  Seemed like everyone was a mixed martial arts expert these days. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he grunted and pushed past her. Or tried to, before she blocked him with the damned sign. Outmaneuvered by a ring card.

  “I’ve never had to announce a second bout. What is going on? Is it Willie’s training in Chewbacca juju-juice or however you say it?”

  “Jujutsu.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Look. Announce this bout and then disappear.”

  “I’m an Octagon Girl, not a magician.”

  “Just do it,” he said threateningly, dodging her sign to descend the steps.

  Sal rushed over and handed him a water. They stood there next to the cage and waited for the blessed horn.

  “Don’t say a word.” The old man closed his mouth, heeding the warning. Yet his eyes spoke volumes. Especially when they widened, and widened still further as Logan strutted by in butt-hugging hot pants, skimpier and more fuckin’ revealing than the last pair.

  She finished, descended, and wouldn’t you know it, brushed right past him, making sure to stay just out of his reach. “I can’t. Chloe...” Luscious muttered. Dragging her up the ramp, locking her into a locker room, and ripping those shorts off her suddenly seemed more important than the fight.

  Double fuck. Time to finish Young Willie off. Fast, and with care.

  The horn rang out.

  Willie strutted back into the cage like a prized peacock. Certain of his abilities and underestimating his opponent. Stupid kid.

  Keane waited for him and took a kick in the ribs. Willie thought he’d done some damage and lessened the distance between them. While a quick upper cut or kick to the kidneys would finish Young Gun off, Keane discounted it as too risky.

  The next time Willie moved in, Keane struck. Ducking, he wove one arm beneath a leg and broke the kid’s balance. He was on him in seconds and executed a quick, clean butterfly guard. Young Gun had nowhere to go but down on his back, with Keane on top of him.

  He stretched Willie’s arm across his own and with the other hand, bent it to the mat.