Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 2

  My fiancé. She fought back a scream. Who cheated on me, dropped me on national television, shattered my ankle, and—as if that isn’t bad enough—is now blaming my average-sized breasts for his careless mistake.

  Aside from destroying her career, the jerk had broken her heart and her ankle. Neither had mended without complications.

  Sammy Hagar came to the rescue, rasping on and on about finishing what was started. A welcome segue. The crowd’s attention swung toward the top of the ramp, a reminder that the crowd wasn’t really here to see her, or the two other Octagon Girls. The real performer was entering the arena.

  A welterweight, that much she remembered. Her boss Jerry had lit into her for missing the weigh-ins—all four of them. It wasn’t like she’d received a job description or a how-to guide when she signed on, but this weigh-in seemed to matter the most. He’d been anxious to feed the new fighter’s ego with a grand showing of press, pampering and pretty women. Yet from what Logan had gathered from Jerry’s nasty tirade, the weigh-in had not gone well, and she had borne the brunt of his anger.

  “One more screw up, and you can forget the huge salary I’m paying you,” he’d threatened earlier. This man held her livelihood in the palm of his greasy hand. He could fire whomever he pleased because there was a constant stream of women waiting to be ring card girls, ready to steal her spot. She had to be more careful not to piss him off.

  Though Logan had only been working for the slim, squirrel-faced bully a short time, it was clear to her that he’d sell his own mother for a dollar bill. And this particular fighter meant money. The deafening roar of the crowd confirmed it.

  Seizing the opportunity, Logan tucked in her chin and descended. Tossing the ring card to the side, she hastened away from the Octagon cage. Rows of Pittsburgh Steelers defensive linemen, or so it seemed, flanked the pathway. She ignored them.

  The object of their ear-shattering affection was making his way toward her. Or rather, toward the Octagon. A black sweatshirt framed his body, unzipped and exposing the muscled cords of his upper body, but its hood was pulled up, hiding his face. Camera bulbs flashed, and a chiseled chest, lean, flat stomach, and bulging pecs came into the light.

  Unlike other fighters, whose bulk was larger than their frame, this man was proportioned like a fine piece of sculpted marble. A Michelangelo in the flesh, but more brutal, forceful. A beautiful synthesis of strength and physique. With a fondness for art himself, judging by the swirling tribal tattoo that began on the left side of his torso and spiraled down along his abs.

  She moved toward the edge of the ramp, making room for him, his entourage and the media to pass.

  Except in her preoccupation with the fighter, she’d forgotten the obnoxious fans lining the walkway.

  A hand snaked out from the crowd and slid around her waist. Before she could guess his intentions, her back was pressed up against a big, broad chest. In one awkward movement, the rowdy fan lifted her high off the ground.

  “Gotcha, Octagon Girl!” the animal snickered. A guy nearby laughed. Someone thumped him on the back as if to say well done for messing with her. No help whatsoever.

  With a swift kick backward, the heel of her sneaker connected with his groin.

  “Ah, the bitch kicked me!” he bellowed and tossed her away.

  Once more, Logan was falling. Falling toward the ground, helpless to stop it. A professional ballerina knew how to fall, unless she didn’t see the fall coming.

  You’ll never dance again. The surgeon’s final words still haunted her. The metal rods securing her ankle, the reason. Ballet had no room for a ballerina who couldn’t land gracefully. And an Octagon Girl who let herself be tossed around by the crowd would find herself out of yet another job.

  She closed her eyes, twisted around, hoping to land with her good foot...and connected with a rock-hard chest. An arm wrapped around her back, securing her, as another reached beneath her bottom. She was yanked upward.

  Breathless, she paused for an inhale of sweet air. Only to lose it in a long, rushed exhale as she found herself staring into a set of steel-blue eyes. Exquisite eyes framed by charcoal lashes that went on for miles. Eyes so striking her heart performed a pirouette. Unamused eyes that pierced her to the core. A lifetime seemed to pass before reality sunk in.

  The welterweight had caught her. More importantly, he hadn’t dropped her—no matter her bra size.

  She wrapped her arms around his muscled neck and at the same time, her bare stomach pressed against his. Her skin sizzled with awareness where they touched. An unfamiliar spark of energy that had her leaning in closer and wanting more.

  With a soft gasp, she took in his rugged, clenched jaw. High, angular cheekbones led down to full, moist lips pressed together, uninvitingly. But his scowl did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. Beautiful. Much too beautiful to be a fighter.

  She lost her breath. Perhaps it was the way he held her against him. Or her very physical response to him—the tightening of her nipples as sure as a snowy Pittsburgh winter.

  His somber demeanor didn’t deter the giddiness fluttering about in her chest. All was not forsaken this time. The rugged warrior had caught her. Thank God. Thank you.

  Ignoring the jeering crowd, his anxious handlers, the clicking cameras, and even the taut, guarded look of the fighter holding her, Logan angled her head. Awareness registered in his baby blues as she leaned forward. In a year full of firsts, this one was about to take the prize.

  She pressed her lips against his with a heartfelt thank you.

  The welterweight’s lips parted and, for a split second, moved beneath Logan’s own. He tastes like fresh mint, she noted before his strong arms gently, yet firmly, pushed her away and settled her back on the floor.

  “Jesus, lady, save it for after the bout,” one of the handlers said as he tugged her away from the fighter, keeping a firm hold on her.

  Over her shoulder, she caught the welterweight’s stare before his entourage swept him away.

  “Let go,” she spat out at the ancient handler and yanked her arm free.

  “Tsk, tsk, sweetheart. If you want more of a taste of that cynical devil, better change your tune now. He’s got more women lined up than a shoe sale.”

  The old timer’s eyes skimmed over her as they reached the end of the ramp. “An attractive bit like you can do much better than that cold bastard. Unfriendly, somber type, only talks with his fists. Beats the hell out of me why the ladies love him so.”

  “Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. I was just...” She stopped short as the handler reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and offered it to her. A card. His card.

  “Like I said, some men know how to treat a lady.” His hands rose up next to his ear in a call-me gesture. Aghast, she could only stare as Grandpa Romeo headed back down the ramp toward the Octagon.

  A bell rang, and the crowd began cheering, muffling the stream of curses she’d been holding in. The noise escalated, and so did her disgust at what had transpired tonight, what she’d done. She tore the card, tossed the remnants on the ground, and with the soles of her sneakers, she mashed the tiny pieces.

  What on earth had come over her? She’d actually kissed him.

  “Rettino!” a voice barked out from behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”

  Great, just twist my bleeding tights.

  Logan drew in a breath and turned to face her boss, searching for the words to describe her uncharacteristic behavior. Or behaviors, rather, depending on which “stunt” Jerry was referring to. She bit her lip and prayed that whatever it was, he’d get over it once he’d verbally pinned her ass to the wall.

  Gesturing wildly, all five feet of the balding, thinly built man moved in irritation as he closed the distance between them. His hand found her upper arm, and Logan tensed against
him.

  “Does this look like Rockefeller freakin’ Center to you? All you’re required to do is hold the damn ring card up over your head, stick out that huge rack, and prance around the cage. Know what? I think all this media attention has gone to that pretty head of yours. I’ve got news for you, girlie, no one is here to see you dancing around like some spoiled brat who couldn’t make it as a fancy ballerina. Now listen to me, one more stunt...”

  A horn blared, cutting Jerry off. Logan gazed around as the crowd jumped to their feet.

  “Holy shit, did you see that! Andy the Annihilator was just guillotined. He tapped out in seven seconds flat.” Felix Decker’s animated voice filled the arena as he shouted out a play by play over the loudspeaker.

  “O’Shea is leaving the cage before the winner is announced.” Felix’s excitement was obvious by the high pitch of his tone. “He literally crushed Andy the Annihilator but isn’t waiting around to be crowned champion. A first, ladies and gentlemen, in MMA history!”

  Logan glanced at Jerry. His mouth twisted into a smirk so bold it was comical. She shook herself free of his grip. The more she learned about her boss, the less she liked him.

  Though she hadn’t bothered to learn all that much about MMA, this was not the case with Jerry. She made a point of asking questions about him, his nature being as horrid as it was. Better keep your enemies close, right? Especially if he was your boss at a job that earned you so much money in so little time.

  Not only was Jerry chairman of something called the East Coast Xtreme MMA Federation, he sponsored and promoted high-profile bouts, and was actively recruiting the best fighters out there. It occurred to her that his new welterweight had just handed him a victory—and along with it, some serious money and some bonus publicity. A trifecta. If O’Shea agreed to sign on with Jerry, her boss would be a wealthy man.

  In Logan’s mind, he’d always be a sleazeball promoter.

  Given the abrupt uplift in his mood, Logan seized the chance to reassure him. With a tap to his arm, she drew his attention toward her and hastily began. “Jerry, I’d like to apologize for the shaky start. I need...um, want this job. I’ll strut my stuff. Whatever you expect me to do, I’ll...”

  The mass of bodies on the ramp parted.

  Logan fell silent at the sight of the fighter O’Shea. Shirtless and sweaty, the planes of his abdomen flexed as he moved. A sculpted chest, sprinkled with dampened hair, rose and fell with each rapid breath. His biceps tightened as he wiped a gray towel through his jet-black hair. An errant bead of sweat escaped and journeyed across a sharp cheekbone to pool onto lush lips.

  Logan froze as awareness of his imminent proximity made her pulse race. Too late, she realized her mistake. She was standing smack in the middle of the ramp. And the fighter stalking toward her seemed preoccupied with drying himself off.

  In that moment, she felt so small. Fragile, even. Though not quick enough to get out of the way of the raging bull who’d seconds ago destroyed his opponent and was now bearing down on her. Was this the same man she’d foolishly kissed? Anger reverberated off of him, seeming to fill the rampway.

  She blinked as he abruptly halted several feet in front of her.

  He looked up through long, wet lashes and narrowed crystal-blue eyes at her. With a final swipe of the towel to his head, he bunched it up in his fist.

  The gray ball was sent hurling in the air, spiraled once, and hit her boss square in the face.

  Jerry sputtered, and swatted away the offensive material.

  How could she forget her boss, rooted in place next to her in the aisle? The indignant expression on his face, that was a keeper.

  Perhaps it was the long build-up of tension from this problematic year, or perhaps it was the nervous flutter in her chest at her undeniable attraction to the fighter, whatever it was, Logan did the unthinkable—she laughed.

  It wasn’t a short, sweet one. This laugh had been brewing for a long time, as if patiently waiting through her painful year of ups and downs—downs far outweighing the ups, that’s for sure—for one ridiculous moment to make its escape. It came from deep within the pit of her stomach and erupted out of her so hard her belly ached. Tears wet her eyes as she let go.

  Jerry sputtered some more, this time turning a bright shade of red. Raging red. Blood hungry red.

  She took a step away from him, inadvertently inching closer to the fighter. An uncomfortable moment lingered with her under the scrutiny of both men. One furious, and the other full of...intent. Watchful. Unreadable.

  O’Shea’s gaze felt like a caress as it lowered to her chest, then downward to her exposed stomach, pink short-shorts, long expanse of leg, and hesitated on her pink Nikes. Until it shifted to her forearm, and his frown line deepened.

  She jumped as two fingers lightly caressed her arm, running across the fingerprint marks Jerry had left. For a split second, something flickered across his pale blue eyes before they narrowed on her boss.

  “That’s it. I’m done. My final fight. Meet me in the locker room in twenty—you owe me some money.” His voice was low and husky, and deadly serious.

  The touch of his hands at her waist sent a jolt of excitement through her. Easily, with no effort at all, he lifted her and, pivoting at his waist, swung her around. Gently, he set her on her feet, off to the side and out of his way.

  “What do you mean, you’re done?” Jerry squeaked, finding his voice as the fighter brushed past him. “You can’t just come in here, win one lousy fight and disappear.”

  O’Shea grunted and stalked off up the ramp.

  Logan couldn’t believe it. No one defied Jerry; she’d learned this fact the hard way this morning, when she’d dodged the weigh-in.

  Jerry paced about furiously.

  What have I done? Logan glanced around, hoping to find a hole to climb into or at least a massive body to tuck behind, before his full attention spun her way.

  “Think I’m gonna let a set of tits like you get away with laughing at me? You’re fired!” Jerry roared. “Pack your locker and get out.”

  She placed shaky hands on her hips to steady them. “Jerry, listen to me...” she began but the words dried up. There was no explanation for her carelessness. Her laughter had made him look like an idiot in front of his prize fighter.

  Her eyes fell helplessly on O’Shea as he made his way to the top of the ramp.

  Maybe he was her golden ticket? Someone Jerry coveted. Someone who’d make her boss a very wealthy man. Someone who was clearly capable of getting the job done. Would he agree to kick some ass and, in turn, save her own?

  A chill ran up her spine, a kind of body-numbing awareness, reminding her of how mean, how fierce, this fighter was. How unlikely it was she could convince him to help her. She searched her mind for something that she could use in her favor, something that would make him agreeable toward fighting for Jerry.

  Who was she kidding?

  One kiss. That was their connection. She didn’t know him. And, let’s face it, what he probably knew about her didn’t help.

  But that was what she had to do—persuade him to fight. Could she do this?

  She had no choice.

  “What if I make a deal with you, Jerry? If I get your fighter back, can I keep my job?”

  His face pinched together like a rodent assessing a nut as her words registered. For a moment, she thought his temper, clearly visible within his menacing glare, might launch him into another tirade.

  She hastily pressed on with her mind-boggling, irrational offer. “I’ll get you O’Shea,” she stated with a false sense of bravado, “if you keep me on as a ring card girl.”

  “Ha! You think you can handle him?” he snorted, disbelievingly.

  Drawing on the endless tide of humiliation she had endured—and still endured—Logan stomped forward and with hands on he
r hips, glared down at the little weasel.

  For once, her troubles were rewarded as his eyes lit up, measuring her, as if noticing her for the first time. His brows pinched together, considering her proposal, then he relaxed. A good sign. He was going to give her a chance.

  His eyes fixed on the swaying of her chest, his smirk broadened perversely, and bile rose up in her throat.

  “Forget it, Jerry,” she burst out, “you misconstrued what I’m saying. I’m not promising to sleep—”

  “Tell you what. The qualifiers are in a month. If O’Shea wins all six of his bouts, he’ll be headed to the granddaddy of all granddaddies, Tetnus, with a million-dollar purse. You get him to do this for me, you keep your job.”

  It was hard to contain her excitement. The underlying dread at what she had just committed to, she’d deal with later.

  All anyone talked about was Tetnus, the championship fight being held in Vegas in July. A series of qualifying bouts were about to begin around the country—Pittsburgh being one of the main events because of the quality of fighters Jerry had attracted. Only the best fighters within their weight class advanced. O’Shea was the whole package. Jerry knew it. And after tonight’s events, Logan knew it. A big-bodied package all right, she thought, remembering the feel of his muscled chest pressed up against her.

  “You’ll get your fighter. I appreciate...”

  Jerry held up his hand, Godfather-like. Not a good sign. Judging by the tightening of his mouth, he hadn’t forgiven her for laughing. “I have some conditions. For each fight he wins, you stay. Hell, if he wins all six qualifiers and makes it to Vegas, I’ll double your salary. But the first time he loses, so do you. Got it?”

  Jerry stalked away without waiting for her reply.

  Logan inhaled deeply, feeling like she’d bargained with the devil and lost, without an inkling of exactly how she was going to go about getting O’Shea to fight.

  Grandpa Romeo. Frantically, she gathered up the remnants of the old timer’s card from the aisle, hoping enough pieces remained for her to make out his phone number. He’d help her, right?