Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 3

  By doubling her salary, she’d be on the fast track toward reclaiming her life. Medical bills paid off. A nest egg big enough to launch her dance school. And then, she’d knock Pierre off his toes. Hard. Give him an awful taste of what it was like to be infamous.

  This opportunity was her make-or-break moment.

  Her gaze narrowed toward the exit at the top of the ramp where the welterweight had disappeared from sight.

  “Correction,” she said aloud, her determination growing stronger with every word. “You, O’Shea, are going to be my break-out moment.”

  Chapter Two

  CORNERMAN: The person a fighter depends upon to guide him/her during a bout

  Logan tugged the neck of her black cashmere sweater up higher as a gust of frigid Burgh air chilled her to the bone. The only thing moving quickly this blustery evening was the snowfall—the South Side bus had been late, and her warm skinny latte from The Quiet Storm had slowly chilled just like the rest of her numbed body. Exhaling, she realized that she was going to be late as well, although she didn’t know if one could actually be late for a surprise ambush of an attractive welterweight.

  Late because her best friend Sally had received several encores at tonight’s ballet performance, causing it to run longer than expected. Logan frowned in reflection. Backstage, their brief chat should have been about Sally’s recent promotion to the Pittsburgh Ballet’s principal dancer. Or how wonderfully loving Sally’s fiancé was. Kind, too—no way he would ever drop her on prime-time television. Granted, he wasn’t even a dancer. He worked as a chiropractor who happened to treat ballerinas. But even so, he wouldn’t have dropped her. As a matter of fact, he had gotten Logan her job in the Octagon cage, being Jerry’s chiropractor and all.

  Instead, their discussion had centered on Logan. And the source of all her problems... Pierre.

  “I heard your bitter bird of an ex on the radio, of all places. Clearly, he’s still pissed off about his precious painting. What did you say to him?”

  My painting. No way was Pierre going to keep it, on top of everything else he’d stolen from her. “File an insurance claim, asshole,” Logan repeated the words she’d spoken that miserable day a few months back.

  The fame pimp had done much worse than drop her on TV’s top-rated America Gets Its Groove On. He’d kept everything of value purchased for their ultra-modern Manhattan duplex, plus the Gramercy co-op itself. The apartment had been a surprise gift to her—one he’d purchased with her hard-earned money.

  The sly bastard made sure to itemize everything on the homeowner’s insurance policy: the plush, Chippendale living room set, crystal chandelier, wine collection—the list went on and on. And the mortgage, the policy, everything was under his name.

  It didn’t matter that he’d depleted her bank account to make a huge down-payment on that place instead of the uptown, pre-war co-op they’d agreed upon, and to purchase most of the furnishings. Without a lawyer, she had no chance of getting her life’s savings back.

  Sally laughed. “I still can’t believe he called the police, like they’d believe you would steal your own stuff! But why haven’t you sued that jerk? I told you money isn’t a problem if you need it.”

  Logan shook her head. “Focus on Fiji. Save your money for snorkeling and parasailing and having the perfect honeymoon. Stop worrying. I’ll take care of Pierre once my dance school is up and running.”

  It had been her second trip to the co-op when Pierre had come home, caught her with a Waterford lamp in each hand, and had called the police, resulting in nearly everything being moved back inside. The cops wouldn’t let her take anything she couldn’t provide proof of ownership for.

  But some select pieces, such as an expensive oil painting—a commissioned reproduction of a Renoir piece showing two novice ballerinas en pointe for the first time—had mysteriously disappeared.

  Despite Pierre’s temper tantrum on the city sidewalk—that painting had been his pride and joy, the object he bragged about most—there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. The police had caught on to her money-grubbing ex’s number rather quickly. One officer had even arched his eyebrows at Logan, as if saying “You got off lucky, kiddo, dumping this guy.” Fortunately, Pierre’s complaint was added to the precinct’s pile of petty cold cases, those they wouldn’t waste their time or manpower resolving.

  “You constantly amaze me. I wish I had your self-assurance. Your strength.”

  My stubborn pride.

  Sally’s comment had made Logan laugh and reminded her of the plaque her mother had hung on the wall over the kitchen sink so many years ago. It had read “Pride cometh before the fall.” Talk about ironic. One source of comfort was knowing that pride didn’t turn tail and hide after the fall. Along with hurt, humiliation, defeat...pride was the Band-Aid holding it all together.

  She inhaled deeply, the cold air sharpening her senses. Her conversation with Sally had reinforced her courage. It was time to rip off the Band-Aid, and peel away this prideful paralysis holding her back from her plans for the future.

  The qualifying bouts began in three weeks and she was feeling desperate. She palmed Grandpa Romeo’s pieced-together card in her pocket and quickened her pace, anxious to reach Finnegan’s Pub and get this deal locked and loaded. Snow blanketed the narrow, winding street and slowed her progress, until at last, she made it to the top of the steep hill. She paused to catch her breath, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind an ear as she glanced back at the city lights below.

  “What took you so long?” Grandpa Romeo, also known as Sal, demanded, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air as he came out to greet her. He must have been waiting at the window. “O’Shea’s inside, in the back. But I’ve got to warn you, he’s in a piss-poor mood.”

  Logan straightened. “Great. Do you know why?” Without waiting for a reply, she headed inside, the old fox hot on her tail. After all, it really didn’t matter why; all that mattered was the welterweight agreeing to fight.

  “Nope. But I’d say it’s in his nature. Take me, for example. I’m a friendly guy, wake up with a smile every morning. That’s why I’ve agreed to help you. I’ve even ordered you a Ying-i-ling.” Sal pointed to two tall amber bottles on a small table by the window.

  She resisted rolling her eyes, more so from his funny pronunciation of Yuengling than from his assumption that a ballerina would drink a beer. Ring card girl, she corrected the mental slip. “Why aren’t you sitting with him? You said you guys had plans to ‘chew the fat’ over a few beers.” She slipped off her alpaca knit coat and set it over the back of her chair.

  Sal cleared his throat loudly, causing the couple at the next table to look over at him. Did he have something caught in there?

  “That’s the get-up you’re wearing to lure him into bed?”

  “What? Who said anything about...I’m not trying to—”

  “If this don’t beat all,” Sal continued, mindless of the reddening of her already flushed cheeks. “A big black turtleneck and leggons. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you’ve got some stiff competition.” He ducked, peered under the table at her black riding boots, and shook his head.

  “What’s wrong with my leggings?”

  Sal motioned to the naked midriffs and bare legs of the women at nearby tables. Finnegan’s inconvenient location didn’t deter the local ladies from partaking in a few Friday night beers...and then some, it would seem. Most of the women were dressed more appropriately for a night out at a club in Cabo than a cold Burgh winter. Not that the sight of half-naked women was anything new, given her chosen profession—professions, she corrected. Their attire was just...unexpected. Logan peered around the pub, needing to find the welterweight and get this over with. Finnegan’s Pub wasn’t exactly her kind of scene.

  “Should have worn one of them Octagon outfits. A shame to hide
a body like yours.”

  The lustful wink Sal shot her was too much to bear. Tossing his balled-up card on the table, she reached for the Yuengling and took a deep sip. She winced at the bitterness but forced down another long gulp. When in Rome...

  “I’ve got a plan. What do you have on under that tent you’re wearing?”

  “Listen, Sal, I appreciate your help in tracking down O’Shea. But I’m just going to have a conversation with him—explain my predicament.”

  “One of them sportsy bras, I hope. You’ll fit right in.”

  Logan frowned but continued, “This isn’t a big deal, really. He’s a fighter and I need him to fight. If someone asked me to dance again...”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a pair of tight boxer shorts like I’ve seen in them Victor’s Secrets magazine? With them little hearts?”

  Logan choked on her Yuengling as Sal stripped her naked with his lecherous eyes. What had possessed her to ask him for help? “Please, watch my stuff.” She stood, grabbing her beer, and worked her way to the back of the pub before Grandpa Romeo could stop her.

  Entering the lounge area, her eyes were instantly drawn to the fighter. Her throat went dry at the sight before her.

  He was sprawled on a bench in a back booth, one knee bent and legs splayed apart. A hand rested on a powerful thigh and the other held a near-empty bottle. More than six feet of raw male splendor in repose. Head resting against the wall, he moved a black-labeled bottle to his lips and took a long drink, eyes closed.

  And Logan drank him in, every rugged male inch of him. He was too sexy for words. Sexy and, judging by the shot glasses scattered on the table, very, very drunk.

  She nearly lost her nerve but stepped toward him before she could change her mind.

  Like Logan, he was dressed head to toe in black. A simple tight T-shirt, soft, faded jeans, and black leather boots. His fingers clenched and unclenched by his side, a sign he was at least not completely loaded.

  Hesitantly, she stood at the foot of the booth. “Can I...” she began.

  Frosty blue eyes pinned her to the spot. A glimmer of recognition—or so she thought—flickered, before his lids lowered and shut her out. As if tempting her to finish, he took another swig from the bottle.

  Instead of asking permission, she slid onto the other cushioned bench.

  “Following me?” His dismissive manner indicated this question was rhetorical, as if women constantly chased him. Hordes of them probably did.

  She’d seen the MMA groupies hovering by the arena exits, not unlike her former fans had waited for her after a performance. Except the fighter’s fan club was entirely female and these women weren’t looking for an autograph, not unless it was emblazed on their naked bodies.

  She stiffened, ignoring the flex of his muscles as he shifted, and pressed on, “Um...yes. Sal told me you’d be here. I need your help.”

  “Sal,” he muttered and took another drink before setting the half-empty bottle to wobble next to her beer on the table. “My help? I’m the last person you should be asking for help.” Swinging his legs off the bench and under the table, he leaned forward and closed the distance between them.

  The act was abrasive and intimidating but his eyes wandered around the room, restless and unfocused. “What I want is to be left alone.” Harsh, sharp words coming from pink, plump lips.

  Logan sat up straighter in her seat.

  “We met a week ago, actually twice, on the ramp at Mellon Arena.”

  He snorted. Acknowledging they’d met or the quick lip lock they’d exchanged? Both? Or neither? She wasn’t sure but given his compromised condition, she’d better reintroduce herself. “My name is Logan Rettino. I’m a baller...a ring girl. Like I said, I need your help.” She paused. Why did this have to be so difficult? Just ask him. He’s a fighter, so ask him to fight.

  He pushed his bottle toward her, a look of pure challenge in his blue eyes, but she was uncertain whether it was an offer of friendship or a sign he’d had enough. What harm could one sip in the name of camaraderie do?

  Besides, she’d been nursing her Yuengling as if it were the finest Chardonnay. She wasn’t about to back down now, germaphobic or not. Alcohol was the great neutralizer, right?

  Logan raised the bottle, pressed her lips to the warm glass and took a swig of unfamiliar hard liquor. A blaze of fire ripped across her throat and burned a path into the pit of her stomach. Tears formed in her eyes. “What is this?” she coughed out.

  “All you’re gonna get...or maybe not.” The last bit was said in such a deep, throaty voice, she strained to catch it. It sounded naughty, like he was contemplating tangling his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back, and covering her mouth with his own. Oh sweet pirouette. She felt a little bit breathless at the idea. The booze didn’t help.

  Needing something to do with her hands besides reaching across the table and testing out his “maybe not,” she fiddled with the hem of her sweater. Her cheeks warmed, nevertheless.

  She came here for a reason, she reminded herself, and taking a roll on a mattress with him wasn’t it.

  “I’m asking you to agree to fight. Jerry wants you to qualify for Tetnus. From what I understand, it pays really well. And, it would help me smooth things out with him. You can’t imagine how challenging he is to work for. It’s a win-win situation. You’d be paid for a few nights what most fighters make in a month.”

  Grunting, he avoided eye contact. Instead his gaze rested on her lips. Self-consciously, her tongue darted out and licked off a smidgeon of sticky sweet liquor.

  Better sweeten the pot, she thought. “Perhaps there is even something I could do for you in exchange?”

  “Maybe.”

  She gasped as he reached out and ran his thumb along her bottom lip. But when he placed it between her lips so the tip pressed against her tongue, she nearly shot up off the seat.

  “Tempting,” he murmured.

  If her cheeks had warmed before, they were on fire now. Perhaps I could do something for you? She’d said the words—a blatant invitation for sex—without thinking.

  Perhaps it was her subconscious speaking. Show me the time of my life. Show me how a real man gets down and dirty. Make me forget about my egotistical, limp petunia of a dance partner, who got off more from looking at himself in the mirror than with me.

  God knew, she wanted to lick that digit, run her tongue along its expanse and keep going. He was rugged maleness exemplified. Oh, yeah! Just part your lips a little more and...crinkle my camisole.

  Her indecision cost her.

  He withdrew his thumb, shifted back into the position she’d first encountered him in, and rested his head against the cushioned wall of the booth. His eyes closed.

  Moments passed. Until it became clear she was being dismissed.

  Her thoughts shifted from “oh, yeah” to “oh, no” in ten seconds flat. She wasn’t about to let him blow her off her like some overeager MMA groupie. She jumped to her feet, skirted the table and kicked his shin.

  His eyes snapped open and struggled to focus on the offending foot. She still hadn’t gotten his full attention, it seemed.

  Leaning forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders and gave him a sharp push.

  With a gasp, she found herself gripped at the elbows, lifted up and yanked forward. Then, he let go. Her legs fell open to straddle his and her breasts firmly connected with his chest. She inhaled in surprise, catching the clean, heady scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of the alcohol on his breath.

  He shifted, forcing her closer still, so close she could see her startled reflection flickering within his deep, dark pupils. A face-off—except his crotch rubbed up against her...

  For a moment, she forgot everything. Finnegan’s Pub, her agreement with Jerry, and even The Fall. Desire stirred,
blatant and pure and in shocking abundance. Beneath long, dark lashes, he sat perfectly still, watching her.

  She got the impression he was waiting for something. For her to decide what she was going to do with him beneath her. For her to jerk away or lean in, angle her head and grab a taste of him.

  Until a loud, piercing whine—the kind someone made when air was constricted within their windpipes as they tried to form coherent words—interrupted them. The source, in all her spandexed glory, stood glaring at Logan.

  “Un-freaking-believable. I leave for a few minutes to use the restroom and some whore dressed for a barnyard tries to steal my guy. Get off him, bitch!”

  Logan launched herself off the welterweight in one swift movement, prompted not only by the woman’s demand but by the hardened length of male anatomy that had been curved against her ass. He surprised her with a fleeting smirk. Oh yeah. At least her response to him hadn’t been one-sided.

  She turned to face the irate woman, Miss Easywrap in the tight tube dress. “I’m not finished...speaking with him. Give us a second, please.”

  “Speaking, my ass. I’m gonna count to ten.” Rosie—Easywrap’s name, according to the enormous necklace perched on her cleavage—pointed to the bar. “If you’re not out of here when I come back with a drink, you’re gonna be sorry.”

  Logan put her hands on her hips. She opened her mouth, then closed it. What was she going to do, fight the woman?

  Easywrap gave her a talk-to-the-hand gesture and stalked off.

  Logan felt fingers on her arm. “You’ll lose. Let’s go.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she muttered as the welterweight led her into another, more private room, one with a band playing and, hopefully, fewer disturbances. She needed a cold mental shower and to keep her eye on the objective: convince this silent, guarded man to fight.

  He gestured to a booth in the back and slid in after her, sandwiching her between the wall and his big body. For several moments, that’s how they sat, quietly listening to the band thanking the audience for coming.