Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 4

  “About the qualifiers—”

  The waiter approached and cut her off. “Last call. What’ll it be?”

  “Another Johnny, and a white wine,” O’Shea replied, leaning back. His bare arm brushed her cashmere sleeve. A soft, subtle caress.

  “Yuengling,” she corrected his order. No sense in switching drinks at this point. And more liquid courage was out of the question. Which reminded her how ridiculous this whole scenario was. She should have closed the deal and been long gone by now.

  Well, she would have been if the man wasn’t so closed off. And if her heart didn’t flip-flop at the very feel of him brushing up against her. Close, far too close for comfort.

  She sat straighter in her seat as a muscular arm wove its way behind her. Talk about sensory overload—it was too much to bear.

  He raised an eyebrow but that was all.

  Logan sipped her beer and, beneath her lashes, studied the man next to her as he drank deeply from his glass.

  Getting involved with an MMA fighter wasn’t like swapping Chardonnay for Yuengling, she reminded herself. It wasn’t like he’d ever fit into her world. Besides, tonight was about convincing him to fight so she could keep her job. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Jerry says you’re the guy to beat.”

  He muttered something under his breath. “Bar’s closing. Need to find my ride. Tell me, is Jerry...bothering you?”

  Drunk or not, the man was perceptive and quick. Should she tell him her job as Octagon Girl was on the line? Quickly, she decided against it. Foolish pride, whatever.

  Just do it, Logan.

  “Like I said, he wants you to fight in the preliminary bouts coming up next month and qualify for Tetnus. There’s a million-dollar purse for the winner.”

  He moved his arm out from behind her and rested it on the table. His fist flexed.

  Logan gasped.

  His poor knuckles were bruised and swollen to the size of golf balls. After the break and subsequent surgery on her ankle, she’d never again underestimate the pain someone might be suffering, even from minor injuries. His hands must be killing him.

  “Tell Jerry I’m done. No more fights. No matter how many gorgeous women he sends to crawl between my legs.”

  Logan’s temper exploded before she could bite back her words. “We’re having a conversation—that’s all. I’m sick to my stomach wondering why everyone thinks I’d sleep with you to get you to fight!”

  Because you’re acting like you would, moron. No denying she wanted this drop-dead gorgeous man and was so freakin’ attracted to him her blood sizzled. But this crazy desire for him had overshadowed her objectivity. Sleeping with him to get her way, now that would land her on the disgusting list, right beneath Pierre.

  He smirked, appeared unfazed by her outburst. As if to say, “Right, like I couldn’t have taken you on the pub bench in the other room.”

  “I don’t get it. It’s ridiculous—a fighter who won’t fight. If it’s one thing I’ve learned these past few months is that there is always someone waiting in the wings to replace you, even if they suck. I can do that, you know, find a sucky fighter for Jerry and replace you.”

  Desperation was one small step away from irrationality, and as her angry words came spilling out, Logan didn’t just walk across that line. She pole vaulted. The chance of Jerry accepting another fighter was as likely as winning the Mega Millions jackpot.

  “Thanks for the drink,” she snapped.

  She dodged his attempt at grabbing her leg as she stood up on the bench’s cushion and climbed over him to let herself out.

  “Shit,” she heard him mutter but she kept on moving, away from the booth, out of the room, and back to the front of the bar. To the table where she’d left Sal to watch her belongings, which was now occupied by a new couple. Her stuff—and Grandpa Romeo, it would seem—had apparently taken a walk.

  Bleeding leotards. She caught her stupefied expression in the front window until movement outside broke the image apart.

  Her expensive alpaca coat was making its way into a double-parked car, clutched against Miss Easywrap’s obnoxious chest. “You...bitch,” Logan cried as she sprinted out the door after the blonde. But it was too late. The old Camaro had some pep in it and was halfway down the hill by the time she hit the curb, the only gift from Pierre that hadn’t been hauled off to Goodwill along with it. Worse still, her Louis Vuitton wallet and cell phone were secured in the inside pocket.

  She tugged the neck of her sweater higher. If she’d learned anything this year, it was how to manage in difficult situations. In this case, she’d simply track down Grandpa Romeo and ask him for his jacket and some money.

  Before she could head back inside, people began filing out of the pub—all at the same time. “Sal,” she called, searching the crowd for his white head. A cacophony of car engines drowned her out and the snow had picked up, fed by the wind off the rivers far below. With her hands on her hips, she moved undeterred up the sidewalk and back, searching for him.

  A white-haired driver passed in a red Chevy pickup, without so much as a glance in her direction. “Sal,” her voice rang out weakly, knowing he’d never hear her, but feeling like she had to do something. Run after the pickup? As if that would do any good. She brushed her hands together for warmth. Surely someone down in South Side Flats would help her? If she didn’t freeze to death walking down the hill on the way there.

  The door of the pub swung open one last time. Six foot two of taut, muscled male sporting a beaten-up, deep green coat—the kind someone in the army might wear—and a woolen bean cap pulled low over dark hair, exited. The welterweight glanced her way, turned and strode a few feet uphill to a black Jeep Wrangler.

  Less than a minute later, Finnegan’s went dark.

  Now what do I do?

  She blinked as a horn rang out, invitingly. The Jeep Wrangler flashed its lights, which meant...

  Resigned, she walked up the short distance to the Jeep.

  “Can you drive?” a deep, husky voice demanded through the rolled-down crack of the passenger-side window.

  O’Shea sounded slightly annoyed, but his words defrosted the chill from her body. Everything about the man made her blood run hot—except for his closed-up personality. That was unsettling.

  She nodded.

  “Get in.”

  She moved her frozen limbs around the Jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. The vehicle hummed, the keys already in the ignition.

  As blessed warmth blew from the vents, she glanced at him beneath half-frozen eyelids. And gasped when once again he flexed swollen, purple knuckles.

  “Planning on walking home?”

  “No. Your friend Miss Easywrap made off with my coat, cell and wallet—seemed to think they were hers,” she shot back, mimicking his sarcastic tone. “How were you planning to make it home? Driving drunk is a stup—”

  “You chased off tonight’s ride.”

  An image of the trashy kleptomaniac spread-eagled across his lap—much like she herself had been earlier—came to mind.

  Her body hummed in harmony with the engine, acutely aware of how fully he filled the passenger seat beside her. Logan weighed her options. After all, she knew nothing about him and what she did know wasn’t very comforting. Still, the Jeep was warm, she was in the driver’s seat, and most importantly, she’d been given another opportunity to persuade him. Life was full of chances. She decided to take another one by leaving with him.

  “Look, I’m not going to bite you. Where to?” He seemed exasperated.

  “The East End, Friendship. I’ll have to break in to my apartment, though, because my keys are in my stolen coat.” She pressed her lips shut, realizing how bitter she sounded.

  “Hmph,” O’Shea grunted. For a second, he sat there, running his gaz
e over her features. A rush of heat spread up into her cheeks at his appraisal. Opening the glove box, he pulled out a napkin. Reaching across the seat, he gently dabbed it on her damp cheek.

  “There,” he said, showing her the dark smudge of mascara.

  Great, just great. She must look worse than a Pittsburgh coal miner after a long shift.

  They remained silent as they drove north. Snowflakes danced across the windshield, growing in numbers and force as they crossed the Monongahela River into the Golden Triangle, where all three rivers—the Allegheny, Ohio and Monongahela—converged. There, the snowfall grew so heavy it dimmed the bright lights from the skyscrapers downtown.

  “Looks like we’re in for some storm,” she commented, not knowing what to say but feeling the need to break the silence.

  It didn’t work.

  She searched for another topic to get a conversation going, hopefully one leaning toward the topic of him fighting. “I don’t even know your name. Just O’Shea.”

  “Let’s keep it at that.”

  The storm brewing outside was minor compared to the one sitting next to her. Why did he have to be so damn difficult? She bit her lip hard, forcing her thoughts on the slight physical pain, and away from the abrupt swell of emotion within. Falling apart right now wouldn’t help her in the least.

  He pointed left. So typically male, giving directions from the passenger seat, though there was nothing typical about him. “Okay, O’Shea,” she commented mockingly, but followed his direction nevertheless.

  His low laugh filled the Jeep. She felt his eyes on her, but kept her own on the roadway.

  “It’s Keane.”

  Keane O’Shea. Go figure. Short name, short response. Narrowing her eyes, she shot him a look—which he ignored. Instead, he gestured toward an exit sign. Without comment, she carefully slowed the Jeep, exited and headed downtown—away from her neighborhood. A few blocks in, he signaled to turn off onto a side street lined with row houses.

  “Number twenty-one.”

  She stopped the Jeep in front of a rather dilapidated house.

  Did I just drive myself to a one-night stand?

  Uncertain, she studied the certifiably hot mystery of a man from beneath her lashes.

  As if sensing her apprehension, Keane turned and cleared his throat. “Relax. Just a pit stop.”

  Before she could say another word, he jumped from the Jeep, climbed the cement stoop, and, after someone answered his rap on the door, disappeared from view.

  The snow made it hard to see and as the minutes passed, her uneasiness grew. Finally, the door flew open and Keane emerged with a bundle in his arms. A man and woman followed behind him, gesturing wildly.

  Twist my tights. What was going on... Did he just rob this couple?

  Keane climbed back into the passenger seat, the irate woman right behind him. Oh my God. It was Rosie, with the poor fool who’d gone home with her now struggling to stay clear of her flailing limbs. She’d forgotten him already as she tried to claw her way up Keane’s body.

  Something flew across the center console and landed in a black pile on Logan’s lap. A soft, familiar alpaca pile. Searching inside the inner pocket, Logan found her wallet, cell phone and keys. He’d retrieved her coat.

  “You son of a bitch! You’re taking her home tonight?” Rosie screeched, her tone like nails on a chalkboard. “After all the...”

  Logan’s mouth fell open, and Easywrap struggled to keep the passenger side door from closing, despite the accumulating snow and the parting of her dragon-embroidered silk robe.

  “Everything they say about him is true. He’s a heartless bastard. A great fuck—that’s all you’ll get out of him. Commitment phobia, that’s what he has. The only thing he’ll commit to is sticking his big dick in—”

  Keane slammed the door shut. Rosie continued her tirade outside the window as they drove away.

  Logan was speechless on the drive to her Friendship neighborhood. As was Keane—no surprise there.

  Everything about him, from his tight, clenched mouth to his strong build to his dour personality, said run for the slate hills. Yet, perhaps underneath that hard, muscular shell lurked a warm-hearted man? After all, he’d gone out of his way to retrieve her coat and house keys. Dare she approach him once more about fighting?

  The Jeep ambled down Friendship Boulevard, fighting snowdrifts all the way. Fortunately, the rooms she rented in the back of an old brick house were close by. Her landlady, Mrs. Debinska, was a widow with an early-to-bed, early-to-rise philosophy. Logan barely saw the reserved, frail Polish woman, though she went out of her way to make sure the old lady had groceries in the house. She hoped Mrs. Debinska was a sound sleeper. Getting busted climbing out of a stranger’s Jeep at this hour might upset the conservative elderly woman.

  As she turned the Jeep onto her street, the wheels lost traction. In slow-motion, the vehicle spiraled in a circle and a half, before coming to rest backward, in a snowdrift, on the side of the road. Logan pressed the gas, but the wheels spun uselessly. Unless he lived nearby, Keane was stuck until morning.

  Shaken by this realization as well as by the accident, Logan blurted, “So, I guess this means you’re sleeping over.”

  He shifted his big body around in his seat and looked right at her. Steady, ice-blue eyes captured her own. She felt the heat creep up in her cheeks at the intense scrutiny.

  “Wait, that didn’t come out...” Her mouth fell shut as he reached over, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

  His eyes continued to study her until he nodded. “I guess so.”

  With that settled, she reached for the handle to her door but stopped when he rested a hand on her arm. Surprised, she turned back his way.

  “Everything that happened back there, everything Rosie said...” he began.

  Logan jumped in, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. “The woman stole my coat. Do you think for one second I’d believe anything she had to say?”

  He shook his head. “Listen...” Pausing, he adjusted his knit cap over his ears, flexed his swollen knuckles and then glared down at the gloves he’d placed on his thigh.

  “I have a package of frozen peas in the freezer. Not that you want something cold on you on a blustery night like this—” Did she really just say that? “Um, I’ll warm some port. It’s a habit I picked up during my trips to Paris. So, I’m offering you peas and port.”

  He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Rather, he frowned. She felt like sliding under the seat.

  “Logan.” Her name rolled off his tongue like sweet butter. “Just so you know, everything Rosie said...is true.”

  Chapter Three

  ANKLE PICK: A wrestling move, where a fighter uses a foot or hand to sweep an opponent off his/her feet and onto the mat

  Keane thought it was only fair to warn her. Something about this woman, Logan, appealed to him on many levels. It was best she understand exactly what she was in for because he fully intended to take her up on her invitation. Hell, the high from his fight a week ago had long worn off. Another physical release sounded really good right about now.

  Logan brought her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and motioned him inside. Yeah, fucking her was just the thing he needed, and he’d start with those lips.

  Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his weight as she led him down a long hallway. The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door on the end.

  “You can hang your jacket there,” she whispered, pointing to the coat rack next to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Keane hooked his coat over a knob and glanced around. The small room was dominated by a worn leather couch, with a glass coffee table in front and low end tables at each side. An old, oak hutch holding an enormous outdated television was against the opposite wall, and on the shelf above
it sat a neat stack of photo albums. An expensive-looking painting of young ballerinas dancing and two fancy lamps seemed a little out of place, but what did he know about decorating?

  He picked up a miniature china figurine, a ballerina with her leg stretched up to the side of her head. With a slight squeeze of his fingers, this little dancer would easily crush. He set her back in place, and settled himself onto the couch. Closing his eyes, he listened to Logan move about.

  “Here we go, just as I promised. We need more light. Would you mind turning on the one on the side table for me?”

  The small movement of twisting the light’s knob reminded him how his knuckles hurt like hell.

  Temporary relief came in the form of the tall cup of warmed red wine Logan placed in front of him on the coffee table. Later, he promised himself, he’d forget everything, except the feeling of being buried deep within the attractive female next to him. Resting a hand on his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the bottle of pills inside. After, when he was spent, if it hadn’t been enough to quiet his mind, he’d medicate.

  “Here you go. Let me see your knuckles.” She grabbed his wrist, brought it over to rest on her thigh, and arranged a Ziploc bag of frozen peas over the swelling. “Secret of the trade. An icepack won’t wrap around your fingers the same way. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat with these homemade packs on my feet. Didn’t help the blisters much but nothing beats it for bringing down the swelling.”

  At the mention of her feet, a memory of her on the ramp in those ridiculous pink Nikes made him frown in confusion. What was a woman like her—dressed in a fancy sweater and classy boots, conservative—doing strutting half-naked in the ring? She brought her legs up Indian-style on the couch and turned slightly to better face him.

  Tonight, clothing covered almost every inch of her, from thick, wool socks, to tight, black pants, and on to a large, soft sweater. Effectively hiding the shapely body he’d felt pressed up against him. The memory of her hot little body, her nipples pebbling up hard against him, that tight ass flexing beneath his arm, caused his cock to stir. Those layers did nothing to dim how freakin’ sexy this ring card girl was. Fuck, every red-blooded male in Pittsburgh had been talking about this Octagon Girl.