Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  “So, what’s up? You fighting again? Thought you gave that up after...”

  “Nice seeing you, Stevie.” Keane grabbed him by the arm and muscled him back toward the door. But not without resistance.

  They took it to the floor and grappled for positioning, Keane quickly gaining the upper hand. Stevie was an amateur fighter—always had been, always would be. He pinned his friend to the ground and a few seconds later, Stevie raised his hand in surrender. An MMA fighter would have tapped out, proving yet again why Stevie should stay far away from the Octagon ring.

  Both men stood, breathing hard. Blood trickled out of Stevie’s mouth and despite having been pissed off by him bringing up the past, Keane felt remorseful. Shit, even though his heart hadn’t been in the fight, if you could call it that, he’d hurt his friend.

  He nodded toward his leather couch. “Sit. I’ll get some ice.”

  “How about a pot of coffee? Looks like we could both use some.” His friend’s ability to forgive and forget made Keane feel even worse.

  Moments later, Stevie was situated on the couch, an odd expression on his face as he held a package of frozen peas to his lip.

  Keane touched his knuckles. The ballerina had been right, the swelling had subsided. For a second, he thought about how she’d carefully wrapped his fist with the Ziploc bag, then pushed the memory away.

  At least the peas gave Stevie something to do other than yak at him. Keane welcomed the silence, but not the company, given the present circumstances.

  In the privacy of the kitchen, Keane plugged in the coffeemaker, then studied the newspaper he’d retrieved from the floor. They’d gone to the extra expense of publishing a color photograph of that damned kiss. Frowning, he read the headline: Buxom Ballerina Gets Down and Dirty.

  Scanning the text, the paper crinkled in protest as he clenched his fist and forced himself to read more slowly. If the assholes had dug into his past...flashbacks, nightmares and late night visits from his dead buddy were reminders enough of his time in the service.

  His name was mentioned, but other than that and the freakin’ photo, the accompanying paragraph focused entirely on Logan. Shit, judging by the indelicate way they’d dragged out every slanderous detail about her—even daring to praise her dick of an ex, part of this season’s favored duo on a lame-ass reality dance show—it wouldn’t take long before they focused on him. A sliver of anxiety mixed with anger worked its way up his spine.

  He knew that ring girl was trouble the moment they locked lips. A publicity stunt? Doubtful. He shook his head, remembering her reaction to her ex’s boob bash on the television. But damn, if he’d known this was what he was in for, he would have dropped her on her ass and there wouldn’t have been a photograph.

  His life was already fucked without this invasion of privacy.

  Tossing the paper into the trash, he ran the kitchen faucet before dunking his head beneath. The cold water, a few cups of coffee and some Advil might do the trick. Preferably before Stevie started asking more questions.

  What the hell could he say about returning to fighting, anyway? That a daily dose of booze and pills weren’t nearly enough to drive away the demons in his head? That a parade of women and one-night stands wasn’t enough of a physical release to satisfy him?

  Not that he’d had a woman since his overnight stay with the ballerina. What a debacle of an evening that had been—a restless night on an old couch, an early morning escape through the snow-covered streets of Pittsburgh, and a cock in need of some serious attention.

  More thoughts of Logan, this time twirling about in that skimpy outfit, had filled his mind yesterday afternoon. But when his fingers grabbed his hard-on, the fucking evening played over in his head and ruined the pleasure. Not that he didn’t get off, fast and furious, but he felt cheated out of having those long legs of hers wrapped around his waist while he pumped into her. Probably for the best, really. Considering her baggage and notoriety, he planned on keeping way the hell away from her.

  Stevie wasted no time with his inquisition as Keane returned and handed him a cup of coffee. “Care to tell me what’s going on? You look like hell frozen over. And a fight? I thought you said...”

  Keane grunted. It seemed his friend hadn’t learned his lesson. In a low voice, he warned, “Not now, Stevie. Change the subject.”

  His buddy gave him a long look but must have read his expression. “Okay, I’ll drop it. That’s...uh....not the reason I stopped by.”

  Keane ran his thumb across his temple, picking up on Stevie’s nervous tone. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t gonna be good.

  His friend grew more reluctant with each second passing, until he at last blurted out, “I’m seeing a shrink...a lot of the guys are.”

  “Good for you.” Keane was careful to keep his tone neutral, knowing the angle Stevie was taking here and not wanting to give anything away. This discussion was dead as far as he was concerned.

  “No shame in it, you know. It’s helped to work out some issues, and stuff.” Stevie held out his palm in a let-me-finish gesture. “Something to consider, that’s all.” He dug a card out of his wallet and tossed it onto the table by the couch without further comment.

  Keane drank his coffee and ignored it. He felt his friend’s eyes on him, but he ignored those too, until the subject changed.

  “Well at least you’re getting laid. She’s hot, too. Great body. Nice rack.”

  Oblivious to Keane’s anger, Stevie went on and on about the fucking article. And judging by his enthusiastic response, the newspaper’s attempt to ridicule Logan had failed. If Stevie was any example, every sex-crazed stud out there, including her wimp-ass ex, wanted a piece of her.

  Damn, it was going to be a long morning.

  * * *

  Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, Keane’s legs picked up speed as the ground flattened out. Ten miles was for amateurs, yet he struggled to make it through the windy, hilly streets of Pittsburgh. He was losing what should have been a winnable battle. A string of sleepless nights had made him surly. Mean. And regretting his quest for sobriety.

  Last night had been hell.

  He’d woken up in a cold sweat, the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh in his nostrils. It had taken several seconds to realize it had been night terrors. That he wasn’t in the desert of Afghanistan, on the lookout for roadside bombs and worse, covered in blood after finding one.

  It had taken twenty minutes for his hands to stop shaking.

  Something had to change.

  How hard could it be? No booze, no pills and no women—a cleaner way of living?

  Stevie seemed to have conquered his demons. His visit had Keane rethinking his own bad habits. Damn. He wanted the days back when he’d been fit and full of life, both physically and mentally. Days long gone by.

  Five miles into the run, he knew it was a lost cause. He needed something more...physical. To jab a punching bag or kick some ass in the cage. Something brutal, where his muscles ached afterward. Where the restlessness within was muted. Running was fine for building endurance. It was the mindfuck jogging around in his head he couldn’t endure.

  The Pittsburgh Fight Club was within running distance, and in the much flatter neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. Sal might be able to hook him up with a sparring partner. He changed direction and picked up speed.

  In under an hour, Keane was dropping punches down on a fairly decent fighter, Frank Tupps. He had to give Tupps credit, the man had a thick skull and even thicker heart. At three minutes and five seconds exactly, Tupps tapped out.

  Keane stalked to the corner, stripped off his thin fighting gloves, and ignored the appreciative murmurs of the other fighters. Annoyed that the relentless itch within him still needed scratching, that the fight hadn’t done the trick. If the uphill run home wasn’t enough to exhaust him, his
choice of sleeping aids would be a no brainer.

  Turning to exit the cage, he nearly plowed Sal over.

  “Aw, come outta there, Keane. These other fellows aren’t too happy with me messing with their sparring time. Some fighters are looking to qualify for Tetnus, you know. And they’re not going to spar with you—won’t risk getting hurt. Not every fighter is a mean bastard like yourself.”

  Keane ignored the insult—or compliment, depending on how you looked at it. He didn’t want the old man prying into his business, so he did what needed to be done. Shut him out.

  Unfortunately, the old-school trainer had no sense of self-preservation and followed him across the cage.

  When Keane moved to step around him, Sal blocked him with surprising swiftness. “I’ve set you up for cage time with Jaysin Bouvine in thirty minutes,” the trainer offered. “I’m counting on you to give him a run for his money and make him see the light. Show him I mean business.”

  Keane dodged right, but Sal followed. Why did the old timer seem so anxious for him to fight this guy?

  “How about a hoagie and some protein shakes while we—”

  “See you later.”

  In a full belly slam, Sal hurled himself up against Keane and forced him to stop in his tracks. “Wait...uh...you can’t leave. Come on, Keane. I’ll order us a roast beef with the works on it. And about Bouvine, Jaysin’s been asking for some time with you.”

  “Look, Sal. Another day. Gotta go.”

  Glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, Sal looked nervous. He shifted to the right, preparing for another body block.

  Keane was ready for him. Faking a right, he sidestepped left and, with a few long strides, got out ahead. He was on the last step when Sal caught up with him.

  “I want to talk to you about something.”

  Keane grunted. It wasn’t hard to imagine what the trainer had to say, with Tetnus’ preliminary fights just two weeks away.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I want to talk to you. It’s about the girl...Logan.”

  Keane slowed his pace. Deep down, he was mildly curious about how she was doing—if she’d recovered from her douchebag of an ex’s nighttime slander-fest. Having his mug plastered on front page news still pissed him off, but he wondered how she was dealing with the negative coverage. Annoying or not, no one deserved that kind of treatment.

  “What about her?” Keane heard himself say. Damn, why head down this path? The woman was nothing but trouble.

  “Bouvine’s bad news. He’s obsessed with Logan, he followed her home last week. She hates the guy but won’t rat him out. Thinks Jerry’s gonna buy into replacing you with him. Come on, Keane. Why don’t you fight?”

  Keane ignored the sudden desire to slam his fists into Bouvine’s kidneys, repeatedly. But Lord knew, he had his own shit to deal with. “Forget it.”

  “She’s a real nice girl. Too good for the likes of—”

  “She’s a pain in the ass. Later.”

  “Um, Keane, she’s...” Sal’s voice was an octave higher than normal. Keane turned slowly.

  “The pain in the ass is right behind you, alive and well,” Logan said, her hands planted on her hips, glaring at him from a hair’s breadth away.

  * * *

  Keane exuded sex—pure, raw sex. He must have just tugged on his black sweatshirt, a section of hem was caught beneath his T-shirt. Black sweats hung low on his hip. One hipbone and the chiseled cut of stomach muscle just above it were exposed. The teasing glimpse of skin made Logan flush.

  He’d disappeared from her couch over a week ago, though thoughts of him remained. A monumental evening she’d relived over and over; the thought of his fingers on her—in her—still sent tiny shivers down her spine. She narrowed her eyes further, fearful her lusty thoughts were written all over her face. Keane shifted and glared back. Scowl or no scowl, the man was sex on legs.

  Sal was the first to buckle. “He’s all yours,” the old fox muttered, and hurried off toward the opposite side of the gym. No help there.

  Keane’s lips tightened as he realized this meeting was far from coincidental.

  With a mixture of awareness and uneasiness, Logan’s temporary bravado faltered. Her breath caught as she opened her mouth, ready to speak, but he cut her off.

  “N-O, not doing it,” he snapped, stalking off to the beverage booth in the corner of the gym. Logan paused. It didn’t make sense. Clearly he had just battled it out with someone. If he didn’t want to fight at all, then why was he fighting here?

  Logan leaned against the counter, blocking his exit. “When Sal texted me that you picked up a bout, I thought you’d had a change of mind. Why else would you be here?”

  Keane grunted. The man behind the counter slid over a plastic container filled with a protein shake, and Keane snatched it up.

  “Look, I was a little tipsy and emotional the last time we...talked. And I’m sorry about Pierre, the photograph and the newspaper. Little did I know becoming an Octagon Girl would re-spark the media’s attention. Pierre’s really working the press, he’s determined to keep the obsession alive...”

  Logan’s cheeks warmed at her flimsy words. Keane’s gaze ran the length of her body then back up, slowly coming to rest on her chest. Beneath her bulky cable-knit sweater, her nipples perked up in memory.

  His features softened, briefly. A hand crossed his temple, then it was gone. “Look, I don’t want trouble. When the time’s right, that asshole of yours is gonna wish he never fucked with me, you can count on that. But I’m not looking to go beating the shit out of someone I don’t even know. All I want is to be left alone.”

  “Okay, I get it. Truth is we’re looking for the same thing. Don’t you think I want to be left alone? This isn’t the kind of fame I expected, all about my boobs and how I ruined Pierre’s chance at winning last season’s show. I’m a—was—a ballerina, for God’s sake.” She paused, and swallowed hard. “But I can’t run and hide. Look, I didn’t know that being an Octagon Girl was going to be like this. And Pierre is making it ten times worse; the fans, the press, the public persona...but it’s my job. And it’s the only one I’ve got.”

  The V between his eyebrows deepened. At long last, maybe he got what she was saying. She pressed on, hoping it was true. “All I’m asking for is a favor—even if you don’t make it to Tetnus, I’ll have a few more solid paychecks.”

  “Like I said, we’ve all got our own shit. Nice chatting with you.” Keane tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

  She stood, studying him. Noticed him rubbing a hand over his temple and wincing. Noticed how his knuckles were swollen once more. Noticed him shifting on his feet, the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, anxious to be on his way. Perhaps if she offered him some help with whatever his shit was? It was worth a try.

  “Maybe we can make some kind of agreement here. An exchange of goodwill. You fight in the qualifiers, and I’ll help you sort out your problem. If it’s that obnoxious alpaca-stealing thief, I’ll gladly help you get rid of her. If it’s swollen knuckles, I’ve more than just frozen peas in my first-aid kit. A rose hip tea blend is a much healthier way of dealing with pain than Oxycontin. When I was injured, after a few pills, I flushed the rest and replaced them with a homemade remedy.”

  Despite his frown, Logan could see his interest was piqued...or at least he was still listening to her. She pressed on, “I guess you’ll have to train, isn’t that what fighters do? Whatever you need, I’ll help you with it. I spent countless hours dancing every day, for years. I’m extremely disciplined when it comes to practicing. Whatever you need.”

  Keane shook his head and rubbed his temple once more. “I don’t care about you, your wholesome remedies, your training experience, or your guy problems. What I want is to be left in peace.” He smacked the thick plastic cup against the Formica counte
rtop, and strode through the front door without another word.

  That went wonderfully well, Logan thought as she made her way around the Octagon cage in search of Sal. She wasn’t about to chase after Keane, though something didn’t quite add up with him. He said one thing, but did another. Hadn’t she just caught him red-handed—literally—fighting? But instead of the pumped-up energy most fighters had after slamming fists into each other, Keane seemed weary. Tired, even.

  Logan sighed. The pirouettes performed by her raging libido every time he was in the room didn’t help matters. Time was running out. Jerry wanted a championship fighter. Logan wanted cash, her school, and revenge, in that order, and to get out of this hellish life and move on to a real one. And Sal...well, it was too disturbing thinking about what that old rascal wanted. But, he was her only hope right now. The man with a plan, or so he said. A newly hatched Plan B—one Sal promised to be foolproof.

  Chapter Five

  STALEMATE: When two fighters are unable to move forward in a bout

  It was becoming increasingly obvious that Plan B was a dud. Jaysin Bouvine couldn’t fight his way out of a room full of stuffed animals. Yet he had managed to piss off enough fighters that they apparently lined up to kick his obnoxious, loud-mouthed ass. Such was the case playing out at the Pittsburgh Fight Club between Bouvine “the Braggart” and Frank Tupps.

  Logan winced as, once more, Tupps lifted him up over his head, raced across the mat, and hurled him into the metal caging. Bouvine slid down onto his back and tapped the mat, signaling defeat.

  Twist my tutu. She had planned to meet with Jerry tomorrow, to introduce him to another ultimate fighting hero, the next winner of Tetnus. A man who Jerry’d probably never even heard of and, judging by the outcome of today’s series of fights, likely never would.

  A week of hoping for the best, that somehow her replacement fighter would stun them all with a surprise Jiu Jitsu move or a lethal front kick, left her with a week to find someone else to foist on an unsuspecting Jerry.