Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  Sal mouthed “I’m sorry” from across the cage and Logan rewarded him with a forced smile. The trainer had a good heart—no gift for training, but a good heart. His kindness, at a time in her life where she’d had very little, mattered.

  Every day for a week she’d met Sal at the gym to watch Bouvine strut around in his too-small spandex shorts, mouthing off to anyone who’d listen about his prowess in the cage and elsewhere. He had a scorpion tattoo on his shaved scalp, and he found it funny to swivel his head and arch his eyebrows, as if the scorpion was looking to strike. Or at least that’s what Logan thought the silly gesture meant. By the looks of things today, the scorpion had a mouthful of Octagon mat.

  When he wasn’t fighting, Bouvine was on her like glue. She couldn’t shake the guy. If Sal hadn’t interfered and warned him away, who knew how she’d get rid of him.

  Frustrated, Logan shrugged into her jacket and departed. The only thing she could count on was the bitter winter weather. She tugged up the collar of her alpaca coat as a damp wind kicked up off the rivers below. The weather made her think about getting a mocha latte at The Quiet Storm. Something to cheer her up and pull her spirit out of the dumps.

  Despite the blustery afternoon, she chose to walk the mile to the coffee shop instead of catching a bus. Exercise always helped reduce her stress levels, and since her operation, her daily physical routine was improving. Yet at this rate, she’d need to walk around the clock to relieve her anxiety. What would she do if Jerry wouldn’t give her another chance?

  Her father had remarried and relocated with his wife and two youngsters to San Diego. Prior to that, he’d lived in the home Logan had grown up in, forty-five minutes east of Pittsburgh. But she couldn’t bring herself to move west, to show up on her father’s doorstep with a shitload of problems. Call it pride, or fairness even, for a father who deserved a second chance at happiness since her mother had passed away. He didn’t need her neurosis or the drama Pierre was intent on keeping fresh in the public eye.

  Once at the warm coffee shop, she purchased her drink and settled into a table not far from the barista station. But the coffee did little to ease her earlier disappointment with Jaysin. And that led to her thinking about an older, more painful disillusionment.

  “A surprise gift for my beloved and talented fiancée,” Pierre had boasted when he’d presented her with the co-op. He’d bought it last March, after they’d become the darlings of America Gets Its Groove On. Logan had been overwhelmed, scrambling to balance ballet with the show’s taping. Her final engagement was in London—though little did she know it’d be the last performance of her career.

  Pierre had taken full advantage of her absence. He’d bought the co-op on the sly, then acted as if it was what she’d wanted all along. Just like he’d done with the damned reality television show. After a two-week trip to London, Pierre had picked her up from the airport and, pulling the mother lode of bold-ass moves, had driven her straight to their new home. Logan had blinked back her astonishment—and annoyance, too—as their network of friends came out of the woodwork, clearly in on Pierre’s surprise.

  What their friends didn’t know was that where she and Pierre would live had been an ongoing debate. Logan was adamant about Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The hubbub of cultural goings-on, it made sense, with Lincoln Center and other major venues within walking distance.

  Also, Logan favored older, more spacious buildings. They offered more room than more modern buildings, and she’d spent months finding the perfect apartment for them to remodel together. She’d imagined one room would be her own private dance studio, complete with wooden floors and mirrored walls.

  Their friends also didn’t know how Pierre had duped her, how he’d depleted her savings from their new joint bank account for a down-payment on the classic pre-war co-op of her dreams. Only to surprise her with an ultra-modern, high-rise apartment with windows for walls and chrome accents everywhere, including the kitchen countertop. The only wall in the place separated the living space from the kitchen. With only one lofted bedroom, it had been listed at eight hundred square feet and double the price of what they’d discussed. Gramercy Park was posh, expensive and thirty blocks south of Midtown.

  Logan shook her head. Though they’d split the mortgage payments, she’d still been outraged he’d made such an important decision without consulting her.

  Turned out, he’d been consulting someone else—her understudy Anya—the entire time. Something their friends did know, evidently, but neglected to fill Logan in about.

  Logan took a deep sip of coffee, trying to wash away the bitter taste the very thought of Pierre had left in her mouth. But as she set it down on the table, she heard him. With a gasp, her eyes fell on the television hanging over the barista’s head.

  It was Pierre, no mistaking his relentlessly self-satisfied voice. “We hope everyone, and I mean everyone, runs out and buys a ticket for our tour. In my opinion, it’s a show not to be missed. I’ve never danced better and it’s such a privilege to be selected, along with my partner Anya, for the roles of a lifetime. I’ve never been happier. And hey, America, don’t forget to tune in to watch us on America Gets Its Groove On.”

  Logan felt like snatching her latte off the table and tossing it up at the two pompous faces smiling down on her. The fame whore was using that stupid show to build his career. She knew first-hand how much he sucked as a dancer. He knew it as well. Probably why he was dragging her good name through the dirt—he was bitter about all those years she’d outshone him on stage.

  How long was this going to continue?

  Since its inception last January, America Gets Its Groove On had swiftly become the top-rated reality show on the air. Pierre had often boasted that they were the reason for it. Back then, she’d taken her fame and newfound exposure in stride. Par for the course; dancing was all that mattered, after all.

  Now, four weeks into season two, the network was still making a huge production of Pierre’s return and Anya’s debut. It seemed the fools at the network were counting on Pierre to keep them at the top.

  And being the lying, thieving, freeloading mooch that he was, her ex had found a topic for discussion that everyone was interested in. Her. The Fall. Her chest. His lies, she added, feeling the burn from the piping-hot coffee trapped in her throat.

  Hadn’t Sally warned her that he was jealous of her fame? He seemed to be relishing in her popularity now that he’d twisted it into some kind of sick notoriety—where he came out smelling like roses. Where she’d been left to muck about in the dirt. She had to hand it to him, he was right about one thing—a person’s dirty laundry was somehow more appealing than their hard-earned success.

  The barista approached her, and Logan took a deep breath.

  “Thirty-two C cup. I’m tall but my small frame makes them seem gargantuan,” she said, her tone mocking, which she immediately regretted. It wasn’t the barista’s fault her ex was a prick.

  The girl didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. Instead, she thrust a napkin toward Logan, followed by a shy request, “Can I have your autograph?”

  Logan choked on her latte. “What? You want my autograph?”

  Star-struck, the barista nodded. But as Logan complied, not knowing what else to do in this appalling situation, the girl leaned forward, smiling broadly, and whispered, “Are you going to attend the performance the end of May?”

  Puzzled, Logan frowned. “The finale for America Gets Its Groove On is in April.” Though I’d rather be choking on a Quiet Storm panini than tuning in to watch it. The struggle to forget last April seemed never ending.

  “No, silly,” the girl said. A wave of dread washed over Logan as she put two and two together. “I’m talking about La Syphilis...you know, the Metropolitan Ballet is coming to Pittsburgh in May.”

  “La Sylphide,” Logan corrected. “Think I’ll pass.” With shaky le
gs and a heart ready to split in two and fall out of her chest, she grabbed her coffee and headed home. The tail end of Pierre’s announcement now made sense. Her former company was coming to Pittsburgh, with Pierre in the part of the romantic Scot, James Ruben. And Anya, her former understudy, in Logan’s dream role—Sylph, the forest spirit.

  But Pittsburgh? Pierre must have rigged it with the director. She didn’t have to think too deeply about his motive. A chance run-in with her...man, the fame whore had no shame.

  Never had she felt so alone, so defeated. She wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. Since the age of five, she’d wanted to dance. Her mother had sacrificed so much, ensuring Logan had the best dance teachers and access to the top schools, first in Pennsylvania and then in Manhattan. Her mother had been so proud of each and every accomplishment. And the focus on Logan had kept her sane, her daughter’s dreams a welcome distraction from side-effects of her chemotherapy treatments. At least she’d seen Logan’s successes and not her failures, especially The Fall.

  How she missed her mother, her wise ways, gentle spirit and comforting arms. How she missed the dreams they’d shared together.

  A gust of wind whipped around the corner of her block and she buried her face within her coat. As if to add injury to insult on an already horrific day, a news van took the corner at breakneck speed, nearly clipping her. Logan felt like flashing them the bird for airing Pierre’s lying mug. She dug deep, and resisted. No way was she sinking to his level. If the press couldn’t see through him, if they couldn’t treat her with respect, then she refused to engage them. Hell, she was bent on avoiding them.

  Polishing off her tepid latte, she quickened her pace up her front walkway, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

  She’d survive, just like she’d managed to the past few months. There had to be a solution. A way out from beneath the pile of problems. Maybe Boscov’s was hiring and needed a sales clerk?

  With a firm push, she closed the door behind her.

  It bounced back open. A worn, semi-white Nike appeared, wedged in the doorframe.

  She bit back a scream and threw her weight against the solid paneling, ineffectively stopping the person from entering.

  And here I’d been thinking my day couldn’t get any worse.

  He slid quickly inside, quietly pushing the wooden door shut behind him.

  Logan pulled her fingers into tight fists, ready to defend herself, as her gaze swept upward. Navy sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, full but tightened lips, and a pair of piercingly familiar winter-blue eyes. Her breath hitched. Keane had tugged a skull-hugging navy beanie cap low over his forehead, like a movie criminal dodging the police.

  She stepped back, both nervous from the fright he’d given her and excited by what his presence meant. Before she could demand an explanation, he moved a finger to his mouth, signaling her to be quiet.

  “What a bad freakin’ idea,” he muttered. “How about we head inside? The reporters are back and looking for parking. Stupid time to go on a coffee run.”

  You can say that again, she thought. Instead, she whispered her frustration. “So what? I have bigger fish to fry tonight than worrying about what my neighbors are up to.” She heard him snort from behind her as she unlocked her apartment door. Too bad, he wasn’t coming inside.

  “Shit.”

  She wasn’t certain what that one word was all about but didn’t have time to wonder as he scooped her up, stepped over the threshold, and kicked the door closed behind them. With agonizing slowness, he lowered her to the floor, letting her body run along his as he did so. A warmth spread through her at the contact.

  She took a second to regain her balance, and her wits. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d had enough of me and my problems. Well, they’ve only gotten worse. You know how you told me you wanted to be left alone? Guess what? I want to be alone.”

  “I was wrong,” Keane stated, in a low, calm voice. “I want to take you up on your offer.”

  For a moment, anger made her doubt she’d heard him correctly. With an open mouth, she peered at him.

  “We need some ground rules. None of this bullshit. No press, no publicity, no drama.”

  Logan snorted. Did he think she enjoyed the attention? Still, hope sprang up within her, but given her recent history of failure, she had to be sure. “What are you saying, Keane?”

  The heavy cloud that had made up her day lifted. His lazy grin confirmed it.

  “I’ve decided to fight.”

  * * *

  One week was all Keane had to prepare. Logan was undaunted; no way was this opportunity going to pass her by. Nothing would interfere with his fighting in the qualifiers. A profound sense of relief made her feel giddy. For the first time in months, she had something to smile about.

  “Pack your things. You’ll move in with me.” He prowled around her living room like a hungry, caged tiger.

  Her smile nearly dropped to the floor. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything about...”

  “I want peace and quiet. No surprises—hate them. No reporters.”

  She pointed toward the small waste can in the corner. “That’s where I tossed the remote after you left. Do you think I’m trying to become the next best thing in reality television? This buzz about my...me, it’s not my fault. Why—”

  “A Channel Nine news truck nearly plowed me over when I got here.”

  “A news truck? Oh my God, I walked by it—”

  “Interviewed the landlady.”

  “Mrs. Debinska? She doesn’t speak a word of—”

  “English. Figured that out myself. Suppose they did too.”

  “How did they know where I live?” Wringing her hands, she paced about the room and tried to absorb this new bit of information.

  “Internet. Don’t know.”

  “Pierre was on television exactly an hour ago and a news crew is interviewing my landlady?” Bleeding leotards, this was worse than she could ever have imagined. “I’ve got to get out of here before more show up.”

  “Way ahead of you, babe.” Keane folded his arms across his chest. “Is there a back door? My Jeep’s around the corner.”

  “Through the basement. This is all going down way too fast...”

  He grunted. “Do you want to do this or not? If not...”

  “Yes, I want to do this,” she said hastily, “but I have some ground rules, too. And I plan on holding you to them. We’ll even shake on it.”

  She swore his lips twitched before he responded, “Let’s hear ‘em.”

  Logan moved into the bedroom and began tossing clothing into a suitcase, not paying too much attention to her selections. Keane dominated her thoughts just like he did the bedroom. It didn’t help that when she dropped a red lace thong, he scooped it off the floor and thumbed the elastic briefly before tossing it into the suitcase. She never expected to be envious of a thong but that thumb of his was magical. Her body flushed in memory.

  “Spit it out. Let’s hear these conditions.”

  “You begin early tomorrow morning.”

  “Agreed. Next.”

  Logan relaxed. Perhaps this wouldn’t be difficult, after all. “No drinking, and no pain killers. I’ll bring my medicinal teas. They’re much better, healthier.”

  She glanced up and caught his slight nod.

  “I’ll help you train however I can. If you are going to fight, I...um...need you to win.”

  “No sense in fighting otherwise.”

  The tension in her shoulders relaxed, knowing they were both on the same page. Six winning fights, and the subsequent salary Jerry promised her, would make all the difference in the world.

  She pressed on to a more sensitive subject. “If I agree to move in with you, temporarily—not that I’ve another choice now that th
e paparazzi have found where I live—you’ll have to contact your girlfriends. Note my use of the plural girlfriends, as I don’t believe for one second that flighty, blonde kleptomaniac is your only one. Tell them they can’t come over. It would be awkward, to say the least.” All this was said on a long, rushed exhale.

  But having her concerns about other women aired was a relief. It would be unbearable if an ongoing stream of women came parading out of his bedroom. And just like that, the thought of another woman in his bed, satisfied and grinning like a cat on cream, made her frown.

  “That’s it?”

  Well, there was one more thing that needed to be said. Logan had had her quota of problems for the year. And as difficult as it was to say, it was best put to it all on the table now instead of later. With a deep breath, she began, “I, um, don’t think a repeat performance of our night together is a good idea.”

  An unidentifiable expression crossed Keane’s face, though it wasn’t anger. His eyes seemed brighter beneath those long, dark lashes. His tongue darted out and swiped at those plump lips as if moistening them for his reply. Or for something else. Did he do that intentionally to throw her off track?

  Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks grew warm. His massive body shifted closer as his lips curled up, causing her inner thermostat of pent-up lust to spike, sizzle and warm her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. So much for demands that I’ve no chance of keeping, she thought, and was fairly certain Keane had arrived at the same conclusion.

  He tilted his head and silently studied her. Like her words were a load of bull, like he could prove it by tossing her to the mattress and finishing what he’d promised the last time he was in her bedroom.

  He looked away, breaking contact. “The Jeep’s parked outside. How long will this take?”

  “Almost done.” Logan refocused her attention on the suitcase. Besides packing, she needed to check in with Mrs. Debinska, let her know she’d be gone for a few days, and make sure the old woman’s refrigerator was stocked. Maybe call her son, who lived in the suburbs, to make sure he checked in on her.