Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (10 page)

Chapter Seven

FIGHT CAMP: The time leading up to a bout, when a fighter is rigorously training

The next few days were more grueling than boot camp. It was like Jimmy’s ghost rode around on his shoulder, fueling his guilty conscience.
One wrong punch is all it took
,
buddy.
The constant reminder was bad enough. But bearing down on his other shoulder—even more relentlessly—was Logan. The woman had more willpower than a Marine in basic training. Even in the face of a mean, sleep-deprived bastard like himself.

She’d gotten too close. Thanks to Joe, she knew too much about him for his liking. He didn’t need her sympathy. She seemed like the type who dreamed of “saving” a guy...little did she know he was beyond help.

Every time Jimmy came up, he found himself striking back, until his message was clear—this topic of conversation wasn’t up for grabs. Not that she didn’t try. Despite being verbally lambasted, he still caught her looks of concern. Her pity.

Which is why he pushed himself hard, and dragged her along for the ride. Two goals to accomplish: shape up fast and wear her ass out. No, his routine provided little room for discussion or prying, and left them both exhausted by the end of the day.

The streets were quietest at daybreak. A few miles added on to his daily run, broken up with intervals of strength training, ate up the better part of each morning. He made a habit of stopping in the same spots so she could, every so often, catch up to him. He respected her for not idling around somewhere while he hit the pavement. Grudgingly, he liked how she took every hill, obstacle and deterioration in the weather in stride. And for a ballerina, she had a strong set of lungs.

If he wasn’t so fucking tired from the nightmares plaguing him, he might have found humor in her following a fighter’s diet. She had taken over the task of grilling steaks or sautéing a mixture of chicken and vegetables served over brown rice. No complaints about their bland, lean protein and whole grain diet, eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With the substitution of grapefruit for steak, she followed the regiment wholeheartedly.

Each meal was accompanied by one of her teas. The verdict was still out on if they helped, though his headaches seemed to be less frequent. Her constant brewing and straining seemed to say, “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Smart woman. She’d caught on to his game.

It was a pain in the ass having someone eyeballing him twenty-four/seven. But he had to admit, she’d given him something to keep his mind on—her.

Two hours of weight-training came after breakfast. The first day, after they had returned from Joe’s place, he made it clear her company wasn’t needed. The idea of her standing nearby and counting his reps would be a distraction that might get them both killed, which is what he informed her in an abrupt, less-than-gentlemanly manner. She’d stalked out, all stiff-backed, from the bare-bones gym situated between his bedroom and the guest room.

He’d thought about how he’d barked at her earlier and felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the crushed look that had fallen across her features. Which is why he hadn’t chased her away when she’d suddenly sauntered in wearing a tight little body-skimming number.

“This is the only room with a mirrored wall. You don’t mind if I practice, do you? There’s plenty of space.”

He had begrudgingly grunted in response. Hell, just because he was a miserable bastard didn’t justify hurting her. Letting her stay was an unspoken apology. Or so he had told himself.

Ten seconds into lifting, the real reason had become apparent.

The black tights and low-cut leotard hugged every tight curve of her long, magnificent body. Her muscles flexed as she completed series of squats. Her arms circled up over her head and then back out in front of her. The reflection of her satisfied smile in the mirror had made him add an extra weight onto the bar, prolonging the pleasure of watching her move.

At present, he found himself lifting more repetitions than planned but it wasn’t enough. Reality sank in as she pivoted on her toes...nothing but a beautiful distraction was to be had here. Besides, his home gym wasn’t equipped to meet his needs. He needed the punching bag, and would force himself to pick up a sparring match or two. “We’ll head over to the gym.” Like it or not—and who was he kidding? He struggled with this contradicting yin-yang of emotion daily—he was stuck with her.

“Sal is going to be—”

“Just change.” His gaze ran over her outfit one last time. “Wear the turtleneck.”

* * *

They drove in silence to the Pittsburgh Fight Club. Inside, Logan headed off with Sal, leaving him to go about his business without disruption. Or so he thought, until two bouts later when he exited the cage and caught sight of who was bothering Logan.

“Come on, honey. What’s he afraid of, the scorpion’s strike?” Jaysin Bouvine taunted.

Keane stopped next to a punching bag, gave it a solid jab, and counted the seconds before he had to head over there. The fighter was making weird gestures with his head, swiveling it around and side to side. Probably ate paint chips as a child, with that kind of pick-up strategy. Yet the thought of the guy hitting on Logan pissed Keane off.

He pulled a punch, pausing to glare at Bouvine as Logan turned her back on the asshole and moved over to the Octagon stairs, putting distance between them. Knowing she didn’t return Bouvine’s interest didn’t make it any better. It took every ounce of discipline he had not to pound the smirk off the jerk’s face.

Pulling his arm back, Keane thrust it forward with all his strength. Envisioning
Jaysin’s
head. The fact that he’d followed Logan home that time made Keane consider fighting him. Give that bug on his head a solid pounding.

“Call that a jab? The bag is about all you can handle, O’Shea. What’s keeping you from a real bout? Come on, man.” Bouvine’s voice took on a begging quality, like a small boy demanding someone play with him.

But when he swiveled his head and winked at Logan, Keane snapped.

“Let’s go.”

Bouvine jumped, thinking Keane had just invited him to spar and suddenly looking very nervous. His face fell as Keane walked over to Logan and touched her arm.

“You’re leaving? You chicken shit.”

Keane caught the look in Logan’s widened eyes. She assumed he was stupid enough to jump at Bouvine’s bait. Could she see beneath his rigid self-control to the wild, uncontrollable turmoil buried within? The thought made him angrier. He wasn’t about to put a beating on this idiot, to have Bouvine’s subsequent hospitalization weigh him down even further. Without comment, he nudged her ahead of him.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, Sal. Schedule him for a few bouts...with the same fighters as today. Not Jaysin, okay?”

“Anything for you, my love,” Sal hollered back with admiration in his voice.

On the run home, Keane sprinted out ahead of her. He heard her shout out, “Wait up!” but ignored it. Bouvine, Sal and every other fighter in the place would have waited. Hell, they’d have given her a piggy-back ride home. Or, more likely, a ride of another kind. What was it about her that made him feel so responsible? So freakin’ protective? So close to forgetting about training in favor of beating the living shit out of that worthless ass?

Fuck
. Man-oh-man, images of her riding
him
hard were like relentless punches, stirring his blood up past the boiling point. If he was gonna be back in the cage again, he needed to get a grip, and fast. He picked up his pace.

Once home, he headed for the back room, locked the door, and began a series of grueling lifts. Until some semblance of sanity returned.

* * *

Keane emerged from the back room so abruptly the bath towel nearly toppled off of her. They were both wet, her from a well-deserved shower and him from a marathon session of lifting. He scowled at her, an all-too-familiar look. She didn’t mind, knowing his growl was worse than his bite.

“Sweet Mother of Mary. Put some clothes on,” he barked, stepping past her.

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why his mood had soured sometime between the gym and working out at home. Surely Jaysin and his taunts weren’t responsible for the sudden change? Something else was bothering him. Something she wanted to put her finger on so as to better understand him. Keane’s muscled chest rose and fell from overexertion, as if he’d tried to physically push away his troubles. A cold draft from the hallway caused her to shudder and for her focus to resharpen on his attire—or lack of it.

“Look who’s calling the kettle black. You’re showing a heck of a lot more skin than I am.” To prove her point, she grabbed the waistline of his sweats and tugged them up a notch. Her thumb connected with the warmth of his abdomen and suddenly, she felt hotter than the shower she’d come from.

He smelled all male, a mixture of Ivory soap and sweat. Beads of perspiration coated his bare chest and dampened his hair. She itched to reach out and run her fingers along the inky, moist path of his tribal tattoo. She shifted, and the movement accidentally caused her to release her grasp on the towel. In one fluffy cascade, it fell to the floor.

She heard his sharp inhale as a flush spread over her body.

Time was suspended, until his hands found her chest. Scooping from underneath, he cupped the weight of her breasts within his palms. His thumbs found her pert nipples. Gently, he pressed, circled and stroked them, then moved lower around her areolas.

The warmth of his fingers sent shivers down her spine. But it was the note of desire in his voice that caused her heart to burst.

“See how you feel in my hands? So soft, so damned beautiful. So perfect in every way.”

She melted. The tenderness in his tone and in his touch gave her goose bumps. She leaned in to him, her entire body trembling with want.

Fickle fate interfered as the invasive sound of the knocker on the front door interrupted the moment between them.

“Finish this later,” he stated, his tone rough like whiskey, then broke away.

Logan exhaled a long, disappointed breath. Her breasts still felt warm from his palm.

Quickly she headed for her room, where she pulled on a new set of underwear, a long, loose pink sweatshirt and tight black pants. Running a comb through her hair, she heard Keane’s sharp greeting and the murmur of voices echo up from the foyer. Whoever was at the door was uninvited. Yet, it sounded as if Keane knew him. She crept to the stairwell and peered down.

“You back? What happened, no one show up for training?”

“Very funny. I told you it was a brief assignment. Decided to check in on you on my way home. When I left here, I was worried. You seemed...well,
hello
.” The handsome man in the foyer grinned up at her. A familiar, semi-fanatical smirk. One filled with recognition. He glanced back at Keane appreciatively. “You have company. Luscious Logan...”

It was all he got out before Keane tossed him on his back in one, smooth move. The man’s hand shot out and tapped the wooden floorboards.

“Damn Keane, let me up. I’ll apologize. Stupid thing to say. I get it.”

Logan hurried down the stairs, worried for the apologetic man. “Keane, let him up. He didn’t mean any harm.”

“One more word, Stevie, and you’re outta here,” Keane warned, and removed his foot from his friend’s chest. With a nod toward the sofa, he left them and headed to the kitchen.

Logan frowned as Keane returned with three beers. Drinking wasn’t part of their exercise routine. But before she could open her mouth, Keane shot her a look that said “suck it up.”

“So, are you two a thing? That kiss was something—a worldwide event. I hear even Prince Harry has commented on it.”

Logan just about choked on her Yuengling. Clearly, Stevie had no filter and the incident in the foyer had been dislodged from his very short-term memory bank.

“Stevie—”

Logan cut him off. “I heard Keane mention a recruitment center. Are you in the military?”

Thankfully, Stevie was more than happy to discuss himself. “Yep, I’m home for good. Served three tours as a Marine, one in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. I’m helping a few recruitment centers get up and running. Came from New York and decided to check in with Coach here before I return to Ohio.”

Keane drank deeply from his beer.

“Coach? Did Keane train you to fight?”

Stevie laughed and gave his friend a shamefaced smirk. “He tried, but mixed martial arts isn’t part of my arsenal. Pretty much sucked at it. Not that this guy wasn’t an exceptional coach, he was. Taught some of the best fighters in the Marines some mad skills. I’ll never forget the time our friend Jimmy pulled a Kimura in the championship round...”

Stevie trailed off. For a moment, something passed between the two men. Logan searched Keane’s face but was met with only an intense scowl. Typical Keane. Memories had a way of doing that; one person’s fond remembrance was another’s nightmare.

She inhaled sharply. Jimmy was Keane’s nightmare.

Hadn’t she witnessed it at the luncheonette? Keane had visibly flinched when Jimmy’s name had been brought up. Now Stevie’s story was evoking the same dark response from Keane.

Whenever she’d overstepped the boundaries, pushed the issue, Keane had shut her out with his sharp tongue. The threat of him sending her packing if she persisted loomed unspoken between them.

And she couldn’t afford it—not with Jerry dangling that money at her. Not with the paparazzi monitoring her every move. These few days were a godsend, despite Keane’s mood swings—or rather steadfastly clinging onto
one
mood, that of sourpuss. Case in point was the tension rolling off him now.

“How about I get dinner ready? I’ll leave you guys alone for some man time.” Logan didn’t wait for a reply and headed into the kitchen, fearing Keane might send Stevie packing if she didn’t get food on the table soon.

As she seasoned two huge steaks for the stovetop grill and rinsed off lettuce leaves for a salad, her ears were tuned in on the conversation in the next room. A one-sided conversation. No surprise there.