Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (19 page)

And if Keane wasn’t available, then the world was going to experience their first Octagon Girl tap out.

Chapter Sixteen

CROSS PUNCH: A go-to power punch thrown with the back fist, and with a fighter’s full weight behind it

Mayhem broke out in Mellon Arena a few hours later. Jerry looked as though he’d cashed in a winning lottery ticket. Sal gestured wildly with two thumbs up. The crowd chanted, “Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay.” Day Two of the qualifiers was well underway, with Keane easily winning his first of two bouts.

Tenacious Beast had been a solid opponent. Hell, afterward, he’d even tapped Keane on the elbow in silent acknowledgment, as if saying you-just-kicked-my-ass-and-I-didn’t-feel-a-thing. Rule number one in fighting was to know when you’d been dominated and to learn from your mistakes. If Keane’s performance was as clean as this in the next three bouts, he’d have the championship in the bag.

For a moment, he’d felt like his former self. Let the rush ride over him, the kind a fighter gets when facing a challenging opponent. Guys like those he’d fought those first few years in the Marines, leading up to his qualifying for MCMAP and fourth-degree black belt. He’d handled them quickly and efficiently. Shit, he missed those days when fighting was such a sweet adrenaline boost instead of one massive psyche-fest.

His life had become way fuckin’ complicated.

And, despite himself, Keane found himself searching for the woman who’d stirred up all his shit. He rubbed his jaw. Damned if he could figure out where she’d disappeared to.

His recollection of last night was vague at the very best. Rosie and her friend. Logan pissed and glaring. Jimmy laughing down at him because...why? Hell. His friend had always had a way of seeing past all Keane’s bullshit to the heart of the matter. Jimmy’d told it like it was. But had he?

Did I say those three damning words?
Not that it mattered, it felt like he did, which was just as bad. Not only did she stir up his shit, but did it with a big-ass spoon, causing waves so high he thought he was drowning.

She’d stayed with him through the night, the warmth from her head on his pillow still present when he’d awakened. Crazy how much he’d wanted her next to him. He’d inhaled her light vanilla scent, though it was faint compared to the strong tequila smell coming off of his own body. She was gone when he’d gotten up and hadn’t come home by the time he’d left for the arena.

Logan had somehow managed to get so far inside his head that just the sight of her sent him spinning. Man alive, he couldn’t deal with it. She was becoming a drug he craved, knowing it would only lead to pain. Hers. And his own.

Last night’s drunken confession had made him feel vulnerable. Another mindfuck—he couldn’t endure it, he already had enough emotional baggage to deal with. He was never going down that bloodbath of a road again. He didn’t want to examine his
feelings
—or feel anything at all, for that matter. All he wanted was peace.

Fuck, he had to set the record straight in case she’d gotten the wrong idea about them.

An attractive, dark-haired Octagon Girl smiled shyly at him as she lifted her sign overhead and announced the next fight. He brushed off a few reporters and headed back toward the women’s locker room. His second bout wasn’t for another hour or two, since his had been one of the first fights of the evening.

Laughter greeted him, a throaty, sexy sound that made him lengthen his steps. At the end of the stadium corridor, he stopped short.

Logan stood with her back against the cement wall.

Keane looked his fill. Camouflage sneakers at the bottom of long, shapely legs. Mid-thigh-length shorts in a shade of green similar to his military jacket. Less revealing than her two previous outfits. From there up, all he saw was skin. Tight stomach, a rib cage that accentuated her midriff without making her appear anorexic, and...more skin. Two triangular camouflage patches held in place by tiny strings
almost
covered her luscious rack. Pulled high, the bottom swell of each breast played peek-a-boo every time she goddamned breathed.

From a few feet away, Keane noticed it all. And he wasn’t the only one.

Some fighter leaned in toward her and had his hand on the wall by her head. Keane couldn’t hear what he was whispering but there was no doubt what this player was up to.

She was smiling at this guy and laughing at the sweet nothings he was whispering in her ear.

Last night, he’d been in a similar position, had run his tongue across that expanse of her soft skin, from her neck and lower. He’d seen desire spark in her green eyes. She’d wanted him, perhaps even more than she wanted him to fight. Lord knew, the feeling
was
mutual but going nowhere. But seeing her eyes light up for this moron made Keane want to punch the cement wall.

Asshole.
Damn, he must have said it aloud. They broke apart and two sets of eyes shot his way.

“Keane, come meet Caden Kelly. He’s a welterweight, too. And still in the running for the title.”

Figures. The freakin’ underwear model. Keane glared at him.

Both smiles fell. Keane had to give the welterweight credit, his eyes didn’t shift away like a meek mouse. The muscular model straightened and folded his arms across his chest.

“Breached the walls of the wrong hen house, I gather?”

“Looks that way.”

“No harm done. This gorgeous hen wasn’t pecking anyway. See ya around, Logan.” The guy offered her a quick grin before striding off down the hallway.

“Did he just call me a chicken? What is it with this man lingo?”

Keane closed the distance between them. He smoothed his hands over her breasts and, because he couldn’t help himself, tugged the two specks of cloth lower and tucked her lusciousness away.

She gasped and her pupils darkened. Until her eyes refocused on the fury within his gaze, and then a second gasp escaped her lovely lips.

Here he’d been worried about exactly how to wedge some big-ass wall between them without hurting anyone’s freakin’ feelings, and she’d been flirting with this asshole.
Good.
That’s what you fucking want
,
right?
To let her go before things got too deep
,
too complicated
,
too dangerous?
He inhaled sharply, letting the frustration boil up inside of him and drawing on it. He had to hand it to her, she’d just made his job of distancing himself a hell of a lot easier.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out two blue pills. Tylenol or some shit that wasn’t gonna help in the least. Still, she held them out for him to take. “Take these. The water fountain is on the wall. I’d be a bear too with that hangover.”

He took the two pills, squeezing them tightly between his fingers as he stalked over to the fountain.

“You’re not going to like this. But I know how much you dislike surprises...”

One after the other he popped them into his mouth and swallowed hard. Water wouldn’t help the rawness within his throat.

“What?” he grunted, turning toward her.

“I called Stevie and he’s coming to Pittsburgh. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

What the fuck?
“Call him back. Tell him—”

“Part of our business arrangement. The
new
one.”

“We’re sticking to the original plan. Got it? I fight, we fuck, and then we move on with our lives.
Separately.
”

He saw her flinch. Then she stiffened and put her hands on her hips. “A lot of guys returning from Afghanistan are struggling with PTSD. You’re not alone, Keane. And Stevie and I want to see you through this.”

“What else did that asshole tell you?”

She sighed, and lowered her voice. “That a professional is the best kind of help. You can talk to a physiatrist, Dr. Felter.”

“Jesus, the shrink Stevie’s been harping about?”

Logan grimaced at the fury in his tone, but plowed ahead. “She knows techniques for coping with this disorder. You said so yourself, the booze doesn’t work. Hell, last night is proof enough.”

“You wanna help me?” he demanded. “Worry about your own shit, and leave me to my own. I’m not talking to a goddamn shrink.” Fuck. The last thing he needed was a professional stirring up memories he was trying to bury—right alongside Jimmy. “Call that troublemaker back and tell him to stay out of Pittsburgh.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

He stepped back away from her. A preventive measure. No way would he ever strike her or physically harm her, no matter how upset he got. Not intentionally. Unintentionally, now that was the bigger problem. But right now, he felt like she’d kicked his ass, like he’d been kicked in the kidney in a move so evasive, it made him dizzy.

“Do you want me to fight or not? Because if the answer is yes, this topic is dead. Understood? Or I walk.”

She stood, with her lips tight but her eyes thoughtful.

Jesus.
Was she about to say no?
He had to get away from her.
Why don’t you cut the freakin’ cord
,
and quick.

“There’s one more thing I have to tell you.”

He held up a palm, as if it would stop her. He didn’t like the funny expression on her face. Not. One. Bit. “Look, I’ve got a fight to win.”

His heart was pounding along with his head in one mindfuck of a performance. Man, he needed a drink. Or better yet, a brawl. Shooting her a fierce scowl, a clear warning for her not to follow him, he stalked away, his strides long and purposeful.

The alarm in her tone echoed off the cement walls, glaring like a bullhorn signaling a tap out. “I’m not going to let you just slip away from me. You hear me, Keane?”

* * *

Logan made her final turn of the day around the Octagon cage to Metallica’s “Sandman.” Appropriate introductory music for Keane’s second bout on his second evening of qualifiers, especially the bit about hushing and not saying a word. Boy, those lyrics fit him to a T.

Boom-Yay’s fans enthusiastically sang along. She nodded in silent solidarity.

Now what?

Keane wasn’t ready to accept that he had PTSD and was set on fighting, as if he thought it was a cure, or something. However, she’d come to suspect that Keane’s bigger fight came after his wins. He didn’t relish his victories like most athletes. No, instead he acted like he’d
lost
. If she pushed him away, not only would he stop fighting like he’d threatened earlier, he’d distance himself from her, no doubt about it. Sure, she needed the money from his wins. But placing herself in a position where she couldn’t help him, that wouldn’t bode well for the intervention plan.

A no-surprise kind of plan Stevie and she had discussed in length over the phone, with a third-party conference call to Dr. Felter. It was going to take a lot of patience, compassion and perseverance, helping this very private, strong-willed man. But no one said it would be easy.

Hell, it had to be such a struggle on Keane’s end, as well. Fighting, booze, pills—those were Keane’s crooked crutches. A temporary escape from the trauma. Not a permanent solution only a psychiatrist could provide.

But sex? Was that really also a coping mechanism?

Logan blushed, refusing to accept Dr. Felter’s take on the matter, having first-hand experience of Keane in...action.

Her skin still tingled in memory of his tongue’s trail across her body. Her mind raced over the snapshots in her head: Keane’s sultry smile, the lust in his eyes, the way he looked at her as if she were the only woman in the place. His words made her heart dance:
Like you
,
all right.
Baby
,
more than anyone.
Anything.

Crazy to think how her playful lover had morphed into such furious warrior mode. PTSD was the likely culprit for his swift changing moods. Perhaps after finishing the qualifying bouts and Tetnus, he’d retire from fighting? That would be the healthiest choice—the MMA world was brutal enough without him in it.

But how do you help someone who isn’t looking for help?

By showing him you care
, she thought.

By showing him how well a person managed after a fall, when they had to dig deep to deal with the bruises, the external and internal kind.

This morning, before she hit the grocery store, she’d found a potential dance school near her apartment. The rent was reasonable and the money she’d earned so far was enough to cover a few months and construction expenses to convert the space into a proper studio. The downside was that her class size would be limited due to the small room, which was why she was debating holding out for a more suitable space. Plus, three more wins, and she’d have peace of mind in knowing that not only was her bank account healthier, but there’d be money for advertising and promotion to build up her roster.

Everything hinged on Keane winning the next three bouts.
A
win for her
,
but at what cost to him?

She tugged the sign higher and headed for the stairs.

“Luscious, Luscious,” the raucous crowd chanted, bringing her attention back to the present.

Funny how she didn’t mind her nickname anymore. The deep, throaty ways Keane said it replayed in her head, a sexy cacophony.

The music recommenced, signaling that Keane was about to enter. But she wasn’t going to let him stalk by on the ramp without seeing her. He’d sidelined her earlier. No way was she going to hang back in the shadows.

In fact, she was about to deliver a surprise cross punch of her own, and prayed he could take it. It was the easiest-yet-hardest way of making him realize how much she cared.

What Keane needed was tough love mixed with a healthy dose of attitude, accompanied by a swift Octagon Girl kick. A reminder that his stalking away from her wasn’t acceptable. She inhaled sharply. A few seconds later, she’d channeled enough frustration to fill an arena, providing her with enough courage to propel a Nike-clad foot forward.

Keane and his entourage headed down the ramp, and Logan moved up it.

A beefy arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close. “Gotcha, Octagon...ahh!” the guy screamed and bent over to cup his privates.