Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (2 page)

Over her shoulder, she caught the welterweight’s stare before his entourage swept him away.

“Let go,” she spat out at the ancient handler and yanked her arm free.

“Tsk, tsk, sweetheart. If you want more of a taste of that cynical devil, better change your tune now. He’s got more women lined up than a shoe sale.”

The old timer’s eyes skimmed over her as they reached the end of the ramp. “An attractive bit like you can do much better than that cold bastard. Unfriendly, somber type, only talks with his fists. Beats the hell out of me why the ladies love him so.”

“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. I was just...” She stopped short as the handler reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and offered it to her. A card. His card.

“Like I said,
some
men know how to treat a lady.” His hands rose up next to his ear in a call-me gesture. Aghast, she could only stare as Grandpa Romeo headed back down the ramp toward the Octagon.

A bell rang, and the crowd began cheering, muffling the stream of curses she’d been holding in. The noise escalated, and so did her disgust at what had transpired tonight, what she’d done. She tore the card, tossed the remnants on the ground, and with the soles of her sneakers, she mashed the tiny pieces.

What on earth had come over her? She’d actually
kissed
him.

“Rettino!” a voice barked out from behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”

Great
,
just twist my bleeding tights.

Logan drew in a breath and turned to face her boss, searching for the words to describe her uncharacteristic behavior. Or behaviors, rather, depending on which “stunt” Jerry was referring to. She bit her lip and prayed that whatever it was, he’d get over it once he’d verbally pinned her ass to the wall.

Gesturing wildly, all five feet of the balding, thinly built man moved in irritation as he closed the distance between them. His hand found her upper arm, and Logan tensed against him.

“Does this look like Rockefeller freakin’ Center to you? All you’re required to do is hold the damn ring card up over your head, stick out that huge rack, and prance around the cage. Know what? I think all this media attention has gone to that pretty head of yours. I’ve got news for you, girlie, no one is here to see you dancing around like some spoiled brat who couldn’t make it as a fancy ballerina. Now listen to me, one more stunt...”

A horn blared, cutting Jerry off. Logan gazed around as the crowd jumped to their feet.

“Holy shit, did you see that! Andy the Annihilator was just guillotined. He tapped out in seven seconds flat.” Felix Decker’s animated voice filled the arena as he shouted out a play by play over the loudspeaker.

“O’Shea is leaving the cage before the winner is announced.” Felix’s excitement was obvious by the high pitch of his tone. “He literally crushed Andy the Annihilator but isn’t waiting around to be crowned champion. A first, ladies and gentlemen, in MMA history!”

Logan glanced at Jerry. His mouth twisted into a smirk so bold it was comical. She shook herself free of his grip. The more she learned about her boss, the less she liked him.

Though she hadn’t bothered to learn all that much about MMA, this was not the case with Jerry. She made a point of asking questions about him, his nature being as horrid as it was. Better keep your enemies close, right? Especially if he was your boss at a job that earned you so much money in so little time.

Not only was Jerry chairman of something called the East Coast Xtreme MMA Federation, he sponsored and promoted high-profile bouts, and was actively recruiting the best fighters out there. It occurred to her that his new welterweight had just handed him a victory—and along with it, some serious money and some bonus publicity. A trifecta. If O’Shea agreed to sign on with Jerry, her boss would be a wealthy man.

In Logan’s mind, he’d always be a sleazeball promoter.

Given the abrupt uplift in his mood, Logan seized the chance to reassure him. With a tap to his arm, she drew his attention toward her and hastily began. “Jerry, I’d like to apologize for the shaky start. I need...um, want this job. I’ll strut my stuff. Whatever you expect me to do, I’ll...”

The mass of bodies on the ramp parted.

Logan fell silent at the sight of the fighter O’Shea. Shirtless and sweaty, the planes of his abdomen flexed as he moved. A sculpted chest, sprinkled with dampened hair, rose and fell with each rapid breath. His biceps tightened as he wiped a gray towel through his jet-black hair. An errant bead of sweat escaped and journeyed across a sharp cheekbone to pool onto lush lips.

Logan froze as awareness of his imminent proximity made her pulse race. Too late, she realized her mistake. She was standing smack in the middle of the ramp. And the fighter stalking toward her seemed preoccupied with drying himself off.

In that moment, she felt so small. Fragile, even. Though not quick enough to get out of the way of the raging bull who’d seconds ago destroyed his opponent and was now bearing down on her. Was this the same man she’d foolishly kissed? Anger reverberated off of him, seeming to fill the rampway.

She blinked as he abruptly halted several feet in front of her.

He looked up through long, wet lashes and narrowed crystal-blue eyes at her. With a final swipe of the towel to his head, he bunched it up in his fist.

The gray ball was sent hurling in the air, spiraled once, and hit her boss square in the face.

Jerry sputtered, and swatted away the offensive material.

How could she forget her boss, rooted in place next to her in the aisle? The indignant expression on his face, that was a keeper.

Perhaps it was the long build-up of tension from this problematic year, or perhaps it was the nervous flutter in her chest at her undeniable attraction to the fighter, whatever it was, Logan did the unthinkable—she laughed.

It wasn’t a short, sweet one. This laugh had been brewing for a long time, as if patiently waiting through her painful year of ups and downs—downs far outweighing the ups, that’s for sure—for one ridiculous moment to make its escape. It came from deep within the pit of her stomach and erupted out of her so hard her belly ached. Tears wet her eyes as she let go.

Jerry sputtered some more, this time turning a bright shade of red. Raging red. Blood hungry red.

She took a step away from him, inadvertently inching closer to the fighter. An uncomfortable moment lingered with her under the scrutiny of both men. One furious, and the other full of...intent. Watchful. Unreadable.

O’Shea’s gaze felt like a caress as it lowered to her chest, then downward to her exposed stomach, pink short-shorts, long expanse of leg, and hesitated on her pink Nikes. Until it shifted to her forearm, and his frown line deepened.

She jumped as two fingers lightly caressed her arm, running across the fingerprint marks Jerry had left. For a split second, something flickered across his pale blue eyes before they narrowed on her boss.

“That’s it. I’m done. My final fight. Meet me in the locker room in twenty—you owe me some money.” His voice was low and husky, and deadly serious.

The touch of his hands at her waist sent a jolt of excitement through her. Easily, with no effort at all, he lifted her and, pivoting at his waist, swung her around. Gently, he set her on her feet, off to the side and out of his way.

“What do you mean, you’re done?” Jerry squeaked, finding his voice as the fighter brushed past him. “You can’t just come in here, win one lousy fight and disappear.”

O’Shea grunted and stalked off up the ramp.

Logan couldn’t believe it. No one defied Jerry; she’d learned this fact the hard way this morning, when she’d dodged the weigh-in.

Jerry paced about furiously.

What have I done?
Logan glanced around, hoping to find a hole to climb into or at least a massive body to tuck behind, before his full attention spun her way.

“Think I’m gonna let a set of tits like you get away with laughing at me? You’re fired!” Jerry roared. “Pack your locker and get out.”

She placed shaky hands on her hips to steady them. “Jerry, listen to me...” she began but the words dried up. There was no explanation for her carelessness. Her laughter had made him look like an idiot in front of his prize fighter.

Her eyes fell helplessly on O’Shea as he made his way to the top of the ramp.

Maybe
he
was her golden ticket? Someone Jerry coveted. Someone who’d make her boss a very wealthy man. Someone who was clearly capable of getting the job done. Would he agree to kick some ass and, in turn, save her own?

A chill ran up her spine, a kind of body-numbing awareness, reminding her of how mean, how fierce, this fighter was. How unlikely it was she could convince him to help her. She searched her mind for something that she could use in her favor, something that would make him agreeable toward fighting for Jerry.

Who was she kidding?

One kiss. That was their connection. She didn’t know him. And, let’s face it, what he probably knew about her didn’t help.

But that was what she had to do—persuade him to fight. Could she do this?

She had no choice.

“What if I make a deal with you, Jerry? If I get your fighter back, can I keep my job?”

His face pinched together like a rodent assessing a nut as her words registered. For a moment, she thought his temper, clearly visible within his menacing glare, might launch him into another tirade.

She hastily pressed on with her mind-boggling, irrational offer. “I’ll get you O’Shea,” she stated with a false sense of bravado, “if you keep me on as a ring card girl.”

“Ha! You think you can handle him?” he snorted, disbelievingly.

Drawing on the endless tide of humiliation she had endured—and
still
endured—Logan stomped forward and with hands on her hips, glared down at the little weasel.

For once, her troubles were rewarded as his eyes lit up, measuring her, as if noticing her for the first time. His brows pinched together, considering her proposal, then he relaxed. A good sign. He was going to give her a chance.

His eyes fixed on the swaying of her chest, his smirk broadened perversely, and bile rose up in her throat.

“Forget it, Jerry,” she burst out, “you misconstrued what I’m saying. I’m not promising to sleep—”

“Tell you what. The qualifiers are in a month. If O’Shea wins all six of his bouts, he’ll be headed to the granddaddy of all granddaddies, Tetnus, with a million-dollar purse. You get him to do this for me, you keep your job.”

It was hard to contain her excitement. The underlying dread at what she had just committed to, she’d deal with later.

All anyone talked about was Tetnus, the championship fight being held in Vegas in July. A series of qualifying bouts were about to begin around the country—Pittsburgh being one of the main events because of the quality of fighters Jerry had attracted. Only the best fighters within their weight class advanced. O’Shea was the whole package. Jerry knew it. And after tonight’s events, Logan knew it.
A
big-bodied package all right
, she thought, remembering the feel of his muscled chest pressed up against her.

“You’ll get your fighter. I appreciate...”

Jerry held up his hand, Godfather-like. Not a good sign. Judging by the tightening of his mouth, he hadn’t forgiven her for laughing. “I have some conditions. For each fight he wins, you stay. Hell, if he wins all six qualifiers and makes it to Vegas, I’ll double your salary. But the first time he loses, so do you. Got it?”

Jerry stalked away without waiting for her reply.

Logan inhaled deeply, feeling like she’d bargained with the devil and lost, without an inkling of exactly how she was going to go about getting O’Shea to fight.

Grandpa Romeo
. Frantically, she gathered up the remnants of the old timer’s card from the aisle, hoping enough pieces remained for her to make out his phone number. He’d help her, right?

By doubling her salary, she’d be on the fast track toward reclaiming her life. Medical bills paid off. A nest egg big enough to launch her dance school. And then, she’d knock Pierre off his toes. Hard. Give him an awful taste of what it was like to be infamous.

This opportunity was her make-or-break moment.

Her gaze narrowed toward the exit at the top of the ramp where the welterweight had disappeared from sight.

“Correction,” she said aloud, her determination growing stronger with every word. “You, O’Shea, are going to be my
break-out
moment.”

Chapter Two

CORNERMAN: The person a fighter depends upon to guide him/her during a bout

Logan tugged the neck of her black cashmere sweater up higher as a gust of frigid Burgh air chilled her to the bone. The only thing moving quickly this blustery evening was the snowfall—the South Side bus had been late, and her warm skinny latte from The Quiet Storm had slowly chilled just like the rest of her numbed body. Exhaling, she realized that she was going to be late as well, although she didn’t know if one could actually be
late
for a surprise ambush of an attractive welterweight.

Late because her best friend Sally had received several encores at tonight’s ballet performance, causing it to run longer than expected. Logan frowned in reflection. Backstage, their brief chat should have been about Sally’s recent promotion to the Pittsburgh Ballet’s principal dancer. Or how wonderfully loving Sally’s fiancé was. Kind, too—no way he would ever drop
her
on prime-time television. Granted, he wasn’t even a dancer. He worked as a chiropractor who happened to treat ballerinas. But even so, he wouldn’t have dropped her. As a matter of fact, he had gotten Logan her job in the Octagon cage, being Jerry’s chiropractor and all.

Instead, their discussion had centered on Logan. And the source of all her problems... Pierre.

“I heard your bitter bird of an ex on the radio, of all places. Clearly, he’s still pissed off about his precious painting. What did you say to him?”

My
painting
.
No way was Pierre going to keep it, on top of everything else he’d stolen from her. “File an insurance claim, asshole,” Logan repeated the words she’d spoken that miserable day a few months back.

The fame pimp had done much worse than drop her on TV’s top-rated
America Gets Its Groove On
. He’d kept everything of value purchased for their ultra-modern Manhattan duplex, plus the Gramercy co-op itself. The apartment had been a surprise gift to her—one he’d purchased with her hard-earned money.

The sly bastard made sure to itemize everything on the homeowner’s insurance policy: the plush, Chippendale living room set, crystal chandelier, wine collection—the list went on and on. And the mortgage, the policy, everything was under his name.

It didn’t matter that he’d depleted her bank account to make a huge down-payment on
that
place instead of the uptown, pre-war co-op they’d agreed upon, and to purchase most of the furnishings. Without a lawyer, she had no chance of getting her life’s savings back.

Sally laughed. “I still can’t believe he called the police, like they’d believe you would steal your own stuff! But why haven’t you sued that jerk? I told you money isn’t a problem if you need it.”

Logan shook her head. “Focus on Fiji. Save your money for snorkeling and parasailing and having the perfect honeymoon. Stop worrying. I’ll take care of Pierre once my dance school is up and running.”

It had been her second trip to the co-op when Pierre had come home, caught her with a Waterford lamp in each hand, and had called the police, resulting in nearly everything being moved back inside. The cops wouldn’t let her take anything she couldn’t provide proof of ownership for.

But some select pieces, such as an expensive oil painting—a commissioned reproduction of a Renoir piece showing two novice ballerinas en pointe for the first time—had mysteriously disappeared.

Despite Pierre’s temper tantrum on the city sidewalk—that painting had been his pride and joy, the object he bragged about most—there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. The police had caught on to her money-grubbing ex’s number rather quickly. One officer had even arched his eyebrows at Logan, as if saying “
You got off lucky
,
kiddo
,
dumping this guy.
” Fortunately, Pierre’s complaint was added to the precinct’s pile of petty cold cases, those they wouldn’t waste their time or manpower resolving.

“You constantly amaze me. I wish I had your self-assurance. Your strength.”

My stubborn pride.

Sally’s comment had made Logan laugh and reminded her of the plaque her mother had hung on the wall over the kitchen sink so many years ago. It had read “Pride cometh before the fall.” Talk about ironic. One source of comfort was knowing that pride didn’t turn tail and hide
after
the fall. Along with hurt, humiliation, defeat...pride was the Band-Aid holding it all together.

She inhaled deeply, the cold air sharpening her senses. Her conversation with Sally had reinforced her courage. It was time to rip off the Band-Aid, and peel away this prideful paralysis holding her back from her plans for the future.

The qualifying bouts began in three weeks and she was feeling desperate. She palmed Grandpa Romeo’s pieced-together card in her pocket and quickened her pace, anxious to reach Finnegan’s Pub and get this deal locked and loaded. Snow blanketed the narrow, winding street and slowed her progress, until at last, she made it to the top of the steep hill. She paused to catch her breath, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind an ear as she glanced back at the city lights below.

“What took you so long?” Grandpa Romeo, also known as Sal, demanded, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air as he came out to greet her. He must have been waiting at the window. “O’Shea’s inside, in the back. But I’ve got to warn you, he’s in a piss-poor mood.”

Logan straightened. “Great. Do you know why?” Without waiting for a reply, she headed inside, the old fox hot on her tail. After all, it really didn’t matter why; all that mattered was the welterweight agreeing to fight.

“Nope. But I’d say it’s in his nature. Take me, for example. I’m a friendly guy, wake up with a smile every morning. That’s why I’ve agreed to help you. I’ve even ordered you a Ying-
i
-ling.” Sal pointed to two tall amber bottles on a small table by the window.

She resisted rolling her eyes, more so from his funny pronunciation of Yuengling than from his assumption that a ballerina would drink a beer.
Ring card girl
, she corrected the mental slip. “Why aren’t you sitting with him? You said you guys had plans to ‘chew the fat’ over a few beers.” She slipped off her alpaca knit coat and set it over the back of her chair.

Sal cleared his throat loudly, causing the couple at the next table to look over at him. Did he have something caught in there?

“That’s the get-up you’re wearing to lure him into bed?”

“What? Who said anything about...I’m not trying to—”

“If this don’t beat all,” Sal continued, mindless of the reddening of her already flushed cheeks. “A big black turtleneck and leggons. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you’ve got some stiff competition.” He ducked, peered under the table at her black riding boots, and shook his head.

“What’s wrong with my
leggings?
”

Sal motioned to the naked midriffs and bare legs of the women at nearby tables. Finnegan’s inconvenient location didn’t deter the local ladies from partaking in a few Friday night beers...and then some, it would seem. Most of the women were dressed more appropriately for a night out at a club in Cabo than a cold Burgh winter. Not that the sight of half-naked women was anything new, given her chosen profession—
professions
, she corrected. Their attire was just...unexpected. Logan peered around the pub, needing to find the welterweight and get this over with. Finnegan’s Pub wasn’t exactly her kind of scene.

“Should have worn one of them Octagon outfits. A shame to hide a body like yours.”

The lustful wink Sal shot her was too much to bear. Tossing his balled-up card on the table, she reached for the Yuengling and took a deep sip. She winced at the bitterness but forced down another long gulp. When in Rome...

“I’ve got a plan. What do you have on under that tent you’re wearing?”

“Listen, Sal, I appreciate your help in tracking down O’Shea. But I’m just going to have a conversation with him—explain my predicament.”

“One of them sportsy bras, I hope. You’ll fit right in.”

Logan frowned but continued, “This isn’t a big deal, really. He’s a fighter and I need him to fight. If someone asked me to dance again...”

“You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a pair of tight boxer shorts like I’ve seen in them Victor’s Secrets magazine? With them little hearts?”

Logan choked on her Yuengling as Sal stripped her naked with his lecherous eyes. What had possessed her to ask him for help? “Please, watch my stuff.” She stood, grabbing her beer, and worked her way to the back of the pub before Grandpa Romeo could stop her.

Entering the lounge area, her eyes were instantly drawn to the fighter. Her throat went dry at the sight before her.

He was sprawled on a bench in a back booth, one knee bent and legs splayed apart. A hand rested on a powerful thigh and the other held a near-empty bottle. More than six feet of raw male splendor in repose. Head resting against the wall, he moved a black-labeled bottle to his lips and took a long drink, eyes closed.

And Logan drank him in, every rugged male inch of him. He was too sexy for words. Sexy and, judging by the shot glasses scattered on the table, very, very
drunk
.

She nearly lost her nerve but stepped toward him before she could change her mind.

Like Logan, he was dressed head to toe in black. A simple tight T-shirt, soft, faded jeans, and black leather boots. His fingers clenched and unclenched by his side, a sign he was at least not completely loaded.

Hesitantly, she stood at the foot of the booth. “Can I...” she began.

Frosty blue eyes pinned her to the spot. A glimmer of recognition—or so she thought—flickered, before his lids lowered and shut her out. As if tempting her to finish, he took another swig from the bottle.

Instead of asking permission, she slid onto the other cushioned bench.

“Following me?” His dismissive manner indicated this question was rhetorical, as if women constantly chased him. Hordes of them probably did.

She’d seen the MMA groupies hovering by the arena exits, not unlike her former fans had waited for her after a performance. Except the fighter’s fan club was entirely female and these women weren’t looking for an autograph, not unless it was emblazed on their naked bodies.

She stiffened, ignoring the flex of his muscles as he shifted, and pressed on, “Um...yes. Sal told me you’d be here. I need your help.”

“Sal,” he muttered and took another drink before setting the half-empty bottle to wobble next to her beer on the table. “My help? I’m the last person you should be asking for help.” Swinging his legs off the bench and under the table, he leaned forward and closed the distance between them.

The act was abrasive and intimidating but his eyes wandered around the room, restless and unfocused. “What I want is to be left alone.” Harsh, sharp words coming from pink, plump lips.

Logan sat up straighter in her seat.

“We met a week ago, actually twice, on the ramp at Mellon Arena.”

He snorted. Acknowledging they’d met or the quick lip lock they’d exchanged? Both? Or neither? She wasn’t sure but given his compromised condition, she’d better reintroduce herself. “My name is Logan Rettino. I’m a baller...a ring girl. Like I said, I need your help.” She paused.
Why did this have to be so difficult?
Just ask him.
He’s a fighter
,
so ask him to fight.

He pushed his bottle toward her, a look of pure challenge in his blue eyes, but she was uncertain whether it was an offer of friendship or a sign he’d had enough. What harm could one sip in the name of camaraderie do?

Besides, she’d been nursing her Yuengling as if it were the finest Chardonnay. She wasn’t about to back down now, germaphobic or not. Alcohol was the great neutralizer, right?

Logan raised the bottle, pressed her lips to the warm glass and took a swig of unfamiliar hard liquor. A blaze of fire ripped across her throat and burned a path into the pit of her stomach. Tears formed in her eyes. “What is this?” she coughed out.

“All you’re gonna get...or maybe
not
.” The last bit was said in such a deep, throaty voice, she strained to catch it. It sounded naughty, like he was contemplating tangling his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back, and covering her mouth with his own.
Oh sweet pirouette.
She felt a little bit breathless at the idea. The booze didn’t help.

Needing something to do with her hands besides reaching across the table and testing out his “maybe not,” she fiddled with the hem of her sweater. Her cheeks warmed, nevertheless.

She came here for a reason, she reminded herself, and taking a roll on a mattress with him wasn’t it.

“I’m asking you to agree to fight. Jerry wants you to qualify for Tetnus. From what I understand, it pays really well. And, it would help me smooth things out with him. You can’t imagine how challenging he is to work for. It’s a win-win situation. You’d be paid for a few nights what most fighters make in a month.”

Grunting, he avoided eye contact. Instead his gaze rested on her lips. Self-consciously, her tongue darted out and licked off a smidgeon of sticky sweet liquor.

Better sweeten the pot
, she thought
.
“Perhaps there is even something I could do for you in exchange?”

“Maybe.”

She gasped as he reached out and ran his thumb along her bottom lip. But when he placed it between her lips so the tip pressed against her tongue, she nearly shot up off the seat.

“Tempting,” he murmured.

If her cheeks had warmed before, they were on fire now.
Perhaps I could do something for you?
She’d said the words—a blatant invitation for sex—without thinking.

Perhaps it was her subconscious speaking.
Show me the time of my life.
Show me how a real man gets down and dirty.
Make me forget about my egotistical
,
limp petunia of a dance partner
,
who got off more from looking at himself in the mirror than with me.