Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (20 page)

“Did you see that, Luscious kneed that guy in the balls. Wouldn’t want to piss her off,” Felix said.

You hear that
,
Keane?

Cameras began snapping, probably hoping to catch them lip-locked on the ramp. That was
so
not going to happen. Boom-Yay needed a wakeup call without lustful distractions.

Sal caught sight of her first and motioned for Jerry’s guys to make room on the ramp. When the entourage fanned out and moved past her, she spotted Keane. It felt like déjà vu. His dark sweatshirt was unzipped, revealing eight-pack abs and pecs so taut a quarter could bounce off them and keep on flying. The sight of him stole her breath away.

Handsome playboy Caden Kelly had nothing on Keane.

She squared her shoulders, knowing what she had to do, and getting all hot and bothered by him wasn’t helping.

He raised his eyes to meet hers.

For a second, it was just the two of them, no entourage, no crowd, nobody but them. She wasn’t sure what she saw in those deep, blue pools. Regret perhaps. Lust, most likely. Caring and adoration, she hoped with every fiber of her being.

Whatever it was, it was gone with the narrowing of his eyes. Just as well, his actions justified her own.

Keane shifted off to the side and made room for her to pass.

She sidestepped too, blocked his path, and forced him to stand still or plow smack into her. He stopped dead in his tracks.

The fine lines around his eyes deepened. That fierce look of his was likely to reach uncharted depths after she’d had her say. He needed to understand exactly why she’d overstepped the fine line between them. Why she’d butted into his business, which was likely what he’d thought she’d done.

His entourage had moved on down the ramp and out of hearing range. Perfect.

He stepped sideways to follow.

So did she.

“For fuck’s sake, Logan.” He yanked his hood off his head and rolled his neck. But all of his attention was on her.

“I wanted you to know I’m holding you to our business arrangement, minus the perks.”

“Great. Later.”

She took a deep breath and plowed on.

“I have one more thing to tell you, Boom-Yay, and I’m not moving until I do it.”

“That’s what you think.” Quick as lightning, he wrapped an arm around her waist, tugged her close and scooped her up. His body shifted around.

No way was she going to let him manhandle her like a sack of Pittsburgh coal. Two could play at this game. She wove her arms around his thick, stubborn neck but did so just as he was relaxing his hold on her. Which resulted in her scrambling to hang on to him, with her chest pressed up against his own, before he tugged her in tighter.

Obstinate, seemingly mean, strong in mind and body, he was all that. But the bottom line was his actions spoke volumes; he
cared
. Which is why it was so important to tell him the truth. “Second order of business. Only then will I let you go.”

Oh, she had no intentions of letting him go—for tonight, perhaps, but not in the future. He was as much a part of her future as her own dance school.

“Logan, the whole goddamned arena is watching us. What?”

Pride cometh before the fall
,
Logan.
This was the biggest gamble of her life, her
heart
. Pride was not going to hold her back. She swallowed hard.

“I love you.”

* * *

Jimmy’s mindfuck dulled in comparison to the one Logan had just hit him with.

“Later,” he managed to growl out as he placed her down gently. He couldn’t freakin’ breathe. The quicker he put some distance between them, the better.

“Man, what I wouldn’t give to be you. The way Luscious was looking at you...what was she saying?”

“Zip it, Sal.”

Keane shook his head. Hell, he didn’t see that one coming. Love him? She hadn’t seen all of his bullshit yet. Didn’t know what a miserable, guilt-ridden bastard he was. A poor excuse of a friend. Too bad Jimmy wasn’t around to explain it all to her. Maybe she had a thing for fuck-ups. Shit, look at that loose-lipped, tights-wearing ex of hers.

He ripped off his sweatshirt as he approached the cage. Whoever Smithy was, he’d better be ready. Keane meant to draw blood and work out his frustrations in the way that worked best for him, with quick kicks and solid, deadly fists.

This bout, he’d win for himself. Prove he could do this, that he was in control. The final two would be for her. First fulfill his fucked-up needs and then their business agreement—which ended tomorrow.

Rolling his neck, he headed into the cage and took to his corner.

“You’ve got this one in the bag, O’Shea. Mickey’s a young one, fresh out of MMA boot camp. No match for your experience.”

Sal’s excitement wasn’t mutual. Fuck, Keane had missed Jerry’s announcement. That jerk-off was trying to make damned sure Keane qualified for Tetnus by pairing him up with these kids. Didn’t he get it? Keane didn’t want to fight opponents green behind the ears. Opponents who might get killed.

Jerry announced the fighters, the bell rang out, and after that, the bout was a blur. All Keane was conscious of was that his frustration was building and that no way in hell was he gonna beat down on this kid.

In fact, he did the opposite.

“Looks like Boom-Yay’s new nickname should be “No-yay.” His opponent is kicking the living shit out of him.”

Not to be outdone, a second announcer added, “It’s hard to believe this is the same guy who’d put such a brutal beating on Bouvine.”

The referee jumped in between them. Keane stalked over to his corner and spit blood into a small bucket.

Sal shouted at him, snapping him out of his daze. “Keane, what are you doing? You’re not even putting your hands up. What did Logan say to you on the way out? Did she cut your balls off or something?”

More like a kick in the balls.
Logan and her
I
love you
. Was she out there somewhere watching all this? Watching how weak he was, how goddamned
broken?
His fists clenched as all of the frustration holding him back peaked.

Spitting another wad of blood into the bucket, he turned. Smithy came at him with a high kick. Keane blocked it with his left arm and pushed the kid’s leg off to the side, fucking up his equilibrium. This left his opponent well open for attack.

Keane balled up his right fist, brought it back, and punched.

It connected with the welterweight’s chin. He was literally lifted off his feet from the impact. In the next hauntingly familiar second, the kid was out cold.

“Boom-Yay lands a solid jab and Michael Smith is down.”

“O’Shea wins with a knock out!”

“Smithy’s not moving.”

Everyone was shouting but Keane zoned them out as he hovered over the prone kid. “Get a damned doctor, fast,” he hollered, but the huskiness in his voice smothered his words.

He looked away from the kid. Spotting Jerry’s smiling face as he talked to a reporter by the stairs, Keane stalked over to him. Grabbed him by the throat. Pushed him up against the cage. Ignored the cameras flashing.

“Ten seconds for a doctor or you’re gonna eat your teeth.”

Keane released the shaking man, who sprinted down the stairs like the IRS was about to hand him an unpaid tax bill. He strode back to see the damage he’d caused once more.

The kid groaned. Sal placed a wet rag on his head as Keane stood there, helplessly.

The air in his chest compressed like a balloon before it burst.

An emergency crew brushed past him, the hose from the oxygen tank they carried swinging.

He needed a hit of O2 as well, feeling dizzy. But first, the kid...Michael.

The oxygen did the trick and Smithy’s eyes opened. Blissful semi-consciousness.

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah, we’re going to lift him outta here and give him a full check-up,” an EMT yelled up from his crouched position next to the kid. “Boom-Yay, think I can get an autograph later on?”

Keane flexed his sore knuckles. The cheering crowd, the media and everyone else shouting was too much to bear. Fans yelled and pointed, as if they’d just witnessed the best thing since Mike Tyson bit Evander Holyfield’s ear off. In Keane’s mind, this was as equally appalling.

He’d had enough. The kid was in good hands, with professionals equipped to help him. They’d give him a thorough examination and make sure no lingering effects remained, only to be triggered at some later date. Or so Keane hoped, from somewhere deep within the pit of his shattered soul.

Chapter Seventeen

KNOCK OUT: When a fighter is unable to get up off the mat and back on his/her feet due to a lethal strike

“Logan, any comments about O’Shea’s knock out?”

“What do you think about the beating he put on Smithy? One punch. Utterly ruthless.”

“Do you think Pierre is looking forward to being introduced to Boom-Yay tomorrow night?
I’d
be worried after watching how O’Shea turned the bout around and utterly annihilated Mickey Smith.”

Keane watched from his spot by the exit as Logan’s blond head snapped up. The swarm of reporters moving along with her stopped almost as abruptly as she did.

That braggart announcer Felix chimed in—another freakin’ guy with a hard-on for her. “God knows how O’Shea managed it, after getting his ass kicked, bleeding all over the place with a busted lip and an ugly gash on the eyebrow...you okay, Luscious?”

“I didn’t see the fight. Was he hurt?” Even from this distance, the worry in her voice rang out. He ran a finger along his swollen brow bone. She was about to hear, first hand, what a violent son-of-a-bitch he was.

“The medics think he’ll be okay. Concussion, so they’ll keep him at Pittsburgh Medical Center overnight.”

“Oh my God. Can one of you give me a lift?”

Keane took a step forward. And stopped. If she wanted to go rushing off and check on the kid, who was he to stop her? Hell, he had better things to do with his time right now—one of them involved Red Label Johnnie.

“Come on! You guys owe me big time for pestering me. Someone drive me to the hospital. How bad was Keane injured? God, this is all my fault. Here’s news for you: I don’t want him fighting anymore. Print that.”

A couple of reporters had moved aside, giving him a clear view. With her hands on her hips and her eyes fired up, Logan was a force to be reckoned with, a tigress protecting her cub.

As it turned out,
he
—the meanest, surliest, most-standoffish bastard of them all—was the cub.

Damn
. His temple throbbed and his lip hurt like shit.
Logan wasn’t worried about Smithy.
She was worried about me.

The swarm buzzed with confusion but no one corrected her as they slowly moved out into the parking lot. One reporter dropped his camera bag, noticed Keane when he scooped it up, and sounded out the alarm. “Hey, there’s O’Shea over by the exit.”

Too late to duck. Keane had two choices: head back inside or join Logan in the parking lot. He looked in her direction and their eyes met through the parting crowd of reporters. She looked beautiful, and surprised. What, was she expecting him to be laid up in some emergency room?

“What are your comments on tonight’s knock out?”

Another reporter with a Napoleon complex shoved a mic in his face. “We’ll ask you the same question we asked Logan. What are you going to say to Pierre tomorrow night, when he makes a semi-announced celebrity appearance at the arena?”

He ignored them, strode toward Logan and muscled his way between the few foolish reporters who’d blocked his way. Her eyes were wide. Her lips pressed tight. She seemed so small, so fragile standing there amidst the persistent reporters.

“I thought you were in the hospital?”

This wasn’t good. It was better if she didn’t care. Easier to drop her off and head off toward the downtown city lights to deal with his demons. Alone.

“Wrong guy.” He tucked his arm around her waist and tucked her against his side. “Let’s go.”

“Lead the way.”

Reporters followed but gave up their chase once they’d reached his Jeep. He yanked the passenger side door open and nodded his head toward the seat.

God, he was wired up. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he cranked up the heat and noted the time on the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. No way was sleep a possibility—not when the need to bash someone’s head in or drink himself senseless persisted. He felt like howling at the moon from all the emotions raging through him.
She loved him.

His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. He didn’t deserve her. But he didn’t have the strength to push her away. He should have done it earlier. He should be doing it right now.

Logan sighed, a throaty, just-woke-up sound that did it for him. She was buttoned up tight in her fancy coat with her long skinny-jeaned legs stretched out before her. Her blond hair wildly framed her face, an unusual break from her neat, smooth ponytail. No, this was more like a sexy-as-hell bed-head look. For a second, he wondered if that underwear playboy had anything to do with her mussed-up hair; another reason to kick the guy’s ass from Pittsburgh to New York. As soon as the thought finished, another replaced it:
sweet Jesus
,
he was jealous.

He caught her reflection in the passenger side window as the Jeep left the reporters behind.

“You know, I can see you scowling at me in my window. Guess you’re anxious to get rid of me, and get a head start on your evening?”

Her disapproval was clear yet something else lurked beneath her words. She sounded resigned and...hurt. Had she expected an outpouring of emotion from him? “I love you,” she’d declared, guns blazing. And like the heartless prick that he was, he’d swiftly dodged her bullet. Any fool knew that that kind of shot—one to the heart—was the deadliest. Any fool could tell you love wasn’t enough to keep someone around when the going got tough. And his tough goings-on were a constant event.

He couldn’t look at her, didn’t want to show the conflicting thoughts written all over his face.

When he caught sight of the underwear model swaggering across the parking lot, the blood vessel in his forehead throbbed.
Mine.
She loves me
,
with all my fuck ups.
He felt like staking his claim and making sure Marky Mark knew where things stood.

But Keane didn’t. He didn’t
know
where things stood. His head was like one of those rides at a carnival that spun topsy-turvy, just out of control, with screaming kids and all.

All he wanted was peace and quiet.

And...her.
Shit.

Keane glanced over at the quiet figure next to him. She was studying her hands and not paying one iota of attention to the playboy out in the parking lot. She seemed sad. And, he was the cause.

What was he going to do with her?

He’d faced car bombs and bullets. Seen men killed before his eyes. Fuck, he relived it on a nightly basis. But this was a different kind of fright. More for her sake than his own, and more having to do with what he might do to her than what some shithead terrorist might do to him.

The Pittsburgh skyline illuminated the night sky, the brilliant light seeming to reflect off the stars. A blinding light that clouded his judgment. No, he couldn’t see dropping her off. Getting shitfaced at Finnegan’s was his post-fight standard but that’s not what he needed. Hell, the opposite, really—he needed her near him tonight. Someplace neutral and serene. A place to calm his pounding heart. Before he could change his mind, he tugged out his cell phone and shot off a text.

“Are we taking a road trip?”

“You’ll see.”

The Jeep climbed steadily up Mount Washington, away from the hubbub of the city below. Away from all of Pittsburgh’s nighttime temptations and the vices Keane had grown dependent on.

His restlessness hadn’t really subsided, but as he breathed the crisp, cool mountain air, the peacefulness of this place he remembered most settled over him. The tension wound up in a knot inside him began to unravel. A few minutes later, the Jeep ambled into an empty parking lot which, considering the late hour, was to be expected.

Logan leaned forward in her seat and peered at the sign flickering on the small building in front of them. “Duquesne Incline. Wow, you’re full of surprises. A cable car?” Her lips twitched as she turned toward him.

“Come on.”

A teenager sat behind a counter inside the small building at the base of the incline. His face lit up when he saw Keane. “Holy shit! It’s you. I’m like, the hugest MMA fan. How you feeling, Boom-Yay? I watched the fight on Pay Per View. That was some knock out tonight. I—”

“What do you want me to sign?”

The kid’s mouth broadened into a wide smile. “I know the deal is one autograph, but you know, my friends are huge MMA fans.”

“No problem. Get whatever you’ve got.”

Reaching underneath the counter separating them, the kid pulled out scraps of lined notebook paper, one rumpled “Rumble on the Rivers” T-shirt, and a baseball.

Keane rolled the ball in his palm and tossed it back at the teenager. “Save it for the Pirates. But I’ll sign the other stuff.” As he got busy scrawling his name, the teenager placed another stack of loose-leaf papers on the counter and stared at Logan expectantly.

“When Dad told me Boom-Yay texted him wanting a private ride tonight I hoped you’d come with him, Luscious.”

“Just like your old man. Freakin’ Mr. Opportunistic Jr. here,” Keane muttered good-naturedly.

Logan giggled.

The girly sound made him smile. It felt as rusty as an old tire iron. It was rare to find something to smile about these days. But Logan was a good sport, signing her own pile of autographs. Tapping his foot, he waited until she had finished. “Ready?”

“Text me when you want to descend. I’ve got homework to keep me occupied. A half hour cool?”

Keane nodded.

They climbed inside the bright yellow-and-red car, vibrant even on the inside, although softly lit. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d ridden it, a lifetime ago, with its polished wooden ceiling and walls. A rectangular bench framed the space below massive arched windows.

Logan crossed the car and settled onto the bench. He sat next to her, stretching out his legs and resting an arm on the seat back. So conscious of the woman next to him and so fucking careful to not make contact. Peace was what he was aiming for tonight. And, if the weather cooperated, a great view.

The car shifted into motion.

Fortunately, Logan seemed content to gaze out the window.

The round, flickering lights from the bridges below looked like rows of full moons floating along the rivers. Everything seemed clearer from up here, and not simply the spectacular downtown views.

He’d set Jerry straight about pairing him up with these freakin’ green-as-grass fighters. If he wanted Keane to win this thing, then he’d better find him a partner with a thick skull. One who could take a beating. No more repeat performances of his fights with Young Gun and Smitty. Not with Keane’s sanity at stake.

The tension in his neck eased as the car ascended.

“All my years growing up in the Pittsburgh suburbs and I’ve never been on an incline.” Her voice held a note of awe in it. Pittsburgh had a bum rap for being a gritty, tough steel city but it had an attractive side as well. He liked that he was the first to take her up here.

“Too busy dancing?”

Her lips turned upward but not into a full, knock-me-on-your-ass smile. More resigned. “I sacrificed a lot of things for ballet. Dancing was my whole life, my purpose. Though, in retrospect, dancing
isn’t
my life but
is
something I love doing. Does that make sense?”

“Yep.”

Her head cocked sideways and her eyes fell on him. “Was that how fighting used to be for you?”

He drummed his fingers on the bench’s smooth wood and looked away. “Guess so.”

“So, what changed?

His fingers kept up their rhythm on the bench. He shifted, his gaze drawn once more to the bridge lights far below. Rows of parallel lights from the skyscrapers downtown reflected off the rivers. Well-balanced and orderly—like his life used to be.

Touching his forearm lightly, she murmured, “If you didn’t want to talk, then why’d you bring me up here?”

“Dunno,” he heard himself mutter. He relaxed, knowing how much he
liked
having her nearby, and also knowing that he’d be an idiot to admit it—no good would come from leading her on and making her think there was something more between them than...
holy shit
. He stiffened and pulled away, separating them by a fraction of an inch which felt more like a mile.

He felt her fingers squeeze his arm before letting go. “It’s ironic. All that time spent hung up on becoming a prima ballerina, and it took becoming an Octagon Girl for me to realize how unfulfilled my life has been. Dancing gave me joy but it was everything else interfering with it that I regret. So caught up in the fame, glamour and money, I forgot about making decisions for myself.”

He heard her sigh. A frustrated sound that caused him to look back at her.

“That silly reality TV show is a prime example of just how ridiculous my life had become. In a way, my broken ankle healed me.” She paused and gazed at the skyline. Light reflected from the glass to her earnest eyes. She looked so freakin’ beautiful. Something deep inside him stirred.

Mercifully, she continued, unaware of the change in him. “My life was dance. Period. I couldn’t imagine anything else. Look at what I’ve been missing. Would you look at that skyline?”

She wasn’t the only one who had missed out on life. His lapse in living was more recent, post-Jimmy’s death until...shit, he was in the muck of it, all right.

As she shifted on the hard seat, her arm brushed against his.

He flexed in awareness.
Forget about it
,
no can do.
He struggled to bury the sudden rush of desire for her. Wait for later and take care of business alone, without her around.

She swiveled toward him on the seat and her face lit up. “I would never have pegged you as a romantic. This view is magnificent. Thank you for bringing me here. It’s so beautiful.”

Him, a romantic? Jesus, did she have it all wrong. Still, he heard himself say, “Gets better on top.”
Damn.
On top is where he wanted to be, and it wasn’t Mount Washington he was thinking about.

“I can’t imagine anything better than this.”

Keane tightened his lips in determination because he most
definitely
could imagine something that would trump the view, something along the lines of sinking into her warmth until all his demons disappeared.