Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (22 page)

The curve of his lips remained in place as she put on her sweatshirt.

“Okay, you got me. How so?”

Her hands found her hips and she gave him her sauciest smile. “Well, you promised me hard and rough.”

“You got it, babe. Bet you can’t even walk straight.”

She felt like fist pumping the air. He was biting, and it felt wonderful.

“Boom-Yay. Didn’t you hear your nickname ringing out in your head?”

“Fuck, no. Why would I think about a bunch of rowdy men heckling me while I was having amazing sex?”

God, she wanted to hug him.
Amazing
, was it? She was so pleased she felt like dancing.

“I’m not referring to your crazy fans. I’m talking about us. How every time you pushed up inside of me with a
boom
, I answered you with a
yay
. Bleeding leotards, I must have shouted
yay
at least a hundred times.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her rechristening of his nickname or her reference to one hundred times, but whatever it was, he grinned like a madman.

“Hmph...Boom-Yay. Yeah, I like it.”

“So do I. It suits us—Boom-Yay and Luscious.” She held her breath, waiting for him to object to her linking them together like a couple.

“What time is it?” he asked, in a neutral, unreadable voice.

She reached into her jacket, pulled out her cell, and showed him the screen. Eleven fifty-five.

“We better hurry.” He placed his thumbs in his track pants and yanked them down.

“What are you...doing?” The question was ridiculous; his intentions became clear,
very
clear, when she caught sight of his emerging hard-on.

“Strip. Time to sink my Boom-Yay into your Lusciousness, and test out your theory, baby.” His smile took her breath away. Five minutes later, his Boom-Yay had her humming faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Chapter Eighteen

TURTLE: A protective maneuver where a fighter curls into a ball to block his/her opponent’s punches

Naked as a jaybird, Logan lay on her back, studying how the early morning light deepened the golden hue of Keane’s lovely tin ceiling. He was full of surprises, this sexy hunk sleeping soundly next to her. Life with him would be as rich and complex as he was.

Last night was as unexpected as a Pittsburgh Indian summer. Her body still hummed from their wild ride on the Duquesne Incline. What they’d
done
in that beautiful cable car registered way off the mind-boggling charts. Incredible. Stupendous. And a ride she’d repeat again and again.

He wasn’t just hot as hell and able to put the spring in her step with a simple glance. He was caring, loyal and trustworthy. Dependable, too—he’d made her a promise and put aside his own issues to fulfill it, all for her. More proof that his conscience ran deep.

Whether he liked it or not, she was going to help him. Stevie’d be in Pittsburgh today—it wasn’t like she’d had time to call him back and cancel their intervention. Not that she wanted to, despite knowing how pissed off Keane was going to be.

She glanced down at him.
Boom-Yay has hit the hay.
Seems I’ve worn him out!
There was a bruise on his eyebrow and his lip was swollen on one side. Not that it had stopped him last night. Not that either injury took away from his rough, handsome features. Reaching out, she ran her fingers across his cheek in a gentle, loving caress.

Without warning, Keane shot up like he’d been burned, wrapped his big body around her, and rolled over and off the bed. Fortunately a pillow pinned between her head and his arm cushioned her fall. He landed on top of her, knocking the wind out of her. One hundred sixty-eight pounds of muscled welterweight had her trapped, with her arms tucked against her sides and legs spread wide open.

If she wasn’t so astonished, she’d have laughed at finding herself in this situation once more, with a naked Keane sprawled out on top of her. But this was different.
He
was different.
What just happened?

His face was mere inches above hers. His eyes were vacant and his mouth tight. A fine sheen of sweat covered his brow and his cheek ticked. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was ready to go kick some ass. Or worse. He wasn’t himself—this wasn’t the man who’d made such passionate love to her last night.

“Keane!” Her voice was sharper than intended, and full of worry.

He blinked, and blinked again. His eyes refocused, filled with surprise, and then awareness.

“Fucking hell!” Quicker than he’d wrestled her to the ground, he was off her and onto his knees beside her.

She tried to sit up.

“Don’t move. I need to check you out.”

Silently, she obeyed. Aside from the tightness in her throat from his desperate expression and the tenderness between her legs, she was fine. Shocked, worried and trying to control the heart attempting to burst out of her chest, but otherwise fine.

“Jesus. Logan, are you okay? Where did I hurt you?”

“Keane, you just caught me by—”

“Shit, holy shit. I’ll call an ambulance.” His voice was hoarse, almost panicked. The sound of it forced her out of her dazed state.

“Listen, I’m fine. The pillow cushioned my head. You weigh a ton but I’m okay. No harm done.”

“You’re gonna see a doctor, anyway. To make sure.”

She clambered up onto her knees and faced him. Cupping his jaw in her palms, she tried to soothe him as she struggled to come to terms with what had just transpired. “Shhh, I’m okay. You woke up out of a sound sleep because I touched you. You reacted. But you snapped out of it and realized I’m not the enemy, or whomever you were picturing in your head. At least, that’s what I think happened.”

“Fuck.” He pulled back and covered his face with his hands, mumbling something inaudible.

Logan stood. She didn’t move away, but instead hovered over him, desperately trying to figure out how to help him.

Moments passed yet the tension remained. Keane’s fingers flexed as he pulled his hands away from his face and rose to his feet. His expression was horrible, like he’d lost a fight or worse. His hardened gaze scanned her from head to toe, pausing on her belly.

“Christ, what is that? Did I do that to you?”

Logan gasped at the pain in his voice. She lifted her arms away from her body and searched for whatever had him so alarmed. A bluish-red mark stood out on her otherwise pale skin, marring the area near her bellybutton. Come to think of it, a matching mark was probably on her neck, too.

“It’s a love bite. Remember last night when you ran your tongue over my stomach and...well, you know. I think there’s another one on my neck.”

He exhaled in a rush.

“I’m here, Keane, for you. I—”

His lips tightened and caused her to hesitate. She had promised him not to pry but this was important. He needed to know she would help him. “Is fighting your way of dealing with all of this stuff? A physical release, even if you don’t enjoy it?”

“What about it?” He stood in front of the antique dresser with his back to her. The metal handle rang out against the wood as he fiddled with it.

She sighed. He wasn’t making this easy. Moving over to him, she placed her fingers on his bicep and squeezed reassuringly.

His arm tensed beneath her touch. Her heart raced with emotion—she wanted her touch to absorb all of his pain. Gently, she placed a feathery kiss on his neck, then whispered, “I’m here for you, Keane. This isn’t something you have to deal with alone. I can go with you to see a professional, if you want. An expert who has counseled a lot of guys going through similar issues.”

His body stiffened as he brought a balled-up fist crashing down onto the dresser. The wood vibrated from the impact. She jumped back, alarmed more by his anger than his physicality. She’d expected him to have softened from her touch, but instead, was now faced with a tense, brutish street fighter.

Turning around, he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Okay, so you’re not ready to talk about it. Can’t you see I want to help you? Sure, the timing stinks—you should be focusing on the next fight, right? Focusing on not getting hurt. Winning, even. But given what just happened, you can’t ignore this.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“What
shit
don’t I know then, Keane?”

“Why are you sleeping in here?” His voice was brutal, accusing, but she noticed his hands were shaking. “Don’t you see?

Her back stiffened. “All I see is that you didn’t give me much choice. I was trapped beneath you for most of the night.” She pointed to the bed, hoping he’d be reminded of their wild night together. Hoping it might calm him down. Soothe him.

He pinned her with his gaze and clenched his jaw. “Logan, this isn’t gonna work out for me. I need my space back, I need my freakin’ life back.”

“What are you saying, Keane?”

“Look, I warned you. No strings attached. No commitments.”

“You fell asleep with your arms and legs wound around me. How’s that for attachment?”

“It was just sex.”

Leave it to a fighter to know how to deliver a knock out. He couldn’t have picked a better way of tearing out her heart. Her fingers curled into her palm so tightly, her hand numbed.

She marched over to the other side of the bed and gathered together her clothing scattered on the floor. Scooping up her jacket from the chair, she headed for the door.

“Thanks for the
sex
.” She shot out, passing him by.

“Logan, wait,” he murmured, his voice tight once more. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late.”

* * *

If the darned city bus moved any slower it would be going in reverse.

Be right there
,
Jerry
.

Getting fired seemed minor in comparison to her mixed bag of emotions about Keane, minor compared to her much-needed over-the-top salary even. His rejection smarted.

It sucked knowing her love was one-sided and unrequited. She’d worked her way through a lot of bullshit this year. Falling in love had been unexpected. Falling in love with a fighter had been startling.

Falling in love with a troubled man like Keane had been a mistake.

“This is for the best,” Keane had said as he dropped her off at Mrs. Debinska’s and drove off without so much as a goodbye. Logan wanted to bury her head underneath a feather pillow and stay there until her heartache subsided. Instead, she sucked it up and forced herself into taking a step toward fulfilling her
other
dream. She checked out another potential ballet studio.

The space was small and the rent more than she could afford, despite being in a less than desirable industrial area. Instead of cheering her up, it forced her to reassess her present situation. She had two choices: take the sales associate exam at Boscov’s and nickel and dime her way into saving enough for six months’ rent, minimum. Plus expenses. That was going to take some time.

Or she could high-tail it over to Mellon Arena and hope Jerry would cut her a break for being late.

Deep down, she knew a year at Boscov’s was better than watching Keane getting a knuckle sandwich from his next opponent, the Mad German. They’d certainly pulled a one hundred and eighty-degree shift—she didn’t really want Keane to fight, and he now seemed hell-bent on doing so.

Talk about a yin-yang of conflicting emotions.

She needed him to fight but was worried. Everything she’d heard about the Mad German said he was bad news. Was Keane prepared for someone so huge and vicious?
Physically
, maybe. Lord knew Keane had as much fat on him as a celery stick—zip, null, zero. But was he mentally prepared for this kind of bout?

The way he’d withdrawn after such a wildly passionate evening was proof enough she’d gotten too close for comfort. This morning’s events, him tackling her off the bed, had freaked him out bad. He’d overreacted, and worse still, he’d pushed her away.

The bus halted a block away from Mellon Arena. Logan briskly walked the short distance, passed security at the side door, and made her way to the women’s locker room.

“Sugar, thank God you’re here!” Chloe greeted her in a rush. “Ah tell ya what. Jerry’s lookin’ for ya and he’s been throwing a hissy fit, barging in here like clockwork every five minutes, wanting to know if ya arrived yet. Madder than a rattler, with him grumbling about ya being one lucky broad. I reckon ya boyfriend struck a deal, by the look of things. Jerry kept mumbling on and on how Keane and free publicity is what’s keepin’ ya ass from gettin’ fired.”

Logan frowned. Her boyfriend, a man more complex than a spider’s web, who’d flat out told her their relationship was just sex—casual, like he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her—had gone out of his way to save her job as an Octagon Girl. Was she that predictable that Keane expected her to show tonight? Or was it his guilty conscience making him act on her behalf? Whatever his motives, it bought her time.

Unlocking her locker, she eyed the two remaining Octagon Girl outfits. Even through the plastic wrap, she could tell by the colors that these were different than the bright yellow number Chloe wore. Logan caught sight of the wording printed on the back of a pair of purple shorts. She sucked in a breath. Jerry had lost his mind completely with this stunt.

“I’ll wait outside and keep an eye out for ya.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” she said, her eyes glued to the outfit in her hand.
Great bleeding leotards
.
What does Jerry have me wearing this time?

The sound of a crashing locker room door signaled her boss’s arrival. So much for Chloe stopping him.

“Rettino, where the fuck have you been?” Squirrel Face appeared at the end of the row of lockers.

Logan gasped at the sight of him. It looked as if he’d gotten into a fight with the locker door and had lost, with his cut-up face, swollen lip and bruised cheek. So disheveled and out of sorts, she wondered why he seemed so focused on her showing up and not on cleaning himself up. Hell, a man after a bar brawl was in better shape than him.

“I look like an asshole every time I send that nitwit out to announce the bouts when they’re asking for you.”

Asshole pretty much had him covered, bleeding lip and all. Chloe was not a nitwit, but Logan had to choose her battles carefully right now. “Why did you pair Keane up with the German? Isn’t there anyone else he can fight, someone less violent?”

“Sweetheart, this isn’t one of your fancy ballet shows. These guys out there want blood—to taste it, smell it, lick it, breathe it.”

Lick it?
Ew!
Whoever had done the number on Jerry’s face had scrambled his marbles as well. “So what are you saying? You’re sending Keane to be butchered by that giant German so the crowd can turn into a bunch of testosterone-induced vampires?”

Jerry patted his mouth with his fingers, seemingly checking for verification that his lip was indeed the size of a golf ball. “Hmph, what have you been drinking? Your boyfriend is the butcher in this match-up. He’s not exactly passing out roses tonight. Mean fuckin’ bastard. Do you see what he did to my face? But I’m not holding a grudge, especially against my champion.”

Logan frowned
.
Did Jerry believe Keane would win this bout?
It certainly appeared that way.

“You’ve kept them waiting long enough. Let’s go.”

She had no choice but to follow Jerry out of the locker room and down the long corridor. Tiny goose bumps spotted her skin by the time they arrived at the ramp into the arena. Something in Squirrel Face’s suddenly cheerful disposition triggered her inner warning bells. “Jerry, when you said I kept
them
waiting long enough, you were referring to the crowd, right?”

He ignored her question. “That outfit is going to put this MMA event on every goddamn television network from here to Australia.”

Her goose bumps multiplied in number.
Whatever Jerry is hedging at
,
it’s going to be bad.