Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (6 page)

He nodded toward the bed.

“How about...” she began, her voice hoarse with desire.
How about I take a beautiful swan dive onto the mattress
,
you join me and we go at it?

He tilted his head and arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“...I bring us some water?”

He stared at her for a second. “Okay.”

She stepped away from him, instantly missing the warmth of his body but at the same time needing an intermission to find her breath.

“Logan.”

Hearing her name roll off his tongue made her want to sprint to the kitchen, then back. “Yeah?” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“Once we’re in it,” he gestured toward the bed, “don’t count on leaving anytime soon.”

Her body flushed from head to toe. Hell, buckets of water wouldn’t quench the thirst she had for him.

“Be right back,” was all she could muster before stumbling into the living room.

Late-night host Sophie Morelle’s voice filled the silence. The cocky darling of cable television was Logan’s favorite after-hours host. Tonight, she was listing reasons why some washed-up actor should star in a new sitcom—something about more strippers in the prime-time line-up.

In the kitchen, she filled two tall glasses, not really paying attention to Sophie. For the first time in months, Logan was eager for what might come next. Starting with the surprise waiting for her in the next room.

It wasn’t until she headed back into the living room that she realized who Sophie’s guest was. That someone landed an invisible sucker punch and knocked the air out of her.

She dropped the plastic glasses, the water showering her legs and bare feet, the glasses landing hard then rolling in opposite directions across the wooden floor. Not that Logan really noticed, as she grabbed the remote off the couch and turned up the volume. There was no mistaking that smug voice. Pierre.

Logan glared at the TV. The fame hound sat on a chair across from the host, as arrogant as could be, while three buxom women in tight tube tops and tutus were paraded in front of him.

“Pierre LaFeur, a favorite to win
America Gets Its Groove On
, is with us tonight. Pierre, some people think you’re callous for not taking any responsibility for what happened on last season’s finale, where you so famously dropped your former partner. Come on, Pierre, her average-sized tits interfered with you catching her?”

“Well...er...for a ballerina—”

“I understand that several other
male
prime-time hosts—not saying any names here—have called you an expert on female anatomy. In the spirit of joining the boys’ club and trash-talking women, tonight we’re asking you to vote for the biggest set of hooters.”

The women pranced across the stage, each stopping to pose in front of Pierre.

When the camera zoomed in on the awkwardly ridiculous expression on his face, Logan attempted a laugh. But her throat constricted tightly.

If the world knew the truth. How Logan had made it through three months on a reality show she’d had no desire to be on. How four weeks before the finale, she’d been basking in the warmth of a standing ovation from her performance before the Queen of England. How one week after Pierre had fumbled his catch and dropped her on the show’s finale, she’d caught him in a pretzel position with her understudy, Anya, in her bed.

She felt Keane come up behind her.
Pimp my plié
,
the humiliation never ends.

Sophie Morelle continued on relentlessly. “Personally, I find the buzz about your former partner’s breasts offensive. But hey, viewers are eating it up—as you well know, Pierre. Clearly, the network is thrilled to have you back this season. But what you might not know is not everyone agrees with you. Her knockers don’t seem to be an issue for
this
hunk of sin...”

A picture filled the television screen. Logan let out a dry, inaudible rasp and her eyes darted toward Keane, who was silently towering over her. His eyes shifted from curious to narrowed and pissed-off. The lines around his mouth pulled tighter.

Fearing the worst, her attention swung back to the offensive image on the screen. The paparazzi had really gone all out, bulbs blazing. There, decked out in full, fluorescent pink Octagon Girl regalia was Logan. Shot from the side, they’d captured her pressed up against a sinewy mass of male. Keane, no mistaking him. No mistaking either of them. Or the leering faces in the background.

His hands cupped her bottom and back. Her head was angled toward his. And their mouths were lip-locked in what appeared to be a toe-curling kiss.

“Fuck,” Keane growled in her ear.

Sophie continued on, oblivious to the tension building like molten lava in Logan’s living room. “A girl after my own heart. Looks like she found a profession that appreciates a shapely woman.”

Again, the camera panned to Pierre. A tight fake smile was plastered on his face.

What she’d give to wipe that expression off his lying lips. Before she could muster an explanation for Keane, the photograph disappeared.

Abruptly, one of the women stepped onto the small chair, spread her arms overhead, and leaped forward, aiming for Pierre in a less-than-perfect Logan imitation. Pierre jumped to his feet. His arms circled around her as they connected. He wobbled for a split second but found his footing.

“See,” Sophie stated gleefully, “I proved my point. You
can
catch someone with a rack the size of watermelons.”

Having Sophie on her side did not make Logan feel any better.

An oh-so-familiar irritation washed over her.
Just you wait
,
Pierre.

Keane moved past her and clicked off the TV. “Your ex? From the newspaper?” He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the attention either. Not one bit, judging by the tone in his voice.

What could she say? Even if she could speak—which she couldn’t, as a fistful of rage lodged the words within her throat—how could she discuss the depths of despair that sucked the life out of her every time her ex lied about that damned dance?

Oh, she was going to get even with Pierre, that much was certain. Once her life was in balance. Once she was back on her toes again.

“I’m gonna fight, all right.”

Her mouth fell open as she stared at him. Perhaps something good had been salvaged from tonight’s wreckage.

His thumb caressed her cheek. Something crossed his face. Compassion. Sympathy. Just as quickly, his finger was gone.

“
Not
for the title,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

He headed into the bedroom, marched over to the bed and grabbed the folded blanket lying across the foot of it. Moving past her frozen in the doorway, he tossed the blanket onto the sofa. “Better get some rest.” His actions were abrupt, but his tone was kind.

Still, it didn’t matter. Pierre had ruined the evening.

Her eyes shifted from the pile on the sofa to the Renoir-style painting above it. Revenge was going to taste even sweeter than taking his prized possession.

Just you wait
,
Pierre.

“Logan.” The way Keane stressed the
a
in her name in that deep, gravelly voice of his soothed her irritation. “We’ll see how quick your ex-partner is on his feet. Pretty boy LaFool is gonna eat his teeth.”

As Keane spoke, his voice changed. Less kind, more menacing. So much so that shivers ran up her spine. His threat said it all.

The market on revenge wasn’t exclusively hers.

Chapter Four

FOOTWORK: How a fighter moves his/her feet to best maintain balance, mobility and striking power

Bam
,
bam
,
bam.

The steady thump of someone pounding on the oak door of his Victorian home seeped into Keane’s semi-consciousness. He awoke with a jerk, sprang to his feet and immediately reached for his gun. Only his hands came up empty.
Shit
. The Afghanistan/Pakistan border was a world away but at times like this, it felt so real. Realizing his mistake, he rubbed his palms over his face in an effort to wake up. There it was again, loud enough to clear away the last of his drug-and-booze-induced stupor.

The digital alarm read 10:00 a.m. Who the hell was looking for him this early?

His neighborhood, Shadyside, was nice enough, with its Victorian mansions and well-maintained apartments. For the most part, people were polite but kept to themselves. Which suited him fine—he didn’t want anyone nosing into his business. Less wise-asses looking for trouble, too. It was the anonymity of this posh neighborhood that made him spend a bit more cash on the place.

Keane made his way downstairs to the foyer and without pausing, threw the door open.

“Dude, did you see yesterday’s
Pittsburgh Post
? Your ugly mug is front page news, though the real reason I picked up a copy was because of that Octagon Girl...Luscious Logan.”

Keane glared at Stevie through throbbing, tired eyes.

Jesus. Her again.

The memory of Logan’s long, firm leg flexed against the mirror plagued him like a frustrating hangover, in spite of how his cock stirred each time he thought about it. He wasn’t one to dwell on past hook-ups—hell, getting a ballerina off with his thumb two nights ago hardly rated at all. But something about her stuck with him.

The 6:00 a.m. cocktail hadn’t relieved his pounding head, and this unwanted publicity made him want to pound someone else’s head.

He moved to close the door in his friend’s face. Stevie’s reflexes were quicker—it sucked to have sober friends—and he shoved his foot in the doorjamb. “Shit, man. I haven’t seen you in a year and this is my welcome?” His friend pushed his way inside.

“Ever hear of a phone?” Keane asked, his tone harsh, but relented by stepping back a few inches. One thing he knew about Stevie: the man was stubborn, with a stiff back that rivaled his own. A trait that had served them both during their third tour together in the Marines.

“Nice place,” Stevie commented. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, making himself at home as if a year hadn’t passed by. The kid was fit, had slimmed down some, and seemed...happy.

“But you, Coach, look like shit.” Stevie was joking, but Keane caught the concern in his eyes.

“Don’t call me that.” Scowling, he changed the subject. “Why the visit?”

“Can’t I look up the only friend I have in Pittsburgh? I’m headed to New York City. They want me to train personnel at a new recruitment center. Thought I’d make a stop to see your sorry ass on the way from Ohio.”

Clearly, Stevie had overcome his driving issues—the constant searching of the roads for booby traps, the ball-clenching fear you’d experience in everyday situations that flared up when least expected. At least there was hope for one of them.

“So, what’s up? You fighting again? Thought you gave that up after...”

“Nice seeing you, Stevie.” Keane grabbed him by the arm and muscled him back toward the door. But not without resistance.

They took it to the floor and grappled for positioning, Keane quickly gaining the upper hand. Stevie was an amateur fighter—always had been, always would be. He pinned his friend to the ground and a few seconds later, Stevie raised his hand in surrender. An MMA fighter would have tapped out, proving yet again why Stevie should stay far away from the Octagon ring.

Both men stood, breathing hard. Blood trickled out of Stevie’s mouth and despite having been pissed off by him bringing up the past, Keane felt remorseful. Shit, even though his heart hadn’t been in the fight, if you could call it that, he’d hurt his friend.

He nodded toward his leather couch. “Sit. I’ll get some ice.”

“How about a pot of coffee? Looks like we could both use some.” His friend’s ability to forgive and forget made Keane feel even worse.

Moments later, Stevie was situated on the couch, an odd expression on his face as he held a package of frozen peas to his lip.

Keane touched his knuckles. The ballerina had been right, the swelling had subsided. For a second, he thought about how she’d carefully wrapped his fist with the Ziploc bag, then pushed the memory away.

At least the peas gave Stevie something to do other than yak at him. Keane welcomed the silence, but not the company, given the present circumstances.

In the privacy of the kitchen, Keane plugged in the coffeemaker, then studied the newspaper he’d retrieved from the floor. They’d gone to the extra expense of publishing a color photograph of that damned kiss. Frowning, he read the headline:
Buxom Ballerina Gets Down and Dirty
.

Scanning the text, the paper crinkled in protest as he clenched his fist and forced himself to read more slowly. If the assholes had dug into his past...flashbacks, nightmares and late night visits from his dead buddy were reminders enough of his time in the service.

His name was mentioned, but other than that and the freakin’ photo, the accompanying paragraph focused entirely on Logan. Shit, judging by the indelicate way they’d dragged out every slanderous detail about her—even daring to praise her dick of an ex, part of this season’s favored duo on a lame-ass reality dance show—it wouldn’t take long before they focused on him. A sliver of anxiety mixed with anger worked its way up his spine.

He knew that ring girl was trouble the moment they locked lips. A publicity stunt? Doubtful. He shook his head, remembering her reaction to her ex’s boob bash on the television. But damn, if he’d known this was what he was in for, he would have dropped her on her ass and there wouldn’t have been a photograph.

His life was already fucked without this invasion of privacy.

Tossing the paper into the trash, he ran the kitchen faucet before dunking his head beneath. The cold water, a few cups of coffee and some Advil might do the trick. Preferably before Stevie started asking more questions.

What the hell could he say about returning to fighting, anyway? That a daily dose of booze and pills weren’t nearly enough to drive away the demons in his head? That a parade of women and one-night stands wasn’t enough of a physical release to satisfy him?

Not that he’d had a woman since his overnight stay with the ballerina. What a debacle of an evening that had been—a restless night on an old couch, an early morning escape through the snow-covered streets of Pittsburgh, and a cock in need of some serious attention.

More thoughts of Logan, this time twirling about in that skimpy outfit, had filled his mind yesterday afternoon. But when his fingers grabbed his hard-on, the fucking evening played over in his head and ruined the pleasure. Not that he didn’t get off, fast and furious, but he felt cheated out of having those long legs of hers wrapped around his waist while he pumped into her. Probably for the best, really. Considering her baggage and notoriety, he planned on keeping way the hell away from her.

Stevie wasted no time with his inquisition as Keane returned and handed him a cup of coffee. “Care to tell me what’s going on? You look like hell frozen over. And a fight? I thought you said...”

Keane grunted. It seemed his friend hadn’t learned his lesson. In a low voice, he warned, “Not now, Stevie. Change the subject.”

His buddy gave him a long look but must have read his expression. “Okay, I’ll drop it. That’s...uh....not the reason I stopped by.”

Keane ran his thumb across his temple, picking up on Stevie’s nervous tone. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t gonna be good.

His friend grew more reluctant with each second passing, until he at last blurted out, “I’m seeing a shrink...a lot of the guys are.”

“Good for you.” Keane was careful to keep his tone neutral, knowing the angle Stevie was taking here and not wanting to give anything away. This discussion was dead as far as he was concerned.

“No shame in it, you know. It’s helped to work out some issues, and stuff.” Stevie held out his palm in a let-me-finish gesture. “Something to consider, that’s all.” He dug a card out of his wallet and tossed it onto the table by the couch without further comment.

Keane drank his coffee and ignored it. He felt his friend’s eyes on him, but he ignored those too, until the subject changed.

“Well at least you’re getting laid. She’s hot, too. Great body. Nice rack.”

Oblivious to Keane’s anger, Stevie went on and on about the fucking article. And judging by his enthusiastic response, the newspaper’s attempt to ridicule Logan had failed. If Stevie was any example, every sex-crazed stud out there, including her wimp-ass ex, wanted a piece of her.

Damn
,
it was going to be a long morning.

* * *

Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, Keane’s legs picked up speed as the ground flattened out. Ten miles was for amateurs, yet he struggled to make it through the windy, hilly streets of Pittsburgh. He was losing what should have been a winnable battle. A string of sleepless nights had made him surly. Mean. And regretting his quest for sobriety.

Last night had been hell.

He’d woken up in a cold sweat, the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh in his nostrils. It had taken several seconds to realize it had been night terrors. That he wasn’t in the desert of Afghanistan, on the lookout for roadside bombs and worse, covered in blood after finding one.

It had taken twenty minutes for his hands to stop shaking.

Something had to change.

How hard could it be? No booze, no pills and no women—a cleaner way of living?

Stevie seemed to have conquered his demons. His visit had Keane rethinking his own bad habits.
Damn.
He wanted the days back when he’d been fit and full of life, both physically and mentally. Days long gone by.

Five miles into the run, he knew it was a lost cause. He needed something more...physical. To jab a punching bag or kick some ass in the cage. Something brutal, where his muscles ached afterward. Where the restlessness within was muted. Running was fine for building endurance. It was the mindfuck jogging around in his head he couldn’t endure.

The Pittsburgh Fight Club was within running distance, and in the much flatter neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. Sal might be able to hook him up with a sparring partner. He changed direction and picked up speed.

In under an hour, Keane was dropping punches down on a fairly decent fighter, Frank Tupps. He had to give Tupps credit, the man had a thick skull and even thicker heart. At three minutes and five seconds exactly, Tupps tapped out.

Keane stalked to the corner, stripped off his thin fighting gloves, and ignored the appreciative murmurs of the other fighters. Annoyed that the relentless itch within him still needed scratching, that the fight hadn’t done the trick. If the uphill run home wasn’t enough to exhaust him, his choice of sleeping aids would be a no brainer.

Turning to exit the cage, he nearly plowed Sal over.

“Aw, come outta there, Keane. These other fellows aren’t too happy with me messing with their sparring time.
Some
fighters are looking to qualify for Tetnus, you know. And they’re not going to spar with you—won’t risk getting hurt. Not every fighter is a mean bastard like yourself.”

Keane ignored the insult—or compliment, depending on how you looked at it. He didn’t want the old man prying into his business, so he did what needed to be done. Shut him out.

Unfortunately, the old-school trainer had no sense of self-preservation and followed him across the cage.

When Keane moved to step around him, Sal blocked him with surprising swiftness. “I’ve set you up for cage time with Jaysin Bouvine in thirty minutes,” the trainer offered. “I’m counting on you to give him a run for his money and make him see the light. Show him I mean business.”

Keane dodged right, but Sal followed. Why did the old timer seem so anxious for him to fight this guy?

“How about a hoagie and some protein shakes while we—”

“See you later.”

In a full belly slam, Sal hurled himself up against Keane and forced him to stop in his tracks. “Wait...uh...you can’t leave. Come on, Keane. I’ll order us a roast beef with the works on it. And about Bouvine, Jaysin’s been asking for some time with you.”

“Look, Sal. Another day. Gotta go.”

Glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, Sal looked nervous. He shifted to the right, preparing for another body block.

Keane was ready for him. Faking a right, he sidestepped left and, with a few long strides, got out ahead. He was on the last step when Sal caught up with him.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

Keane grunted. It wasn’t hard to imagine what the trainer had to say, with Tetnus’ preliminary fights just two weeks away.

“Didn’t you hear me? I want to talk to you. It’s about the girl...Logan.”

Keane slowed his pace. Deep down, he was mildly curious about how she was doing—if she’d recovered from her douchebag of an ex’s nighttime slander-fest. Having his mug plastered on front page news still pissed him off, but he wondered how she was dealing with the negative coverage. Annoying or not, no one deserved that kind of treatment.

“What about her?” Keane heard himself say.
Damn
,
why head down this path?
The woman was nothing but trouble.

“Bouvine’s bad news. He’s obsessed with Logan, he followed her home last week. She hates the guy but won’t rat him out. Thinks Jerry’s gonna buy into replacing you with him. Come on, Keane. Why don’t you fight?”

Keane ignored the sudden desire to slam his fists into Bouvine’s kidneys, repeatedly. But Lord knew, he had his own shit to deal with. “Forget it.”