Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (16 page)

Babyface stepped toward the photographers and struck a pose with fists up and legs bent.

Keane stepped off the scale, uncaring that his jewels swung about with his abrupt movements. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his clothes off the floor, stepped into his briefs and sweats, and swiftly tugged the T-shirt back over his head.

Jerry reached out to touch his arm but snatched it back, thinking better of it. Instead, he gestured toward Young Gun, muttering, “Picture time.”

Chloe gasped as Keane sauntered toward them. Barefoot, his sneakers dangled from his fingers and his sweatshirt and coat were swung over an arm. “Let’s go.” With his free hand, he lightly grabbed Logan’s elbow and nudged her to move.

“Piiictuuuure time, Keane,” Jerry repeated loudly, sounding more anxious and irritated.

Keane led her across stage toward the curtain as if he hadn’t heard Jerry’s order.

Logan forgot about Jerry, the audience and the reporters snapping shots from the corral. Her awareness shifted to the man at her side. The lingering warmth from the fingers that had just been on her elbow.

The surprising feel of his big hand, as it touched the bare skin of her backside and propelled her forward.

He led her along a small corridor in the underbelly of the arena. Once at her locker room, he stopped, his palm leaving her ass to hit the door open. He followed her inside.

“What’s wrong? You made the weigh-in. You were worried about it, right? I could tell by the way you were exercising. What else—”

“He’s a kid.” Keane hunkered down on a bench in front of the lockers. Dropping his gear, he braced his forearms against his legs. One palm ran across his face and his fingers skimmed over his brow bone.

“So, you’ll win the first bout easily.”

“You are so fuckin’ naïve. How many fights have you watched?”

Logan looked down at him. His hand cupped a cheek as he studied the floor. Something was drastically wrong. He wasn’t exactly angry...more pained. Upset.

“Huh?” Though rage simmered below the surface, judging by his prodding. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “Um...I’ve worked five bouts, including yours. They all ended quickly. There was no need to stand around, watching and waiting. Jerry’s so busy, he doesn’t care whether I stick around while the other girls work. Up until now, I never wanted to watch someone get his face kicked in or getting slammed into a mat. It’s not exactly my type of performance. So I usually keep to myself inside the locker room. But don’t forget, I worked with Sal at the gym and observed many sparring matches, mostly with Jaysin Bouvine. I suppose for an Octagon Girl this sounds odd—”

“Now what?” This word was muttered in a voice so low, Logan almost missed it. She’d rather have him angry...she didn’t know how to deal with this unidentifiable emotion. This wasn’t anger, but something more frightening. Something deeper, more tragic.

She reached out, wanting to comfort him, and touched his arm. He pulled it back as if burned, but his head swung up and his blue eyes shimmered with raw emotion.

“Can’t do it.”

His words felt like a jab to the solar plexus and left her breathless.

“What can’t you do, Keane?” she whispered, fearing the worst.

He wasn’t going to fight.

All the time spent cajoling, worrying, training and hoping. Just as she was growing into her Octagon Girl role. Just when her future seemed brighter...

She waited for him to finish, for him to say that one word that would crush her dreams...
fight.
But when a few heartbeats passed without further comment, she marched away. Her hand was still warm from where she’d touched him, yet her throat had tightened from his rejection.

“Fuckin’ Jimmy.”

Fuckin’
was right. And why bring Jimmy up now? It wasn’t like he was here, telling Keane not to fight.

Her locker was around the other side. The shadows from the broken fluorescent overhead fit her mood perfectly. She entered the combo and glared at the stack of Octagon Girl outfits in cellophane, neatly piled on the top shelf and labeled with the number of each bout. Outfits that now wouldn’t get used. Jerry was going to be pissed off at the unnecessary expense once he recovered from his coronary after learning Keane wasn’t going to fight.

She swallowed hard and listened for Keane, hoping he was still there. But what did she expect, his emotions on a platter? Not his style.

Hastily kicking off her other sneaker and tennis sock, she headed toward the end of the row of lockers and turned the corner. His big body stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Keane,” she breathed.

Time halted for a fraction of a second. Not a second after that, Keane was on her. She was grabbed, spun around, and pushed up against the hard locker by one hundred and sixty-eight pounds of tight-lipped male. His head angled and ducked in for the kill. He kissed her with such force her world tilted. Her body cried out for more.
More.
Forgotten were her pride, worries and any lingering sense of preservation. All she wanted was him.

His knee wedged between her legs. One arm slid around her waist. His free hand tugged at her top’s knot and yanked it free. A low growl vibrated against her lips. He stepped away and tore off his black T-shirt.

“Grab the bench.”

She shot him a look. His jaw was tight, mean. But the heat in his baby blues spoke volumes. There was need there, a desperation she felt to the bottom of her toes. She said a quick prayer that Chloe wouldn’t wander in, and then, as fast as her shaky legs could carry her, she did as she was told and found the bench.

He placed a warm palm on her back, bending her forward. She clutched the sides for support. Before she knew it, her boy shorts were sliding down her legs. She stepped one foot out of them, leaving her completely bare. A rustling of clothing behind her made her skin prickle with anticipation.

An arm wound around her waist, adjusting her. A hand ran along the length of her back. A knee pressed between her legs and widened her stance. His palm caressed her buttocks, one at a time. A slight slap caught her off-guard. She gasped.

“That’s for what you did earlier. On stage.”

His fingers fondled her moist folds. A shiver ran up her spine and continued, even though he broke contact.

He bent farther over her and reached around to grasp her breasts in his hands.

Feminine intuition took over. Her hips thrust back and connected with the hardened length of him. She wiggled.

Keane grunted.

His tip found her warmth. One smooth thrust and he filled her completely. A hand shifted from her breast to between her legs, his fingers expertly stimulating her nub. He slowly withdrew, plunged and massaged her until she was panting. He was everywhere at once: his wicked hands caressing her, his massive body surrounding her, his warm lips pressing against her skin, his careful handling making her entire body shake.

She wasn’t alone in her need. His mouth paused from suckling her neck as he made a sound low in his throat. His chest heaved against her back as he pressed her forward.

Nothing had ever felt so wonderful. So beautiful. So naughty.

On the next earth-shaking plunge, he grunted, “Condom.”

“Uh...”

“Shit, don’t move, hear me?”

She heard his sneakers on the thin carpet as he left the locker room. Her skin flushed pink.
Splitting leotards
, here she was, bent over a bench with her bottom in the air, more than ready for what was coming next, in the women’s locker room!

The door vibrated, and Keane returned.

“Lock it, okay?” She heard the metal lock snap into place.

“Told you to stay put,” he said from behind her. Every fiber of her being was on high alert. She heard his clothes rustle as he stripped off his pants, a box hit the carpet, and the condom lightly snap before he rolled it on himself. “Now you’re gonna get it.”

He tugged her upright, rotated them around, and sat on the bench, yanking her firmly down on his lap with her back to him. Her legs automatically spread as she took him in one smooth thrust. Her groan filled the locker room.

His legs spread wider as he lifted her upward and tugged her back down, his pace quickening.

Her body shook as pleasure rolled over her.

A slight shift of her hips caused him to hiss. His pace became frantic. Small kisses found an ear, cheek, until her head turned and her lips captured his.

Incredibly, her body welcomed every rough inch of him. Squeezing her thighs into his legs, she arched at his withdrawal and dropped down on his thrust. The fingers at her waist tightened as their rhythm intensified. Like the swirling path of his tribal tattoo, her release coiled up within her, beginning deep within her womb and snaking its way up into her chest.

He must have sensed it. Slowing his pace, he ground up into her and urged her on. She rose and crested in a huge tidal wave of warm, slick moisture.

“Logan,” he said, the low gravel in his voice resonating deep inside her. His arms wrapped around her body and he pulled her in tight. She felt his heart beating wildly as his chest pressed up against her back. He thrust up into her hard as his own wave followed her over and, together, they shattered.

* * *

Afterward, she felt his forehead pressed against her shoulder. His long, warm breaths caressed her skin. He wasn’t the only one breathless. Mindless. Speechless. No words could describe what had just happened. She had never felt more connected to someone, so in tune to their every movement, every breath. A euphoric feeling filled her senses. It was even better than a standing ovation. She’d never felt so desired, so thoroughly
pleased.

He sat back, but the warmth of his body remained. She wanted him to hold her. What she didn’t want was for him to let go.

One hand left her hip.
He’s going to pull away.

A good thing his back was to her. She feared her rush of emotions for this beautiful, troubled man were plastered on her face like a neon billboard.
This is a business arrangement with benefits to him.
Don’t get all adoration-eyed and...emotional.

Another rush of pleasure ripped through her as she stood and slid off of his semi-erect penis. How was that even possible?

His other hand fell from her hip. Yep, aside from the hard evidence to the contrary, he was done. His purpose—and passion—had been served. Better for her to be the first to move away. Distance herself before he did. Without looking at him, she crossed the small space and bent over to retrieve her shorts.

“Leave ’em, baby.”

He moved behind her, snatched the shorts away, and hurled them across the locker room. His arm snaked around her waist. He hoisted her up against his chest, and sauntered off toward the glass enclosed showers, grabbing a towel from her locker en route.

Logan had always believed that of all athletes, ballerinas possessed the greatest stamina. She was happy to be gloriously, deliciously, and oh-so-thoroughly proven wrong.

Chapter Thirteen

BUTTERFLY GUARD: When a fighter hooks both ankles inside an opponent’s thighs to prevent him/her from moving. Often used to get out of a Submission Hold and often followed by a Sweep

Three times. Three locations. Three positions. That’s what it took for his troublesome mindfuck to go away. Or so Keane wanted to believe. Except he was pretty sure the first time, with Logan bent over the bench, had done the trick. The other two times...well, he’d rather not dwell too deeply on the itch he couldn’t seem to stop scratching.

Logan winced as she brought the dinner plates over to the kitchen sink. He tensed, almost spouted an apology, until he spotted the satisfied smirk of her lips. He relaxed, only mildly disappointed that the source of his itch was too tender for a fourth round. Hopefully, that meant she was also too tired to probe further into his fucked-up psyche.

He’d put her off the first time she tried questioning him about the comments he’d made in the locker room. Silenced Miss Inquisitive right smack in the middle of his foyer, too. Jesus, the couch or a bed would have been more comfortable. Yet, Logan hadn’t seemed to mind.

Shit, how was he supposed to explain his mindfuck—the memories and
guilt
plaguing him—to her?

Since he’d gotten the news of Jimmy’s death, Keane had taken care when selecting sparring partners and opponents. Tough, brawny meatheads out for blood were preferable. Well-trained professionals. Hard-heads who could take a punch and recover from a knock-out.

“One day, I’m gonna kick your ass,” his reckless friend had joked.

Little did he know how his promise had played out in Keane’s guilt-riddled conscience. Every night since his friend had died, Keane had had his ass kicked all the way from Pittsburgh to New York City, and back.

Except, fighting was all Keane knew. Up until Jimmy died, it had been one of the things he most enjoyed. Now, it was a necessary release. Nothing more, nothing less. With carefully selected opponents, ones he couldn’t hurt too badly.

Jimmy wasn’t the only reckless one. Why had he promised Logan he’d fight with freakin’
Jerry
picking his match-ups?

“Dessert?”

Logan had changed into that sweatshirt that drove him nuts, the one that fell off a shoulder. Her shoulder was bare, creamy and smooth except for the mark his lips had left on it. She waved the can of whipped cream in front of his face.

“Will this be too much sugar with the blueberries?”

He studied her and contemplated what he wanted to eat with that whipped cream. It wasn’t fucking blueberries. Something must have shown on his face, and her cheeks flushed pink.

Damn, she was an unexpected surprise. His renewed rush of lust was a surprise as well. And Keane didn’t dig surprises—hated them, as a matter of fact.

“I didn’t know if consuming processed sugars before a bout was good for tomorrow’s performance.”

Here we go.
Her unspoken question was tactfully hidden there. Are you up to fighting? Shit, what was he going to tell her when he didn’t know the answer himself?

She pulled out the chair next to him and sat. He had to give her credit for the way she silently waited for his answer. The blueberries were carefully spooned out into two bowls, the canister shaken vigorously, and whipped cream painstakingly spiraled on top of each dish.

Still, he couldn’t keep his hand off her. Redirecting his attention away from that shoulder, he reached out for a piece of loose blond hair and curled the soft strand around his finger before tucking it behind her ear.

The air sparked brighter with unspoken passion. She looked at him, green eyes alight with desire, her lips parted and ready.

It would be so easy to clear the table with one swipe of his arm. Press her onto her back and use her nipple as the topping for his whipped cream pie. Luscious and sweet. And too sore from his rough attention.

He hesitated. Her eyes widened in confusion. Then, he pulled the stupidest, most asinine move of all time. He kissed her. But not his typical foreplay kind. Not the kind designed to get into a woman’s panties or onto her knees. No, this kiss was light. Gentle.

She withdrew, stood, and then situated herself on his lap. Leaning into him, she gently kissed his forehead, cheek and lips. Her eyes were filled with emotion, a mirror image of his own. Full of...
Holy shit!

His head snapped back. Moving her off his lap, he jumped to his feet.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Maybe it was his cock doing the thinking here? That was the most likely explanation, though he didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Gotta get up early before the fights. Get some sleep,” he heard himself say. Avoiding her eyes, he stalked out of the kitchen. Tomorrow, he’d fight and win. Find a way to make the kid tap out. Without fuckin’ killing anyone.

* * *

Every MMA fan within a hundred-mile radius of Pittsburgh was crowded into Mellon Arena for the first round of qualifiers. The crowd was a mixed bunch, from executives and blue collar workers to college kids and middle-aged fathers. All passionate about this emerging sport, and easily excited when their favorite fighter pulled a surprise Kimura, Muay Thai or any other technical move that showed off their spectacular fighting style. Or so Logan had heard; she wouldn’t know a Kimura from a kimono unless it showed up as part of a dance costume, not that she’d been dressed in any recently—except the red number.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory.

Hopefully, she’d find someone to serve as her translator for all these funny-named fighting terms. Tonight, after her Octagon Girl performances, she planned on sticking around for Keane’s bout. Curiosity played a part in her decision, but she was worried too.

Her housemate was quite the enigma. One-two-three, he’d pinned her on the foyer floor and pushed inside her. Then four-five-six, she was crying out his name in a toe curling climax. The beautiful man’s stamina was mind-boggling—not that she was complaining. But that wasn’t what worried her.

Since the weigh-in, he was either all over her or...withdrawn. After the final foyer tryst, he’d gone from blazing hot to Arctic cold in one second flat.

Logan closed her locker and tugged at the hem of her shorts. Maybe she was over-thinking this? After all, Keane was up at dawn training and bulking up for tonight’s fight. She’d barely gotten a passing grunt out of him in the few times he’d taken a breather. But, he was here at the arena, and more importantly, he was ready.

“Is it safe for little ol’ me to come in?” Chloe strutted around the lockers with a big ol’ grin on her face. Confident and carefree, a far cry from yesterday’s battle with the jitters. Logan was happy for her, impressed at how she’d overcome her shyness. This Octagon Girl might be here to stay.

“The janitors are all a-buzz about the mysterious flood in the locker room. Water drippin’ off locker doors, lockers not anywhere near the showers. Large wet footprints...good thing I headed straight home. Lordy, who knows what I might have walked in on.” Dangling Logan’s blue boy shorts by the label, she waved them conspiratorially.

Logan laughed. Wow, Chloe had a sense of humor, all right. Grabbing the shorts, she tossed them into a nearby hamper.

“Rumor has it that drop-dead gorgeous fighter is ya boyfriend. He’s hotter than the devil’s anvil, for sure. Way dang envious!”

“A mutual business arrangement, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right! Friends with benefits, and so on...sugar, I near about fainted at the weigh-in. That hunk is hot for ya. The way he’s fixin’ on ya, pretty much sums it up. M-I-N-E.”

“It’s complicated.” Logan sighed. Now she sounded like a Facebook status. Once more, she yanked down the hem of her shorts. Today’s version were even smaller and more annoying, with the bits of red material gathering between her cheeks.

Chloe, clad in an identical outfit, giggled.

“Just you wait until you’re up in the Octagon ring, strutting around with the wedgie of all wedgies.” Logan tested the knot at her neck, making sure it was secure. Two miniscule strings were all this red and white tie-dyed tube top had to hold her in place. If her chest had been any smaller, it would have given her a uni-boob. “Guess Rachelle bailed. Jerry’s going to flipping freak.”

“Jerry shmerry,” Chloe mumbled in a rich Southern accent. Every so often, it became more pronounced.

Texas
, Logan decided.

“My daddy will have him fired if Jerry gets all buggy-eyed and puffy-faced on me again. Ya know, when he’s mad, he looks like an ol’ toad.”

Yep, a Texas belle with a rich daddy, one who’d miraculously recovered from her nervousness back at the weigh-in. What Logan wouldn’t give to see Chloe serve Jerry a slice of humble pie.

“Not a toad but a squirrel face. His eyes pinch in and his cheeks bloat out like he’s storing winter nuts.”

Chloe burst into laughter. “I like that. Squirrel Face.”

“Are you ready to check in with him and work out which bouts we’re announcing? I’m doing the welterweights.”

“Ya certainly are.”

Logan rolled her eyes. “You seem more comfortable today, Chloe. Aren’t you nervous about working with this crowd?”

They made their way around the lockers and over to the door. Perhaps she should have asked herself that same question, because her stomach tightened and her pulse sped up. She took a deep dancer’s breath, hoping to calm her nerves.

“Nope. Not nervous,” her partner announced. “Not much of a drinker, but those five shots of Stolichnaya in my latte done did me good. Soon, I’ll be smilin’ like a half-mad bobcat.”

Leaping leotards.
Just add watch-out-for-pissed-drunk-Octagon-Girl to today’s list of worries.

* * *

The announcer’s microphone pierced their eardrums with a blast of feedback, hushing the crowd. Logan clutched her ring card tighter. It was time for the welterweight bout to begin. She hadn’t seen Keane all night. Hopefully, he’d been warming up in his locker room while she’d been busy strutting her stuff for two prior bouts.

If she hadn’t been so concerned about Keane, she might have enjoyed herself. The fans and press had grinned and wildly fist pumped the air, enthusiastic about her appearances. It reminded her of those last precious performances at Lincoln Center when her future had been full of such promise. At the time, Pierre had turned green with envy. Oh, if she’d only known then.

Logan yanked at her polyester wedgie. Aside from the wedgie, Squirrel Face and the tabloid press eagerly waiting for her to mess up so they could feed the drama hounds, the performer in her was beginning to like her temporary job as Octagon Girl. Hey, might as well enjoy the spotlight. And tonight she’d be heading home with a new, crisp paycheck.

“Ladies and gentlemen, all eyes on your favorite busty ballerina and Octagon Girl, Luscious Logan Rettino.”

Later, she was going to have a talk with this guy about straightening out his boring, repetitive rhetoric.
Get over it already
,
buddy.

She hoisted a number one ring card overhead. Knowing what to expect, she calmly moved down the ramp. Hundreds of eyes swung her way. A few steps up and she positioned herself on the rim of the cage. Cameras rose for a picture. With a hip thrust out, she took turns giving each of them a jaunty smile.

“How about an interview, Logan?” one young reporter yelled up at her.

A popular Aerosmith song filled the arena and saved her from responding. She pranced off in tune with the beat.

Chloe waved up to her from a seat below, smiling and cheerful with several bouts under her wing. Fortunately, she’d made it through her bouts without trouble. The shots in her latte apparently had waited to kick in. The fan-boy babysitter in Logan’s seat next to her had better not get too comfortable.

Before she knew it, her performance had ended. Glancing out toward the entryway, she searched for Keane. No luck. She propped the ring card up against the side of the stairs as she claimed her seat.

Chloe leaned in. “This is my first fight.”

“Mine, too.” Logan shouted back. Tonight, she’d announced the first few bouts but hadn’t stuck around to watch them. She never did. Instead, she’d headed into the arena’s underbelly, hoping for a moment with Keane. He was nowhere to be found. After that, Chloe had consumed most of her time, and at present, the little Texan lush was swaying in the seat next to her. Soon, Chloe’d be doing the Texas two-step, if she didn’t face-plant first.
Better keep her next to me and within sight.

The music took on an ominous beat. “Weighing in at one hundred and fifty-six pounds, with a black belt in Seibukan Jujutsu and with fists that pack a lethal punch, introducing welterweight Young Gun Willie.”

Chloe burst into giggles beside her. “A black belt in Chewbacca juju-juice.”

Logan grimaced.

Young Gun Willie moved down the ramp. Confident. Determined. A close-up of his face filled the widescreen TVs. He pulled a reverse
Mona Lisa
, pressing his lips tight and mean while his eyes sparkled with delight. Logan wasn’t sure what exactly being an expert in “Chewbacca juju-juice” entailed. Or if it was enough to keep Keane at bay. She knew Keane was worried about fighting such a young kid—the fact he was doing so at all was a little surprising after his reaction yesterday. She hoped Willie would be okay in there, for Keane’s sake as well as his own.

Willie made a grand showing of stripping off his clothing as he jogged around the inside of the Octagon cage.

“Now introducing the King of Tap Out, the Guillotine Grappler, the man who forced Andy the Annihilator into submission in seven seconds flat. The one, the only, Boom-Yay O’Shea!”

Logan jumped to her feet. Along with hundreds of other eager eyes, she searched the entryway at the top of the ramp. No music accompanied Keane’s introduction. Only the murmur of the anxious crowd was heard.

Seconds seemed like hours. The buzz of the fans escalated. Logan bit her lip as her gaze fixed on that one spot, waiting. Hoping.

A swarm of trainers—Jerry’s people—filled the entryway and began moving down the ramp. Keane was there, sequestered somewhere in the middle where Logan couldn’t see him. The image on the Jumbotron screen shook as the cameramen jockeyed for a clear shot of him as well. Finally, it steadied. And Logan grinned.