Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (17 page)

In a typical fuck-you gesture, Keane had pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head and now kept his chin down as he approached the cage. She didn’t have to see his face to know what she’d find there. Clearly, this grand spectacle didn’t fit his low-key style.

Keane entered the cage. Ignoring Willie, the crowd and Logan—did he even know she was sitting there?—Keane jogged in place and jabbed the air.

Sal did see her, waving to her as he positioned himself in Keane’s corner.

“How about both welterweights make their way to the center,” the announcer in the cage directed.

Instead, Keane came toward her, toward Sal and his corner. His worked his hood off. Despite herself, Logan gasped. The way his jaw tightened, plus the narrowed slant to his eyes, he looked downright mean. Very unlike the man who’d kissed her so gently last night.

Sweatshirt, T-shirt and pants were handed over to Sal in exchange for a bottle. Keane drank deeply and poured the remnants over his head. A fine line of water cascaded down his face, down his chest and along the swirl of his tattoo. Not enough to puddle the mat. But more than enough to make Logan’s mouth go dry.

He shook his head like a puppy after a bath. Blinking away the moisture, his eyes fell on her. Briefly. He scowled and turned away. But at least Logan knew he’d spotted her. Knew she sat there, close to his corner. Just in case he needed her.

* * *

Fucking hell. He wished to God Logan had changed her mind. Keane had more than his share of problems right now. Not only did he have to worry about injuring this kid, but he knew, despite what she said, Logan had no clue how brutal a fight could be.

He could see her out of the corner of his eye. When he landed a well-placed kick and caused the kid to stumble, she covered her face. When he let Young Willie nail him in the mouth and bust open his lip—an effective tactic used to draw the kid closer for a takedown—she jumped to her feet. He needed to ignore her. Focusing on the kid took every ounce of his willpower. He couldn’t afford a mistake. He might hurt him. Or worse.

He took his time, let Young Gun run out of ammo from all the jogging about, defensive tucks and swivels he was so fond of using. The horn sounded. Five minutes had passed and Round One was over. Willie was winded, and grinning like a madman. The silly kid thought he’d done well.

Keane followed Logan’s movements with the Round Two ring card around the cage toward the stairs. There was no avoiding her. Willie stopped and said something to her. Something that made Logan blush. Every muscle in Keane’s body flexed, ice-cold rage filling every pore. Right then, Keane decided he’d had enough with this kid. Time for a tap out.

“Your lip! Are you okay? Why did you let him hit you like that? Put your hands up next time.”

Seemed like everyone was a mixed martial arts expert these days. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he grunted and pushed past her. Or tried to, before she blocked him with the damned sign. Outmaneuvered by a ring card.

“I’ve never had to announce a second bout. What is going on? Is it Willie’s training in Chewbacca juju-juice or however you say it?”

“Jujutsu.”

“Yes, that.”

“Look. Announce this bout and then disappear.”

“I’m an Octagon Girl, not a magician.”

“Just do it,” he said threateningly, dodging her sign to descend the steps.

Sal rushed over and handed him a water. They stood there next to the cage and waited for the blessed horn.

“Don’t say a word.” The old man closed his mouth, heeding the warning. Yet his eyes spoke volumes. Especially when they widened, and widened still further as Logan strutted by in butt-hugging hot pants, skimpier and more fuckin’ revealing than the last pair.

She finished, descended, and wouldn’t you know it, brushed right past him, making sure to stay just out of his reach. “I can’t. Chloe...” Luscious muttered. Dragging her up the ramp, locking her into a locker room, and ripping those shorts off her suddenly seemed more important than the fight.

Double fuck. Time to finish Young Willie off. Fast, and with care.

The horn rang out.

Willie strutted back into the cage like a prized peacock. Certain of his abilities and underestimating his opponent. Stupid kid.

Keane waited for him and took a kick in the ribs. Willie thought he’d done some damage and lessened the distance between them. While a quick upper cut or kick to the kidneys would finish Young Gun off, Keane discounted it as too risky.

The next time Willie moved in, Keane struck. Ducking, he wove one arm beneath a leg and broke the kid’s balance. He was on him in seconds and executed a quick, clean butterfly guard. Young Gun had nowhere to go but down on his back, with Keane on top of him.

He stretched Willie’s arm across his own and with the other hand, bent it to the mat.

The kid deserved some credit; he tried bucking Keane off but without any luck.

“Tap out.”

His face turned beet red and his teeth clenched together.

“It’s done. Tap out.” Damn it, either this guy was crazy or just plain stupid. He’d seen Afghani rebels who weren’t this reckless. Probably quick with a grin or cracking a joke too. Just like fuckin’...

“Do it or I’ll break your goddamn arm.” Keane pressed harder and hyperextended the kid’s elbow, enough to make him flinch.

Young Gun tapped out a second later. Blissfully unaware of the rush of emotions raging through Keane. Clueless, but safe.

Chapter Fourteen

POSITION: How a fighter strategically places himself/herself during a bout

Logan was officially the last Octagon Girl standing. Soon after Keane’s bout, drunken Miss Texas swayed once, then went down for the count in her seat. She thanked her lucky stars Chloe had held it together and passed out before the full effects of the liquor kicked in. The press would have gone nuts. One notorious ring girl was one too many in Logan’s book. Logan became the go-to Octagon Girl for the night. Fortunately, no one paid attention to this slight change in plans.

Jerry was running around, frantically organizing the second wave of bouts for each weight class. Sal and Keane had disappeared back into the locker rooms. The media interviewed fighter after fighter, taking over any unoccupied space in the aisles, in front of the cage, and, eventually, inside the cage.

Logan took it all in from her place next to Chloe. Drawing attention to her condition would only garner negative press. Besides, Keane’s locker room was likely overrun with fighters, making it impossible to speak to him.

The mention of welterweight contenders drew her attention to the reporters standing near Keane’s corner inside the Octagon cage. As predicted, they’d pulled their mics up closer to their lips, preparing for what Logan thought of as the “pre-show,” where they bantered about the fighters, revving up the crowd, and each other.

“Who’s the guy you want to see go up against O’Shea next?”

“Several welterweights dominated tonight, showed crazy skill and easily won their bouts. Tenacious Beast is one. But my money is on O’Shea fighting either the Mad German or Caden Kelly. Mad meaning crazy because this German dude is totally insane. He’s fearless, has a high tolerance for pain, and has a reach that is phenomenal—he can practically punch his opponent from across the cage.”

“Ahem, I think that’s a damn big exaggeration there, Felix. Let’s not overlook the facts. The guy’s six feet five, one of the tallest fighters in the sport.”

Chloe groaned, but Logan shushed her. It was hard enough to hear the two reporters over the crowd. She didn’t like the sound of the crazy German fighter, especially because if Keane had that much difficulty beating Willie, how would he stand a chance against this beast?

“Caden Kelly won big today,” Felix continued, “but is he ready to go head to toe with O’Shea?”

“Rumor has it Caden’s done with partying. Giving up on his playboy lifestyle. Feels he’s not being taken seriously. He wants a comeback real bad.”

“Caden Kelly might be the biggest surprise tonight. After all, with his modeling gigs and sports drink endorsements, he’s not exactly hard up for money. So, this huge payout isn’t his motivator. Why is he fighting again?”

“My guess is he’s got something to prove. Maybe he’s tired of being an Ultimate American Male underwear model. Remind everyone of the warrior beneath his pretty boy persona. Who knows? But we better be careful or he’ll have our jobs next.”

Logan knew who Caden Kelly was—what woman didn’t? His more than ample package, wrapped up in virgin white briefs, was displayed on every billboard in Pittsburgh and probably across the country. She jumped to her feet and peered around for Jerry. Kelly was the perfect opponent for Keane.

The broadcasters thought so too. “You know, the MMA isn’t professional wrestling or boxing. These guys have six packs like nobody’s business.”

Eight packs
,
but who’s counting?
Logan grinned, thinking about a certain somebody’s oh-so-sexy business.

“O’Shea could easily land himself endorsements, too, with those good looks. I’m hoping these two pretty boys will battle it out next.”

Logan’s grin widened. Granted, Keane was drop-dead gorgeous but pretty boy? It just didn’t stick.

“Hey, check out Luscious lusting after Boom-Yay.”

Twist my tutu
. Her gaze slowly lifted up toward them to find Felix pointing down at her. A second later, the widescreen television filled with her image. Logan froze, feeling like she’d walked in on someone butt naked at the very moment they’d realized they had company. Froze because of the sudden media spotlight. Froze because at this angle she blocked the camera from zooming in on Miss Comatose Texas sprawled out behind her.

Jerry saved her, waving wildly from inside the Octagon cage before snatching a microphone out of an announcer’s hand.

“Quiet everyone. We’re about to announce the fighters moving on and their next match-ups.”

Thankfully, the camera swung off her and toward Jerry. These bouts followed the standard three five-minute round format used by most organizations, except the UFC. If a fighter didn’t submit to his opponent within this time frame, then a panel of judges decided upon the outcome. Jerry finished listing off the next match-ups in the featherweight class, and moved on to the next weight class.

What if Keane were up against the lunatic German? If that kid could make him bleed, what might the Mad German do to him? What if he got hurt? Or lost?

“Welterweight Boom-Yay O’Shea, weighing in at one hundred and sixty-eight pounds will fight—”

“The Mad German!” a spectator screamed out, interrupting him.

Logan cringed. Her worst fears were coming true. From what the announcers said about this giant German, he was as tough as Pittsburgh steel. Not that Keane was anyone’s pushover but she’d seen him fight that kid, how he’d let him get close enough to be hit, repeatedly. Would he use the same tactic on the German, and let himself be hurt in the process?

“Eh, not the Mad German.” Jerry’s face pinched in.

No
,
don’t change your mind
,
Squirrel Face.

“Why the hell not?”

Logan wasn’t sure if it was the same irate fan or a different one, but whoever it was, he’d better put a lid on it. She jumped to her feet, and with her best Keane glare, swiveled around toward the obnoxious voice.

Jerry began again, with more assurance. “Boom-Yay O’Shea, weighing in at 168 pounds, will be fighting...”

She inhaled deeply.
Please let it be the David Beckham of the MMA world
,
Caden Kelly.
Surely Keane could beat an underwear model.

“Mr. Scorpion himself...Jaysin Bouvine.”

The crowd went wild, but not in a pleased, happy way. Instead, mayhem broke out.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“What a scam. Bouvine is like a bulldog, man. All bark, no bite.”

On and on the crowd screamed their displeasure. Jerry turned beet red. The announcers exchanged raised brow looks. Chloe snapped out of her comatose state.

“What’s going on?” Chloe shouted over the rest. “And what the blazes are ya doing, Logan?”

Logan raised her fist once more into the air and pumped it.
Yes.
Oh
,
yes.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Logan’s fist was pressed tightly against her mouth, attempting to stifle her cries of dismay. “Boom-Yay” was a fitting nickname—and the horrifying reason why was being played out within the cage.

Keane lit into Bouvine over and over. Fists and kicks turned his opponent into a bloody mess. At one point, Keane lifted him straight up and sent him flat on his back on the mat. Bouvine barely got up in enough time.

With sick fascination, Logan watched it all.

“Whoo, did you see that, Felix? O’Shea snuck in a sharp upper cut. Absolutely stunned Bouvine.” The excitement of the announcers was contagious, for all except Logan and Chloe.

Logan wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, maybe a bout like the earlier one, where Keane seemed to go through the motions, somewhat reluctantly too.

This fight left her breathless, because for the first time, she understood what MMA fans loved about Keane. His power was tremendous, but it was balanced by a grace within his movements and the intelligence within his attack. Every step, every turn was well-planned and controlled. He had fans on the edge of their seats, anticipating his next move, only to be dealt one surprise after another. He was an artist, a warrior, a man’s man, and a woman’s wet dream.

And, by the look of things, Bouvine’s worst nightmare.

Bouvine dodged another fist by jogging away and heading straight back to Keane’s corner. For some unknown reason, he began swiveling his head around in his manic the-scorpion-is-about-to-strike movement, as if he wasn’t seeing stars from the elbow he’d just been nailed with.

Then he spotted Logan, and did something even more unexpected. He grabbed his crotch and gyrated his hips in a crude and stupid gesture. Was he still upset with her for abandoning Plan B, or was inciting Keane his sole purpose? Or—and she couldn’t rule this out—maybe he was just plain nuts?

In mere seconds, all eyes were on Logan. The Jumbotrons filled with her scowling face. Several guys pointed down in her direction, displayed on screen behind her. One guy even stood up and mimicked Bouvine’s gyration.

Logan prayed the arena floorboards would swallow her up. She’d worked so hard at coming to terms with her image. Like the flick of a switch, positive press was dimmed for negative news. Or in this case, utter humiliation. She slid down into her seat.

But not for long.

When Bouvine let go of his crotch, Keane was there. Step by step, Keane stalked the source of today’s humiliation, backing him up until his back pressed against the cage.

Logan had a clear view of the savage expression on Keane’s face and goose bumps formed on her arms. This was the reason Sal had warned her away. One mean, tough bastard had Bouvine trapped in the corner.

Cameras zoomed in on his face. His mouth was twisted into a sneer as he flexed his fingers. She’d never seen such unbridled fury. For a brief second, his eyes shot her way—or so she thought.

Then, he struck. Keane was merciless. For two minutes, he pounded fists and slammed elbows, pummeling Bouvine left and right. His opponent looked stunned and shook his head, trying to awaken from his daze.

“He’d better watch out for Boom-Yay and his elbows,” Felix’s voice boomed over the sound system.

With Bouvine pinned in the corner, Keane pounded him with a series of blows to the head. Bouvine ducked the last, but his chin connected with a swift elbow. Then, Keane pulled back his fist and punched. Blood splattered and rained down on the fighters and the spectators in the front row. Logan’s row.

Down Bouvine went.

The referee began to count. An announcer screamed, “Boom-Yay wins with a knock out!” Chloe wiped her face, took one look at the speck of blood on the back of her hand, and promptly barfed off to the side of her chair.

Logan stood and wiped away splatters of blood on her cheek with the back of her hand. Appalled. Disturbed. Wondering why she’d never noticed that this man she cared so deeply for was so brutal? Violent. Someone to fear.

The crowd had witnessed his savagery, stood up and cheered for what she couldn’t help but watch. Logan held her gaze steadfastly on Keane. His chest, sprinkled with blood, heaved. Fists hung at his sides. He’d placed a forehead against the weave of the cage and his eyes closed.

Bouvine clambered unsteadily onto his feet. Facing the audience, he shook his fist in the air as if saying, “I’m back up and ready for more.” Keane ignored him.

Logan should have felt elated. He’d won again. Her paycheck from tonight would be enough to cover her remaining medical bills. The rest would be deposited into savings for her ballet school.

Bouvine left a trail of bloody footsteps as he pranced about while Keane stood immobile, his chin down and forehead still resting against the cage. Keane had won but from the way both men were acting, it seemed like Bouvine was the winner.

Keane straightened and his lips moved. “Fuck.” With a jab to the net, he turned and stalked out of the cage, past snapping cameras and eager reporters wanting an interview. He moved past Jerry, who tried to gain his attention by wildly waving his arms. Sal appeared out of nowhere and ran off after him. At least someone was looking out for him.

Logan grabbed Chloe by the arm and led her through the crowd. Fortunately the press corps was madly recapping the fight and paid them no mind.

Jerry caught up with them at the top of the ramp. “Hurry up! No one wants to see you two pretty Octagon Girls covered in blood. Looks like the Mad German’s girlfriend—a freakin’ model who happens to want some airtime—will take over for you. You can call it a night.”

“I need to find Keane,” Logan muttered, anxious to clean up and head home.

Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out two thick green rolls of bills. “Remember, you get him here tomorrow and if he wins, you win. He’s my ticket to a Tetnus championship.”

He handed each of them their pay. So much for a fancy paycheck, but hard cash suited her just fine.

Logan grasped the wad of money. It felt heavy in her palm. A symbol of all she dreamed about her future. She was nearly back on her toes. So why did she feel like the ground had dropped out beneath her...again?

* * *

The downtown skyscrapers lit up the Pittsburgh night on the silent ride home. The hour was late, it had been almost eleven by the time a freshly showered Logan had followed Keane out of the arena. She didn’t know what to say...not that his somber, mean disposition invited conversation.

His hair was slightly darker, damp from showering. It had done nothing to improve his mood, though. His raw knuckles turned white around the Jeep’s steering wheel and his narrowed eyes focused straight ahead as he drove.

Logan looked out the window. Fighting offered him a physical release—she understood that, dance had been her outlet—yet the man sitting next to her was wound up tighter than an old-school permanent wave.

A cold pea compress, a few Advil, and her special blend of chamomile tea should soften him up. A good night’s sleep, too.

She stifled a yawn, worn out from the evening’s events. A cab had been called for Chloe while Logan had waited near the locker rooms, unsure of Keane’s mood. When he’d exited, he simply nodded for her to follow. A relief, albeit an annoying one.