Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

TAP OUT: When a fighter taps the mat to signal his/her defeat

“Eez here! Dat fighter.” Mrs. Debinska banged on the door. “Keeenee, eez ere!”

Logan groaned. This was the second Keane sighting in a week. Mrs. Debinska was on the lookout, but with those thick bifocal glasses, she wasn’t likely to see much. Yet Logan’s breath hitched in her throat just as it had done the last time. She rolled off the couch, yanked the door open, and hurried down the hallway into Mrs. Debinska’s living room. Her landlady pulled back the curtain from the bay window, and they both peered out.

She pointed to the street. “Eez waz there.”

All Logan saw was a newscaster firing up a barbeque grill on the front sidewalk. Nothing out of the ordinary. A camera flashed, and she tugged the curtain closed.

“Valeska is right, Keane was out there.” Logan flinched at the sound of Grandpa Romeo’s voice. Adjusting to her new job as a Boscov’s sales clerk had been much easier than adapting to the hot and heavy romance unfolding here on Morrison Avenue. Once more, she peered out from between the curtains. No Keane in sight.

Sal softly scolded her. “You should have taken his winnings. He wanted you to have it for your school.”

“Zut, zut,” Mrs. Debinska clucked at her. “Dat was a lot of monee.”

Logan wrapped her arms around her landlady and gave her a tight hug. “I know, but I couldn’t take his winnings. That’s blood money. A reminder that he’s going to Vegas.”

Sal grunted. “Jerry didn’t give them two much choice after declaring both welterweights as champions. If you ask me, Jerry was desperate to have one of his fighters qualify for Tetnus.”

“I know. But fighting is the last thing I want for Keane...” Logan bit back the words. There was no fixing what had been done, not the way things stood between them.

Sal cleared his throat and patted a mustard-colored cushion on the couch. Logan sat down next to him. “Honey, let ol’ Sal give you some advice on
love
.”

Twist my tutu!
She resisted the urge to run for the slate hills.

“True love isn’t some guy sweeping you across the threshold. Nope, if you genuinely love someone you’ve got to get your hands dirty and flounder about in the muck right along with them. Ride the highs, and battle out the lows—together.”

A bittersweet smile spread across Logan’s lips. Grandpa Romeo’s long, passionate kisses with Mrs. Debinska, like the one Logan had witnessed this morning in the hallway, were both sweet and too gross for words. Yet, at this moment, Sal’s loving and sentimental nature couldn’t have touched her more deeply. It seemed Sal knew a thing or two about love, after all.

* * *

Keane found himself jogging through the streets of Friendship. Searching for one avenue, in particular. Morrison. His third trip this week. Each time, he hoped a run-by might ease his mind, and more. He had to know that she was okay.

Halfway down the block, he slowed, stopped and tugged his baseball cap lower on his forehead.

The small front lawn looked like a line for Springsteen tickets, with tents, lawn chairs and beverages. Vans with satellites attached to their hoods had double parked up and down the street. Reporters and cameramen alike stood around, chatting with their counterparts from different networks. Every few seconds, one would turn and look at the house as if anticipating Logan’s exit.

Damn. He hadn’t expected them to completely clear out, but was unprepared for this freakin’ festival. And,
he
was now the cause of the fucked-up publicity.

With a shake of his head, he realized there was nothing he could do, except leave. If they spotted him, it would only make matters worse.

He touched his track pants pocket. Inside were the pieces of the ripped-up check Sal had returned to him, along with a message: “Money isn’t what I want from you.”

But what she didn’t realize was how he was one massive shell of a man. Nothing inside but trouble. She deserved better, someone with their shit pulled together. Loving her—and man, did he love her—it just wasn’t good enough. But it was enough to let her go.

* * *

A week later, Sal’s words resonated in her mind as Logan stepped off the Shadyside bus. March hadn’t come in like a lion as the weathermen predicted. An uncharacteristic warm spell had hit the Burgh. Logan raised her cheek to the sun, loving the feel of the warming rays on her face. Today was the perfect day for a roll about in the muck. Especially with a six-foot-two hunk with an eight-pack for abs and a broken nose that didn’t lessen the impact of his beautiful face.

Logan hesitated on Keane’s curb. His Jeep was gone. With a sigh, she headed up the stairs onto his lovely wrap-around porch and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she hunkered down on the front steps and waited. After all, no one said finding the muck pile was going to be a simple task. Given the last few months, why would she expect anything different?

She’d visited a few prospective studios. She’d passed on the small one, and others were either also small, awkwardly laid out or way out of her price range. Once more, she questioned her sanity.
Why did I rip up his check?
It was going to take a lot of time to save that kind of money as a sales clerk.

Bleeding leotards
,
Logan.
You did it because you love him.

Arching her head back, she let the sun fall on her face and contemplated her other mind-boggling option. Pierre’s desperately pleading phone call, and subsequent monetary offer.

Turns out, the show’s ratings had plummeted. Network executives were anxious to quickly wrap things up so instead of an April finale, they’d backpedaled to March. LaFool—as Keane had so poignantly dubbed him—would do anything in the name of fame.

A
million dollars.
Plus the full sale price of the co-op.
The painting was still being negotiated. All Logan had to do was show up at tonight’s
America Gets Its Groove On
finale and cheer the fame whore and Anya on. He’d even reimburse her for the car rental. New York City was an eight-hour drive and there was time enough for her to make it there, if she wanted to.

Yet, Logan stayed on Keane’s stoop until the sun’s rays vanished and the last late-night bus back to Friendship was about to depart. He hadn’t come home.

Images of the alpaca-stealing thief weighed heavily on her mind as she made her way home. Something sounding like a cat yowling echoed along the hallway, and she quickly fumbled for the keys in her pocket and opened her door. Slipping off her coat and hanging it on the hook, Logan settled down on the sofa and flicked on the television, feeling numb and desolate. Searching for a distraction to take her mind away from Keane.

Crinkle my camisole
,
why the hell not?
Like a driver passing a car wreck, she grabbed the remote and clicked it on to
America Gets Its Groove On
. Two smug faces filled the screen. Watching Pierre’s victory dance was the kind of sick closure she probably needed. Besides, it was the least of her heartaches.

The host was finishing his recap of the prior two performances. “A round of applause for our rocking hip hop performers and the exquisite belly dancer, Sukeshi. And now I’d like to say a few words to our ballet dancers, who many viewers predict will
win
the title along with a major dance contract with Rockefeller Studios, the one and only Pierre LaFeur and his beautifully talented partner, Anya Melankova.”

The camera zoomed in on a smiling Pierre peering down on Anya like she was the love of his life. If this didn’t pan out for Pierre, acting might. Logan had a similar picture she’d meant to rip up within her photograph album.

“Pierre, we understand you contacted Logan about cheering you both on tonight. Can we safely say her fingers will be dancing as she texts in her vote for you?”

Logan’s middle finger itched to dance but she rolled her eyes instead. These past few months proved beyond a doubt that anything could happen in the name of show business.

“That’s right. We talked.” Pierre pouted, like a sulky child unable to hide his disappointment.

“Okay then...without further ado, we’ll begin. Will the two of you take your places? I watched these guys rehearse and what you are about to witness, ladies and gentlemen, is a dance sure to go down in the record books.” The host left the stage, the lights dimmed, and the music started.

It was such an over-the-top performance, Logan was sure Mikhail Baryshnikov was off somewhere banging his head. Still, it had enough flair to excite the untrained eye. Lifts and pirouettes galore. Logan had seen enough, and went to click off the television. But the way Pierre was standing as he positioned himself for Anya’s final jump caught her attention. His feet were too close together, something
they’d
worked on repeatedly.

Anya completed a series of
jetés
, then raced across the stage. Her arms stretched overhead as she leaped full force toward Pierre in a breathtakingly beautiful arch. She did as expected and landed hard against Pierre’s chest. But he did the unexpected—unexpected that is, to everyone except Logan. He tottered backward, and then back onto his ass, with Anya sprawled out on top of him.

The cameras didn’t miss a thing. Not the host’s fish-mouthed expression, Anya’s stunned reaction, nor Pierre’s crimson face as he stood and viciously chewed Anya out, as if the fiasco playing out on national television was her fault.

Logan pressed the off button on the remote.

Payback was a bitch, after all.

* * *

In May, a second check, postmarked Cleveland, Ohio, had arrived in the mail. No note or greeting—or hey-how-are-you-doing-after-I-tore-out-your-heart?—had been attached. But the money was message enough. Keane was honoring their business agreement and wrapping up loose ends.

The money was substantial, more than enough to purchase a large dance space, when she’d been hoping to simply afford rent on a place. She hadn’t expected Keane to offer up his own money. Whether or not Jerry had paid him handsomely for winning five of the six qualifiers—six technically—was irrelevant. Turns out that Keane and Caden had both been declared the welterweight champions, by default. Not that it mattered to Logan anymore. She’d lost the bigger battle, after all.

Just like the first check, she tore it up. Except she didn’t know where to send the pieces, along with the chunks of her shattered heart.

Maybe Keane had found out how Jerry refused to pay her for the final two bouts? She couldn’t even argue with Squirrel Face, it wasn’t like she’d worked them. No, Jerry wasn’t someone she’d miss. Surprisingly, what she did miss was being an Octagon Girl.

Performing for an audience was something she enjoyed, and though carrying an octagonal-shaped sign around overhead wasn’t technically a performance, she’d somehow come to like the job. Well, Chloe would have to handle things now. Logan placed a cold Evian on her cheek. She’d perform again, this time as a dance instructor. In a studio she’d rent with her own money.

She padded into the living room and stared at the Renoir-like painting over the sofa. Logan hated the idea of selling it. It symbolized so much in her life; how she’d struggled to become a ballerina, how Pierre had duped her, and how the small girls pirouetting about were her future. Bittersweet, nevertheless.

Sally’s lawyer friend suggested that Logan had a strong case against Pierre—criminal charges were even a consideration. But she hadn’t entirely decided yet. She was prepared to hit Pierre where it counted, in his pocket. As long as the lawyer got back everything that was hers—especially the money from the co-op—she suspected that between that and Pierre’s public humiliation, she’d be hard pressed to take it further
.

In one massive wave, the paparazzi had disappeared from Mrs. Debinska’s front lawn the night
America Gets Its Groove On
rebounded in the ratings, and in fact became the top-rated show in reality TV history. The same night, Pierre became the most hated man in America. A few reporters inquired into Logan’s opinion on the matter—had her fall also been Pierre’s mistake? Though tempted, she’d remained silent. After that, the media left her alone and moved on, like sharks feeding on a bigger, more
newsworthy
, pool of fish.

The cold condensation from the Evian bottle felt nice against her neck. Between her shifts at Boscov’s and a regimented ballet practice schedule, Logan kept herself busy.

Logan’s cell phone vibrated next to the lamp. Sal. After all, he was the only person she knew who’d rather text than call her.

SAL:
Luscious
,
need ur help with Valeska’s wedding ring!!!
meet me at Joe’s luncheonette on market st.
at noon.
come.
important.
hurry.
Sal
.

Grandpa Romeo and Mrs. Debinska certainly hadn’t wasted any time.
Bleeding leotards
. Hastily, she threw on a tank top, shorts and sandals and headed off to catch the downtown bus.

Barefaced, and with her hair wildly springing from the clip on her head, Logan tried to quiet her heart as she exited the bus a few doors down from Joe’s Luncheonette. The same place Keane had brought her for breakfast precious months ago. Jimmy’s uncle’s luncheonette. Dare she inquire about Keane, or was it best to simply...let him go?

“Logan, my girl. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you!” Joe greeted her as soon as she walked through the door. His surprising hug made her wonder if she’d better head back out into the June heat. Yet it was filled with affection and kindness, as was Joe’s face. “Yes, indeed, it’s good to see you.”

“Hi, Joe. Um, I got a text from Keane’s handler, Sal, to meet him here. Do you know where I can find him?”

“I sure do, dearie. I sure do. Follow me.”

Logan froze and bit her lip as Joe headed out the front entrance. “I didn’t know Market Street had a jewelry store—?”