Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (7 page)

“She’s a real
nice
girl. Too good for the likes of—”

“She’s a pain in the ass. Later.”

“Um, Keane, she’s...” Sal’s voice was an octave higher than normal. Keane turned slowly.

“The pain in the ass is right behind you, alive and well,” Logan said, her hands planted on her hips, glaring at him from a hair’s breadth away.

* * *

Keane exuded sex—pure, raw sex. He must have just tugged on his black sweatshirt, a section of hem was caught beneath his T-shirt. Black sweats hung low on his hip. One hipbone and the chiseled cut of stomach muscle just above it were exposed. The teasing glimpse of skin made Logan flush.

He’d disappeared from her couch over a week ago, though thoughts of him remained. A monumental evening she’d relived over and over; the thought of his fingers on her—in her—still sent tiny shivers down her spine. She narrowed her eyes further, fearful her lusty thoughts were written all over her face. Keane shifted and glared back. Scowl or no scowl, the man was sex on legs.

Sal was the first to buckle. “He’s all yours,” the old fox muttered, and hurried off toward the opposite side of the gym. No help there.

Keane’s lips tightened as he realized this meeting was far from coincidental.

With a mixture of awareness and uneasiness, Logan’s temporary bravado faltered. Her breath caught as she opened her mouth, ready to speak, but he cut her off.

“N-O, not doing it,” he snapped, stalking off to the beverage booth in the corner of the gym. Logan paused. It didn’t make sense. Clearly he had just battled it out with someone. If he didn’t want to fight at all, then why was he fighting here?

Logan leaned against the counter, blocking his exit. “When Sal texted me that you picked up a bout, I thought you’d had a change of mind. Why else would you be here?”

Keane grunted. The man behind the counter slid over a plastic container filled with a protein shake, and Keane snatched it up.

“Look, I was a little tipsy and emotional the last time we...talked. And I’m sorry about Pierre, the photograph and the newspaper. Little did I know becoming an Octagon Girl would re-spark the media’s attention. Pierre’s really working the press, he’s determined to keep the obsession alive...”

Logan’s cheeks warmed at her flimsy words. Keane’s gaze ran the length of her body then back up, slowly coming to rest on her chest. Beneath her bulky cable-knit sweater, her nipples perked up in memory.

His features softened, briefly. A hand crossed his temple, then it was gone. “Look, I don’t want trouble. When the time’s right, that asshole of yours is gonna wish he never fucked with me, you can count on that. But I’m not looking to go beating the shit out of someone I don’t even know. All I want is to be left alone.”

“Okay, I get it. Truth is we’re looking for the same thing. Don’t you think I want to be left alone? This isn’t the kind of fame I expected, all about my boobs and how I ruined Pierre’s chance at winning last season’s show. I’m a—
was
—a ballerina, for God’s sake.” She paused, and swallowed hard. “But I can’t run and hide. Look, I didn’t know that being an Octagon Girl was going to be like this. And Pierre is making it ten times worse; the fans, the press, the public persona...but it’s my job. And it’s the only one I’ve got.”

The V between his eyebrows deepened. At long last, maybe he got what she was saying. She pressed on, hoping it was true. “All I’m asking for is a favor—even if you don’t make it to Tetnus, I’ll have a few more solid paychecks.”

“Like I said, we’ve all got our own shit. Nice chatting with you.” Keane tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

She stood, studying him. Noticed him rubbing a hand over his temple and wincing. Noticed how his knuckles were swollen once more. Noticed him shifting on his feet, the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, anxious to be on his way. Perhaps if she offered him some help with whatever his
shit
was? It was worth a try.

“Maybe we can make some kind of agreement here. An exchange of goodwill. You fight in the qualifiers, and I’ll help you sort out your problem. If it’s that obnoxious alpaca-stealing thief, I’ll gladly help you get rid of her. If it’s swollen knuckles, I’ve more than just frozen peas in my first-aid kit. A rose hip tea blend is a much healthier way of dealing with pain than Oxycontin. When I was injured, after a few pills, I flushed the rest and replaced them with a homemade remedy.”

Despite his frown, Logan could see his interest was piqued...or at least he was still listening to her. She pressed on, “I guess you’ll have to train, isn’t that what fighters do? Whatever you need, I’ll help you with it. I spent countless hours dancing every day, for years. I’m extremely disciplined when it comes to practicing. Whatever you need.”

Keane shook his head and rubbed his temple once more. “I don’t care about you, your wholesome remedies, your training experience, or your guy problems. What I want is to be left in
peace
.” He smacked the thick plastic cup against the Formica countertop, and strode through the front door without another word.

That went wonderfully well
, Logan thought as she made her way around the Octagon cage in search of Sal. She wasn’t about to chase after Keane, though something didn’t quite add up with him. He said one thing, but did another. Hadn’t she just caught him red-handed—literally—fighting? But instead of the pumped-up energy most fighters had after slamming fists into each other, Keane seemed weary. Tired, even.

Logan sighed. The pirouettes performed by her raging libido every time he was in the room didn’t help matters. Time was running out. Jerry wanted a championship fighter. Logan wanted cash, her school, and revenge, in that order, and to get out of this hellish life and move on to a real one. And Sal...well, it was too disturbing thinking about what that old rascal wanted. But, he was her only hope right now. The man with a plan, or so he said. A newly hatched Plan B—one Sal promised to be foolproof.

Chapter Five

STALEMATE: When two fighters are unable to move forward in a bout

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Plan B was a dud. Jaysin Bouvine couldn’t fight his way out of a room full of stuffed animals. Yet he had managed to piss off enough fighters that they apparently lined up to kick his obnoxious, loud-mouthed ass. Such was the case playing out at the Pittsburgh Fight Club between Bouvine “the Braggart” and Frank Tupps.

Logan winced as, once more, Tupps lifted him up over his head, raced across the mat, and hurled him into the metal caging. Bouvine slid down onto his back and tapped the mat, signaling defeat.

Twist my tutu
. She had planned to meet with Jerry tomorrow, to introduce him to another ultimate fighting hero, the next winner of Tetnus. A man who Jerry’d probably never even heard of and, judging by the outcome of today’s series of fights, likely never would.

A week of hoping for the best, that somehow her replacement fighter would stun them all with a surprise Jiu Jitsu move or a lethal front kick, left her with a week to find someone else to foist on an unsuspecting Jerry.

Sal mouthed “I’m sorry” from across the cage and Logan rewarded him with a forced smile. The trainer had a good heart—no gift for training, but a good heart. His kindness, at a time in her life where she’d had very little, mattered.

Every day for a week she’d met Sal at the gym to watch Bouvine strut around in his too-small spandex shorts, mouthing off to anyone who’d listen about his prowess in the cage and elsewhere. He had a scorpion tattoo on his shaved scalp, and he found it funny to swivel his head and arch his eyebrows, as if the scorpion was looking to strike. Or at least that’s what Logan thought the silly gesture meant. By the looks of things today, the scorpion had a mouthful of Octagon mat.

When he wasn’t fighting, Bouvine was on her like glue. She couldn’t shake the guy. If Sal hadn’t interfered and warned him away, who knew how she’d get rid of him.

Frustrated, Logan shrugged into her jacket and departed. The only thing she could count on was the bitter winter weather. She tugged up the collar of her alpaca coat as a damp wind kicked up off the rivers below. The weather made her think about getting a mocha latte at The Quiet Storm. Something to cheer her up and pull her spirit out of the dumps.

Despite the blustery afternoon, she chose to walk the mile to the coffee shop instead of catching a bus. Exercise always helped reduce her stress levels, and since her operation, her daily physical routine was improving. Yet at this rate, she’d need to walk around the clock to relieve her anxiety. What would she do if Jerry wouldn’t give her another chance?

Her father had remarried and relocated with his wife and two youngsters to San Diego. Prior to that, he’d lived in the home Logan had grown up in, forty-five minutes east of Pittsburgh. But she couldn’t bring herself to move west, to show up on her father’s doorstep with a shitload of problems. Call it pride, or fairness even, for a father who deserved a second chance at happiness since her mother had passed away. He didn’t need her neurosis or the drama Pierre was intent on keeping fresh in the public eye.

Once at the warm coffee shop, she purchased her drink and settled into a table not far from the barista station. But the coffee did little to ease her earlier disappointment with Jaysin. And that led to her thinking about an older, more painful disillusionment.

“A surprise gift for my beloved and talented fiancée,” Pierre had boasted when he’d presented her with the co-op. He’d bought it last March, after they’d become the darlings of
America Gets Its Groove On
. Logan had been overwhelmed, scrambling to balance ballet with the show’s taping. Her final engagement was in London—though little did she know it’d be the last performance of her career.

Pierre had taken full advantage of her absence. He’d bought the co-op on the sly, then acted as if it was what she’d wanted all along. Just like he’d done with the damned reality television show. After a two-week trip to London, Pierre had picked her up from the airport and, pulling the mother lode of bold-ass moves, had driven her straight to their new home. Logan had blinked back her astonishment—and annoyance, too—as their network of friends came out of the woodwork, clearly in on Pierre’s surprise.

What their friends didn’t know was that where she and Pierre would live had been an ongoing debate. Logan was adamant about Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The hubbub of cultural goings-on, it made sense, with Lincoln Center and other major venues within walking distance.

Also, Logan favored older, more spacious buildings. They offered more room than more modern buildings, and she’d spent months finding the perfect apartment for them to remodel together. She’d imagined one room would be her own private dance studio, complete with wooden floors and mirrored walls.

Their friends also didn’t know how Pierre had duped her, how he’d depleted her savings from their new joint bank account for a down-payment on the classic pre-war co-op of her dreams. Only to surprise her with an ultra-modern, high-rise apartment with windows for walls and chrome accents everywhere, including the kitchen countertop. The only wall in the place separated the living space from the kitchen. With only one lofted bedroom, it had been listed at eight hundred square feet and double the price of what they’d discussed. Gramercy Park was posh, expensive and thirty blocks south of Midtown.

Logan shook her head. Though they’d split the mortgage payments, she’d still been outraged he’d made such an important decision without consulting her.

Turned out, he’d been consulting someone else—her understudy Anya—the entire time. Something their friends
did
know, evidently, but neglected to fill Logan in about.

Logan took a deep sip of coffee, trying to wash away the bitter taste the very thought of Pierre had left in her mouth. But as she set it down on the table, she
heard
him. With a gasp, her eyes fell on the television hanging over the barista’s head.

It was Pierre, no mistaking his relentlessly self-satisfied voice. “We hope everyone, and I mean
everyone
, runs out and buys a ticket for our tour. In my opinion, it’s a show not to be missed. I’ve never danced better and it’s such a privilege to be selected, along with my partner Anya, for the roles of a lifetime. I’ve never been happier. And hey, America, don’t forget to tune in to watch us on
America Gets Its Groove On.
”

Logan felt like snatching her latte off the table and tossing it up at the two pompous faces smiling down on her. The fame whore was using that stupid show to build his career. She knew first-hand how much he sucked as a dancer. He knew it as well. Probably why he was dragging her good name through the dirt—he was bitter about all those years she’d outshone him on stage.

How long was this going to continue?

Since its inception last January,
America Gets Its Groove On
had swiftly become the top-rated reality show on the air. Pierre had often boasted that they were the reason for it. Back then, she’d taken her fame and newfound exposure in stride. Par for the course; dancing was all that mattered, after all.

Now, four weeks into season two, the network was still making a huge production of Pierre’s return and Anya’s debut. It seemed the fools at the network were counting on Pierre to keep them at the top.

And being the lying, thieving, freeloading mooch that he was, her ex had found a topic for discussion that everyone was interested in. Her. The Fall. Her chest.
His lies
, she added, feeling the burn from the piping-hot coffee trapped in her throat.

Hadn’t Sally warned her that he was jealous of her fame? He seemed to be relishing in her popularity now that he’d twisted it into some kind of sick notoriety—where he came out smelling like roses. Where she’d been left to muck about in the dirt. She had to hand it to him, he was right about one thing—a person’s dirty laundry was somehow more appealing than their hard-earned success.

The barista approached her, and Logan took a deep breath.

“Thirty-two
C
cup. I’m tall but my small frame makes them seem gargantuan,” she said, her tone mocking, which she immediately regretted. It wasn’t the barista’s fault her ex was a prick.

The girl didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. Instead, she thrust a napkin toward Logan, followed by a shy request, “Can I have your autograph?”

Logan choked on her latte. “What? You want my autograph?”

Star-struck, the barista nodded. But as Logan complied, not knowing what else to do in this appalling situation, the girl leaned forward, smiling broadly, and whispered, “Are you going to attend the performance the end of May?”

Puzzled, Logan frowned. “The finale for
America Gets Its Groove On
is in April.”
Though I’d rather be choking on a Quiet Storm panini than tuning in to watch it.
The struggle to forget last April seemed never ending.

“No, silly,” the girl said. A wave of dread washed over Logan as she put two and two together. “I’m talking about
La Syphilis
...you know, the Metropolitan Ballet is coming to Pittsburgh in May.”

“
La Sylphide
,” Logan corrected. “Think I’ll pass.” With shaky legs and a heart ready to split in two and fall out of her chest, she grabbed her coffee and headed home. The tail end of Pierre’s announcement now made sense. Her former company was coming to Pittsburgh, with Pierre in the part of the romantic Scot, James Ruben. And Anya, her former understudy, in Logan’s dream role—Sylph, the forest spirit.

But Pittsburgh? Pierre must have rigged it with the director. She didn’t have to think too deeply about his motive. A chance run-in with her...man, the fame whore had no shame.

Never had she felt so alone, so defeated. She wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. Since the age of five, she’d wanted to dance. Her mother had sacrificed so much, ensuring Logan had the best dance teachers and access to the top schools, first in Pennsylvania and then in Manhattan. Her mother had been so proud of each and every accomplishment. And the focus on Logan had kept her sane, her daughter’s dreams a welcome distraction from side-effects of her chemotherapy treatments. At least she’d seen Logan’s successes and not her failures, especially The Fall.

How she missed her mother, her wise ways, gentle spirit and comforting arms. How she missed the dreams they’d shared together.

A gust of wind whipped around the corner of her block and she buried her face within her coat. As if to add injury to insult on an already horrific day, a news van took the corner at breakneck speed, nearly clipping her. Logan felt like flashing them the bird for airing Pierre’s lying mug. She dug deep, and resisted. No way was she sinking to his level. If the press couldn’t see through him, if they couldn’t treat her with respect, then she refused to engage them. Hell, she was bent on avoiding them.

Polishing off her tepid latte, she quickened her pace up her front walkway, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

She’d survive, just like she’d managed to the past few months. There had to be a solution. A way out from beneath the pile of problems. Maybe Boscov’s was hiring and needed a sales clerk?

With a firm push, she closed the door behind her.

It bounced back open. A worn, semi-white Nike appeared, wedged in the doorframe.

She bit back a scream and threw her weight against the solid paneling, ineffectively stopping the person from entering.

And here I’d been thinking my day couldn’t get any worse.

He slid quickly inside, quietly pushing the wooden door shut behind him.

Logan pulled her fingers into tight fists, ready to defend herself, as her gaze swept upward. Navy sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, full but tightened lips, and a pair of piercingly familiar winter-blue eyes. Her breath hitched. Keane had tugged a skull-hugging navy beanie cap low over his forehead, like a movie criminal dodging the police.

She stepped back, both nervous from the fright he’d given her and excited by what his presence meant. Before she could demand an explanation, he moved a finger to his mouth, signaling her to be quiet.

“What a bad freakin’ idea,” he muttered. “How about we head inside? The reporters are back and looking for parking. Stupid time to go on a coffee run.”

You can say that again
, she thought. Instead, she whispered her frustration. “So what? I have bigger fish to fry tonight than worrying about what my neighbors are up to.” She heard him snort from behind her as she unlocked her apartment door. Too bad, he wasn’t coming inside.

“Shit.”

She wasn’t certain what that one word was all about but didn’t have time to wonder as he scooped her up, stepped over the threshold, and kicked the door closed behind them. With agonizing slowness, he lowered her to the floor, letting her body run along his as he did so. A warmth spread through her at the contact.

She took a second to regain her balance, and her wits. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d had enough of me and my problems. Well, they’ve only gotten worse. You know how you told me you wanted to be left alone? Guess what?
I
want to be alone.”

“I was wrong,” Keane stated, in a low, calm voice. “I want to take you up on your offer.”

For a moment, anger made her doubt she’d heard him correctly. With an open mouth, she peered at him.

“We need some ground rules. None of this bullshit. No press, no publicity, no drama.”

Logan snorted. Did he think she enjoyed the attention? Still, hope sprang up within her, but given her recent history of failure, she had to be sure. “What are you saying, Keane?”

The heavy cloud that had made up her day lifted. His lazy grin confirmed it.

“I’ve decided to fight.”

* * *

One week was all Keane had to prepare. Logan was undaunted; no way was this opportunity going to pass her by. Nothing would interfere with his fighting in the qualifiers. A profound sense of relief made her feel giddy. For the first time in months, she had something to smile about.