Knock Out (Worth the Fight)

by Mannon, Michele

  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.

  Two lucrative fights were under her belt. Tomorrow, she’d deposit her roll of cash, head back to Mrs. Debinska’s house, and give a kiss goodbye to that dusty pile of bills. The second wave of fights wasn’t until evening. Not that she was looking forward to it, or to Keane being in the cage again.

  Keane turned the Jeep onto his block. She knew he was a man of few words but he hadn’t spoken the entire ride. Not once. Did he forget she was even sitting there?

  She fiddled with her coat, casting a sideways glance toward him.

  “I’m not gonna rip your head off.”

  Finally! She gave him her best as-if snort. “Well, if you’d stop acting as if you’ve lost your best friend and—” The minute the careless words sprang out of her mouth, she realized her mistake.

  Keane visibly stiffened.

  “Keane, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but bottling up your feelings isn’t healthy. Can’t we talk?”

  He pulled up alongside the curb, put it into park, and jumpe
d out. Before Logan could guess his intentions, he opened her door.

  She clambered out and stepped toward him.

  With his chin tucked in, he sidestepped her and made his way back around the Jeep. “Spare keys are in the planter.” He pointed toward his porch.

  “It’s late. Where are you going?”

  * * *

  It took three shots of tequila and two Coronas for the knot in his neck to disappear. Keane contemplated the fourth shot being offered to him, though not from a shot glass. No, his two busty companions, tired of trading body shots with each other, had turned their attention to him. His next drinks were liberally drizzled between each set of tits. Rosie was an old pro at making a man hard, and tonight, she was in rare form.

  “Come on, Keane. The drink’s on us.”

  Except, he wasn’t turned on. Shit, two obviously eager females within reach and drenched in tequila, and he wasn’t biting. He was numb. Uninspired. Uninterested. Even in the amply displayed curves of Rosie’s rack. They paled in comparison to another set of tits, more luscious and much more to his liking.

  He rested his head back against the booth and closed his eyes. Envisioned nestling his face in her soft flesh and breathing in the clean sent of her skin. Feeling the warmth from her soft swells on his cheeks before his feast began. Hearing the sexy moans from deep within her throat as he suckled each taut nipple. Making her beg for more.

  He thumbed his cell phone in his pocket. One brief phone call, asking Logan to catch a cab and pick him up. His cock stirred at the thought. He wanted her with such an astonishing intensity, his balls hurt.

  The vinyl cushion shifted, making him open his eyes. Rosie’s friend—what was her name?—knelt before him with both breasts thrust in his face. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Wanna know what you and I have in common?”

  Keane grabbed his beer and took a long swig. He couldn’t care less, but his lack of interest didn’t stop her from talking.

  “You’re every girl’s fantasy in the bedroom and I’m...”