Knock Out (Worth the Fight)

by Mannon, Michele

“Leaving.”

  He choked on his beer. Damn. Logan had tracked his ass all the way to Finnegan’s. His cock stirred in his pants as he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of the booth with her hands on her hips, glaring at them all. Too beautiful for words. Plus, she’d saved him a call.

  “You too, Miss Kleptomaniac. Go prey on some other drunken fool.”

  Rosie scooted off the seat across from him. The woman on his cushion did so as well, though neither one made a move to leave. Instead, they folded their arms under their breasts and guarded him like two Rottweilers watching over a bone. Logan was going to have her hands full with these two if he didn’t say something.

  With his mind dumb from drink, his responses were slow. Way too slow.

  “The drink’s on us,” Rosie screeched. Amber liquid splashed Logan in the face and splattered onto her sweater. She sputtered in surprise.

  “Leave us,” he barked, giving full vent to his irritation. His bottle dropped onto the table, rattling from the force of impact. That did the trick. His two jealous companions stalked off in a huff.

  The object of his earlier fantasy was here, sticky liquid dripping from her chin and glaring at him like he’d grown two heads.

  He patted the cushion next to him, wanting her close.

  Logan’s lips tightened. She ran a hand across her face and then placed her coat on the knob on the side of the booth. Though her gestures were smooth and controlled, he knew her well enough by now to know she was pissed off.

  She hesitated and then, grasping the hem of her sweater, worked it up and over her head. Fascinated and pleasantly surprised, he watched the tight, white camisole stretch across her breasts as she hooked her sweater on top of her coat.

  Despite his best attempts to the contrary, he couldn’t help himself—his lips raised into a broad smile. After all, it wasn’t every day his fantasy came true, and someone so damned beautiful, someone he wanted so bad his cock hurt, ripped off her clothes for him.

  She rolled her eyes, he caught that much as his gaze shifted to her face before she slid into the booth. He couldn’t help but grin at her as he leaned closer.

  “Baby, you’re every man’s fantasy.”

  “And you’re hammered.”

  Damn, she smelled so good, like the vanilla cream wafers he’d stockpiled while in the Marines. He shifted and moved his arm around the bench behind her. Yep, sweet vanilla wafers. He’d give anything for a lick.

  “Guess I scared away your entertainment.”

  He snorted, reaching with his free arm for a half-filled shot glass. Tequila swirled around the edge as he lifted it to his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make do.”

  She raised her eyebrows. God, he loved it when Logan got mad. Her green eyes brightened, her plump lips pressed into a tight line, tempting him to run a finger across the seam and pry them open. How her spine straightened, all stiff-back and proud.

  “You know,” she snapped, her eyes blazing, “when you say things like that, it makes me wonder why you rearranged our...business agreement. That was your fault entirely. Heck, I don’t even know if you like me.”

  Leaning in, he nuzzled her neck. “Don’t you, now?”

  She went to move away from him but he wove his free hand behind her and firmly drew her in, closer. Still, her stiffening body said it all.

  Lightly, he flicked his tongue over her earlobe. Then, he exhaled. He felt her shiver against his arm. “I’m nothing but trouble.”

  She turned slightly and that green gaze bore into him. He knew her perception of him had changed after knocking Bouvine senseless. She’d witnessed the beast within that wouldn’t quiet without a pounding. The rage inside him fighting its way out. In truth, that obnoxious ass deserved everything he got. Wait and see how fast he grabbed for his crotch next time. Keane just wished Logan hadn’t seen it.

  He’d scared the shit out of her tonight. A sure sign what was to come—of all that’s in store for her, aside from a good time in bed.

  He downed the shot of tequila, shuddered and licked his lower lip. “You should have stayed home, baby. Fucked up.” Even he knew his words were slurred. That fourth shot was a keeper. Sweet release numbed his mind.

  She shifted away. Despite the message he was trying to make sink into that stubborn head of hers, he wanted her body closer...didn’t want her to leave. He tugged her tighter against him.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself? I’m trying to understand why you have such a strong aversion to fighting, yet you trained fighters for the Marines. Why is fighting only a release... When did it all change? Surely you must have enjoyed it as a trainer?”

  “You’re not gonna like the answer.” He leaned forward and poured another shot. Shit, here we go again. Fuckin’ Jimmy must be laughing his ass off from his perch high above, knowing how much Keane valued his privacy and also knowing that Keane was about to spill his guts. Unless... “I want you to do something for me.”

  “Um...okay.”

  “Pull your hair back off your shoulder.”

  “What? Why?”

  He grunted. “Just do it, honey.” His cock swelled in anticipation. He wanted a taste of her, a reminder of everything he had, even if it was temporary.

  “I’m sticking to my guns this time, Keane. You’re not going to dissuade me from getting some answers here. Can’t you see I want to help you? Want to understand you better?”

  Shit. Trust me, you don’t.

  “Make you a deal. Do as I say and I’ll answer a question.”

  God bless her, Logan’s eyes lit up, eager and full of promise. He wouldn’t mind waking up to those eyes again...and again.

  She swept her hair off of her neck and bared a shoulder blade. “What are you—”

  Carefully, he drizzled tequila on her smooth skin. “Body shot.”

  He ran his tongue from the bottom of her neck down along her shoulder, then further down, following the tequila trail until it was no more.

  Despite the liquor, he saw desire sparkle deep within the green depths of her eyes.

  He kissed her, ignoring his bruised lip. Deeper and deeper until he lost track of place and time.

  It was Logan who had to catch her breath first.

  “Um...before we continue this at home, you owe me an answer. What is it about fighting that upsets you so much? What changed for you? I know it must have something to do with—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “I get to pick which question.”

  She exhaled with exasperation, or so it seemed. “The truth, okay. Let’s have it.”

  “You asked me if I liked you.”

  “Huh? Oh, no. Keane, that wasn’t what I meant by wanting answers. You—”

  He bent forward and pressed a light kiss on her lips. That silenced her. Good thing, because the tequila was really fucking with his mind. Better tell her now and show her later.

  “Like you, all right? Baby, more than anyone. Anything.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  NO CONTEST: When a bout is too close to call, and there is no official winner

  Her hot mess of a man weighed a ton. With Keane’s arm slung around her shoulders and hers around his back, Logan finally managed to maneuver him into bed.

  “Come here, Luscious. Need you.”

  “Sleep is what you need. What the bleeding leotards were you thinking, Keane? You’ll hardly be in any shape tomorrow. Should I text Jerry and cancel?”

  She caught his shake of the head on the pillow.

  But her conscience battled out what to do. A few more wins and she’d be home free. All her future dreams would come true. She’d get her life back. With double the salary for working the next four bouts—if Keane won—then there would be enough for a few months’ rent on a dance school.

  K
eane’s breathing changed. Now clearly passed out, he looked uncomfortable lying there on the bed, fully dressed. She studied his long dark lashes, a delicate contradiction to the brute strength of his muscular body. Fierce, raw gorgeousness. Sexy as sin. Yet battling some inner turmoil that made him gnash his teeth even as he slept. Her heart constricted.

  His lower lip was swollen and a bluish bruise had formed on one cheek. And his poor knuckles were more raised and battered than the first time she’d placed her peas on them.

  Frozen peas were a good idea. Two for his fists and one for his lip. She silently moved across the room.

  “Fuckin’ Jimmy. Told you to see a doctor.” His voice was hoarse and filled with pain. The room grew silent but Logan’s suspicions loudly resurfaced within her mind. Her instincts had been correct—something about Jimmy’s death wreaked havoc on Keane’s conscience. She froze in the doorway, hoping he’d reveal more. After a few minutes, it was clear Keane was out for the count.

  With a sigh, she headed for the kitchen, retrieved the peas, and returned to treat this troubled, unconscious man’s injuries. Peas gently propped in place on his lip, she restlessly roamed around his room. Should she text Jerry at this late hour and cancel Keane’s fights?

  She pulled her cell phone out of her coat, realizing that in her struggle to manage Keane, she’d completely forgotten to take it off. As she slid out of it, it occurred to her that Sal might know what to do. It was worth a try.

  A quick text was sent: LOGAN: Keane passed out drunk. Think he can fight without injury or do I cancel? She took a deep breath, and waited. If Sal didn’t respond soon, she had no choice but to call him and hope his ringing cell phone might awaken him.

  Her cell phone vibrated.

  SAL: LOL. Typical Keane WOO. Always fights with a wik’d hangover. Company calls, gotta go.

  She shuddered. Clearly, Viagra had broadened the playing field along with Grandpa Romeo’s woo—Way of Operating, or at least that’s what she thought the acronym meant. Poor woman.

  Keane muttered incoherently. So, he’d done this sort of thing before...but why?

  She crossed the room and stood before his dresser. Moonlight reflected off the dresser’s mirror. Her eyelids looked puffy. Heavy. Tired. Her skin radiated tequila, the smell strong beneath her nostrils. A shower was sorely needed.

  Leaning in for a closer inspection of her bloodshot eyes, something on the dresser caught her eye. A business card. Why was she surprised? Women from all walks of life, from bottom dwellers like Rosie to fancy Pittsburgh socialites—hell, why wouldn’t they?—likely plied Keane with their telephone digits.

  Against her better judgment, she grabbed the card and took a peek. A local phone number was listed, she could tell by the area code, along with a name—Dr. Susan Felter. But Logan almost dropped the card when she saw the message scribbled on the back: Keane, You gotta call her. Best shrink around for PTSD. Love you, bro. Stevie.

  PTSD? As in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Hell, reports of guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan were getting more and more coverage in the news every day. Could this be why Keane had trouble sleeping? The reason he was so mixed up about fighting—training his ass off one second and bent out of shape about it the next?

  She took out her cell and entered the number, just in case. It was late. She’d think this over tomorrow.

  Right now, she had a bigger issue to tackle. Like the one sprawled out on the bed, breathing heavily.

  Tossing her coat on a chair, she stripped down to her underwear and crawled in beside him. As if sensing her presence, he rolled toward her.

  The icy pea pack shifted off his lip. She turned on her side and propped it back into place. With her leg wedged between his and her arm wrapped around his body, she snuggled in closer.

  I’m going to find out what’s bothering you and together, we’ll fix it, she silently promised as she closed her eyes. After all, that’s what you do when you love someone.

  * * *

  Logan wrestled with two bags stuffed to capacity as she unlocked the door. “Mrs. Debinska, I’ve brought you some groceries,” she called to her landlady. She didn’t hold a grudge against the woman. Who knew how the frail, elderly woman had ended up on videotape holding a bra? Logan didn’t blame her for the negative press. The fault lay with a relentless, hungry media. And most certainly with her fame pimp of an ex.

  Payback is a bitch. Soon, Pierre. Just you wait.

  The thought perked her up. She’d woken tired and cranky. Keane had tossed and turned like nobody’s business and when he was still, he muttered and swore incomprehensibly between clenched teeth. Delusional, him thinking falling asleep in a pissed-drunk stupor was helping him sleep better. She’d correct him on that fallacy later today.

  Mrs. Debinska greeted her at the door. “Logan! Witaj. You are a dear. Thank you. Daj mi to, give them to me.” Logan handed over one bag and waited for her to return from the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mrs. Debinska. How are you? I hope the reporters have left you alone.”

  The old lady moved past her to look out the door. “I’m good...good. Eez here? Dat fighter?”

  Crinkle my camisole. It seemed Keane’s appeal extended to women of every generation and nationality. “Um, Keane isn’t—”

  Mrs. Debinska cut her off. Pulling her brown housecoat tighter, she brushed past Logan, stepped into the hallway, and eyed the front doorway. “Tak, Keeenee.”

  “No...no, he’s not here.”

  The old woman looked crestfallen as she moved back inside her living room. “Okey-dokey. Bye.” She took the second bag of groceries from Logan’s hand and shut her door.

  Inside, Logan’s apartment was cold and empty. She quickly took inventory, making sure the few items of value were in place, which took less than a minute. Her painting had collected a coating of dust on its frame, as had the two Waterford lamps. Soon, you’ll have company, once a lawyer takes my case against Pierre, she promised her few precious possessions. She shook her head. Clearly, exhaustion had rattled her brain and caused her to make promises to simple objects. After she’d written out the final checks and paid off her medical expenses once and for all, she’d take a nap.

  The morning had been busy. Her savings account had breathed a sigh of relief from her substantial deposit—after paying off the balance of her bills, she was left with six thousand dollars which was enough to cover three months’ rent on a place, plus start-up expenses if she started out humbly. It should have been enough to put a spring in her step. Except, the grocery store was packed, the bus to Friendship was late, and thoughts of Keane preoccupied her mind. Thoughts about how to go about...helping him.

  Just because she was falling for him didn’t give her the right to butt into his business, right? Though that was exactly what she planned on doing. It all made sense now: Stevie’s surprise visit to check up on Keane, the subsequent conversation she’d overheard, the brief note he’d left. His friend was trying to help.

  Logan sat on her couch and indecisively thumbed Stevie’s business card, the one he’d offered her back on the sidewalk in front of Keane’s house. She’d kept it in her coat pocket, never thinking she’d need to contact him. Not until today.

  Though before enlisting Stevie’s help, she’d called Dr. Felter and had set up a tentative appointment.

  That had been the easy part.

  Long after she’d hung up, the doctor’s words echoed in Logan’s head. “Tread lightly but don’t give up. He might not accept the fact that he has a medical disorder and needs counseling. A lot of guys don’t—they see it as a weakness.”

  Keane was a walking billboard for PTSD. From what she knew about the disorder from the news reports, people who suffered from it tended to be easily aggravated. They frequently had trouble sleeping, flashbacks and headaches. Sometimes, their emotional switch faltered. Sol
diers were trained to suppress emotional or traumatic events, and the transition to civilian life—and back into the warm bosom of their families—could be rough. Painful, even. Was this what was going on with Keane? He’d made it home safe but was now struggling with everyday life?

  Hell, Logan had worked through the agony of dancing on blistered feet, growing so accustomed to it, it seemed normal. Keane had been conditioned to block out an entirely different kind of pain, the pain of war.

  No way could she leave Keane to his own devices without support.

  Logan removed her coat, took a blanket off her bed and settled down onto the couch. You’re not dealing with this alone, Keane. She grimaced, remembering his hatred of surprises, and how poorly Stevie’s first attempt at an intervention had gone. That’s what Keane’s friend had been trying to do—gently pressure him into getting professional help. She bit her lip. Why hadn’t she realized this earlier, when all the clues had been staring her in the face?

  She retrieved her cell and dialed Stevie’s number.

  Another intervention was in order.

  This time, she was on board.

  * * *

  Logan awoke to the abrasive sound of a car horn. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the darkness. Oh no, how long had she slept? Jumping off the couch, she grabbed for her cell phone on the coffee table. And blinked. It was 5:05 p.m. Bleeding leotards.

  Her hair tumbled out of the loose ponytail and God only knew the condition of her makeup. But Logan didn’t care. She had to talk to Keane about everything. Make sure he was physically and mentally fit to fight.

  She grabbed her mail, tugged her door firmly shut and rushed down the narrow hallway. Breathless, her hand wrapped around the front doorknob and she yanked it open. Silently, she stepped out onto the porch. That’s when the shouting began.

  “Luscious, over here.”

  “Octagon Girl, who do you think will win tonight’s fights?”

  “Dat’s her, Logan. Keeenee, dat fighter, eez no ere.”

  The entire front lawn was covered with cameramen and reporters. Her landlady, dressed in her brown housecoat, carried a pitcher of lemonade on a tray, as if she were hosting a summer picnic. Logan stopped as Mrs. Debinska appeared on the porch and waved at her. As if she hadn’t just sold Logan out in the name of fame. Was Logan the only person who didn’t want to be a celebrity? A celebrated ballerina, yes, but that was different. And impossible now.