Knock Out (Worth the Fight)

by Mannon, Michele

  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 p
repared 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—?”

  “What are ye waiting for? Come on, honey. Before he gets away.”

  She frowned, puzzled, but followed him a few feet down the block. They stopped in front of Rachel’s Antiques. “Go ahead, ‘es in there.”

  “Sal’s buying a wedding ring from Rachel’s Antiques?” An odd place for a ring, but then again, nothing about his speed-dial romance with Mrs. Debinska was normal.

  Joe chuckled. “Oh, it’s not Rachel’s Antiques anymore. Covers half the block too. Plenty of room. Two main entrances. Prime downtown location. Go on, get yourself in there.” His hand touched her shoulder and gave her a nudge.

  Logan held her breath as she entered. The welcome blast of air conditioning eased her nervousness somewhat. This year’s twists and turns made even a ballerina feel dizzy, hesitant and gun shy from one too many surprises. What on earth is Sal doing in Rachel’s Antiques with—or without, she couldn’t be sure—Mrs. Debinska’s wedding ring?

  “Excuse me, miss,” a workman said from behind her. She shifted to the side and watched two guys carry a massive mirror down the length of the enormous open-spaced room. But Sal was nowhere in sight.

  “Sal?” she called out. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Joe’s wave from his spot outside the door. Hovering, smiling, and...waiting for something? Maybe he was excited for Sal’s upcoming proposal? Her attention swung back to the workmen, and the open space. Except, someone else stood in the middle of the room. Someone unexpected. Someone so strong and beautiful, her breath caught.

  “Logan.”

  Despite the air conditioning, the temperature in the room spiked. A rush of emotions twirled around in her: happiness, sorrow, love, anger and confusion. She didn’t know how to react, whether to throw herself at him and never let go. Or smack him on the side of his head for the disappearing act he’d pulled.

  “I know, baby. Come here.” His deep, throaty voice was so tempting.

  She stood her ground. “Don’t baby me.”

  He strode across the room and narrowed the distance between them. Logan stayed rooted in place. “Shit, I missed you.”

  No words came out; her breath hitched tightly in her throat.

  His fingers reached up and caressed her cheek. She held her head firmly in place.

  “You are so fuckin’ beautiful with your green eyes flaring and your hair all messy.”

  She had a hundred questions for him but remained silent. Let him do the talking for a change.

  “Why didn’t you cash the checks?”

  You know why, Keane. She gave him a look, the answer written on her face.

  “Not making this easy on me, huh?” He flexed his fists and shifted on his feet, but his eyes devoured her, full of hunger. Need. Want. Brimming with unspoken emotions she could only guess at.

  His hand snaked out, caught her waist, and pulled her closer. “I took your advice,” he muttered, smoothing a stray strand of hair around her ear. He smelled good, clean and soapy and with a hint of mint. The past weeks, she’d dreamed of a moment like this, where he’d come back to her. But for how long?

  “What advice?” she whispered, needing to know.

  “All of it, baby. All of it.”

  She cocked her head and looked up at him, unsure what he was saying.

  “You said you’d wait for me, remember?” he muttered. Keane sounded...unsure.

  Instinctually, her hand covered the warm expanse of chest over his heart, and she stepped closer. Stunned. Excited. Breathless with the realization of what he must be telling her.

  “I’m seeing a psychiatrist. Getting help with the PTSD. And Jimmy.”

  Logan wound her arm around his back and pressed up against him. “Oh, Keane.”

  “Quit fighting professionally. You were right, it wasn’t helping.” He angled his head and captured her mouth. His tongue danced with hers as her heart beat against his.

  Seconds later, his head lifted. He lifted her by the waist and gently moved her away from him. “Like it?”

  She grinned. Oh, she liked it, all right.

  “The place. You like it?”

  Her eyes fell on the guys far across the room, hanging an oversized mirror on the wall.

  “Figure we’d split the space.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. And opened. “You bought Rachel’s Antiques?”

  He grinned so broadly her stomach did a pirouette. “Yep, your dance studio is over there.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re not kidding.”

  “An MMA training club on this side, for returning veterans. Dr. Felter’s satellite office in back.”

  “How am I going to afford this place?”

  He crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed on her. “You’re not. I am.”

  She couldn’t let him walk in here, sweep her off her feet, and then, fulfill everything she’d dreamed about since The Fall. Could she? “What about our business agreement? You’ve managed your part, and I’ll manage mine.”

  Foolish, stubborn pride. That’s what this was. But pride had carried her through the bad times like a trusty, dependable pair of ballet slippers.

  He rolled his neck, and grunted. Unfolded and refolded his arms. Then, he stepped closer. She imagined the muscles beneath his black T-shirt flexing as he moved. His hand found her waist.

  “One more thing—might tip the scale.”

  God, the memory of his naked ass at the weigh-in made her feel lightheaded. She leaned into him but his eyes captured hers.

  A grin spread across his face. He seemed youn
ger, more carefree. Happy. She laughed. “I’d say you tip my scale every time you look at me. What were you going to tell me?”

  Wouldn’t you know, his grin broadened? Six foot two of broad, mean hunk was smiling down on her like she’d given him the world.

  His next words made her feel like he’d offered the world to her on a golden plate.

  With blue eyes glimmering with emotion and his voice deep and rough, Keane whispered four words that meant more to her than ballet, more to her than anything.

  “I love you, Luscious.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  DECISION: The outcome of a bout; when a winner is declared

  Six months later

  Chloe was a regular at Jimmy’s Fight Club. Perhaps it was the constant influx of hot, retired Marines flexing their stuff as they worked out their issues, both in the cage and back inside Dr. Felter’s satellite office. Or maybe her inner child connected with the young, fresh-faced ballerinas in the making. Or most likely, she needed an escape from ol’ Squirrel Face and the ever-present media attention. After all, Chloe was the most popular Octagon Girl ever to strut her stuff around the cage. Her daddy had made sure of it.

  Logan stood with Chloe off to the side of the sparring cage, watching Keane instruct a veteran on how to make an opponent tap out. That’s what Logan thought was happening anyway.

  She liked staying late, well after the kids headed home from their ballet lessons, to eyeball Mr. Eyegasm while he went about his business. Oh, Keane still had his surly moments, growling about some of her ballerina costumes or about the way the guys sometimes hung around and watched her dance. But, he seemed happier. Content. And late at night—after he’d taken her breath away in ways she’d never imagined—he told her he loved her.

  Chloe sighed next to her. “Boom-Yay’s really something, huh?”

  “Yep, my something.”

  “Well, if ya can tear ya eyes away from him for a dang second, I brought ya a copy of the Pittsburgh Press. Y’all made the front page, again.” She unfolded the newspaper and handed it to Logan.