Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (11 page)

“Did you call that number I gave you?” Stevie whispered in an impossibly loud voice.

Logan pictured Keane shaking his head in the silence.

“I wish you would, Keane. There’s no shame in it. A lot of guys experience—”

“Shut up or get out.”

Turning the flame up high, she tossed the steaks on.
No shame in what?
she wondered.

She took out a bag of edamame and arranged the green pods to steam over boiling water. Tossed with a dash of sea salt, the high in protein and vitamins soy beans were a better treat than starchy French fries. But Stevie’s turn in conversation made her clench a pod so tightly the seed turned to pulp.

“Logan seems real nice, down to earth. Not what I expected at all for a celebrity. Are you two a thing?”

She’s not my girl.
Keane’s comment from Joe’s lingered in her mind. Funny, how a few days in his company had changed a simple attraction into something deeper.

There was more than a physical chemistry at play now. An unspoken bond of sorts had formed. Granted, he was as complex as a Manet painting, the sum of many complicated parts. A whirlwind of colorful dots, some small, some large, and for the most part unpredictably placed, but fitting together beautifully as a whole. These glimpses of the real Keane, though few and far between, were the little moments she treasured most.

A shared smile, rare but genuine—which made it all the more special. How his eyes followed her as she practiced her positions. The quiet companionship after a physically grueling day where she’d read on one end of the couch and he’d rest his head back on the cushions and close his eyes, awake but relaxed.

Which is why Keane’s response to his friend’s probing...mattered.

Still squeezing pieces of edamame between her fingers, Logan braced herself.

Keane grunted. An unhelpful, non-descript sound that could be interpreted as either a yes or no.

Considering her year, Logan should have felt happy his reply was so damned vague. But, she wasn’t happy. It mattered.
He
mattered.

For the second time this month, Logan felt as if an invisible fist punched her in the stomach. A fight-changing punch, the kind that made record books. The kind discussed, reviewed and analyzed for years to come.

Somehow, in the midst of the dismal debacle that was her life, she’d fallen for this MMA fighter.

Chapter Eight

REAR NAKED CHOKE: A common maneuver where a fighter catches hold of his/her opponent by the back

“It all started with a wicked sand storm,” Stevie began, leaning forward to place his empty beer next to hers on the coffee table. Keane lounged next to him on the other side of the sofa, deep in thought as he swirled the last of the amber liquid around in his bottle. Stevie had been entertaining her with stories about his and Keane’s days as Marines. Entertaining her—
not
Keane, who seemed more distant with each new story and who had been slowly withdrawing from the conversation. The last few anecdotes included a third man, a wickedly sly prankster. Jimmy.

She stretched out her long legs and leaned back in the kitchen chair she’d relocated into the living room, smiling encouragingly at Stevie.

“Another time, our boy Jimmy was out for revenge. Someone messed with his alarm clock. He was late for roll call, but even more annoyed by the sand.”

“Why would the sand bother him? Isn’t Afghanistan mostly desert?” Logan asked. She took another sip of her second, and last, beer. Tomorrow’s training schedule would be hellish with a hangover—not that Keane seemed worried, with his four to her two.

“The Hindu Kush, on the border with Pakistan, is one huge cluster-fuck of mountains. In the 1980s, the Russians found out how desolate and wild they were when they were fighting the Afghans. We didn’t figure this out until much later. The hard way...”

Stevie fell somber for a second, and Logan waited, hoping he’d reveal more. Tonight had given her a glimpse into Keane’s otherwise guarded past, and she hadn’t fit all the pieces together to form a perfect picture of him. Not yet, anyway.

She glanced at Keane. His demeanor was like a storm brewing, anything but approachable; a subtle stiffening of his body like he’d thrown up an invisible wall and dared her to breach it. Something troubled him, and made her want to wrap herself around him and pull him in close. As if sensing her eyes on him, he looked up. His gaze held hers briefly, before he looked away.

“However, we were stationed smack in the middle of the Rigestan, which in Persian means ‘country of sand.’” And I’m talking Sahara Desert-like sand, the kind that creeps into your pores and never leaves. Logan, have you ever been in a desert during the night?”

“I spent a few nights on tour in Phoenix two summers ago.”

“Well, the Rigestan Desert is a sand trap and if the wind gusts up, sand storms are common. Just so happened, one hit in the middle of the night while Jimmy was catching some shut-eye.”

“I thought you slept in barracks or tents.”

“Most times, we do...did. Anyway, the sand has a mind of its own. Bent on defeating you, just like the Taliban—though I’d take a mouthful of sand, any day. Isn’t that right, Keane?”

Keane simply nodded and took a swig of his beer.

“The entire day, Jimmy picked sand out of his ears, nostrils, you name it. Good-humored sport, he was. Joked about how the sand exfoliated his body so it was nice and smooth for the ladies.”

Logan giggled. Back when she had money, a day at the spa exfoliating was common, though most patrons were female.

“It’s getting late, Stevie.” Keane’s tone was low, but firm.

“Okay, let me finish my story and I’ll be off.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Jimmy found out that it was Serge, one of the bosses who trained with us and one of Keane’s fighters, who messed with his alarm clock, making him late. He rode him all day long about setting up a bout until Serge couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Was Jimmy a strong fighter?”

“The best, except for Keane here.”

Keane drained the last of his beer and the bottle rang out as it wobbled around on the coffee table.

Despite his darkening mood, Logan laughed. The news of his accomplishments in the cage gave her hope. Everything was going to work out this time. Jerry would get his fighter. Keane clearly knew how to handle himself and win, without getting hurt.

She smiled. A year ago, she wouldn’t have been able to imagine herself in this situation. Being an Octagon Girl, never mind one shacked up with a surly fighter with a set of guns bigger than her neck. A man whose world was more foreign than the Hindu Kush.

A big brute of a guy now glaring at his empty beer bottle like it had grown two heads. There was a tightness to his finely sculpted cheekbone and around those firmly pursed lips. Lips most of her ballerina friends would die for. Fascinating lips she wanted to feel pressed on her—every inch of her.

Despite being at odds with her thoughts—not that they noticed, with Keane absorbed in his beer bottle, and his visitor popping edamame beans into his mouth like it was his last supper—she listened as Stevie continued. “Jimmy’s last fight—well, really his second to last fight—was one for the record books. I’m sure Marines will be talking about it for years. Unorthodox, to say the least. God, I get a stomachache from laughing just thinking about it.”

“Let’s have it then. Make me laugh,” she prompted, her words lightening her spirits and clearing her head.

“Let’s have it so you can be on your way,” Keane added, sharply.

Stevie ignored him. “First, Jimmy covered himself in suntan lotion an inch thick, from head to toe. Everything except his fighting briefs. Then, he pulled the ol’ tar and feather routine, except instead of feathers, he used...”

“Sand!” she exclaimed, catching on to the joke. “What did Serge do when he saw him?”

“That’s the gem in the jewel case. He didn’t notice until it was too late. Every time he touched Jimmy, his hands, legs, chest—everything was smothered in soggy sand. He couldn’t get a grip on him. The match was over in the first round. I’ve never seen two more sorrowful figures in my life. Super Sand Men, that’s what we called them.”

Keane stood, and waved to his friend. “Nice of you to stop by. But, it’s late...”

Logan jumped up as well, sensing Keane was going to pounce and not understanding why. “I’ll walk him to the door, Keane, if you’ll take the plates into the kitchen. Leave the left-over edamame on the kitchen table. I’ll wrap them up for later.”

Clearly, the idea of her walking Stevie out did not settle well with him. He frowned down at her, then turned and gave Stevie a sinister look. Logan wondered, not for the first time, how they were even friends.

“Got it, Coach. No need to worry on my account.”

Now it was Logan’s turn to scowl. They’d effectively eliminated her from their conversation by using man code. With a loud sigh, she headed off toward the foyer. Stevie’s footsteps on the floorboards told her he followed.

“So, you live here now?” he questioned.

“Yes.” She ushered him onto the porch, not wanting Keane to catch wind of their discussion. “Stevie, I know he’s generally pretty gruff. But there’s more than that going on, there’s something bothering him. I want to know what it is.”

“Listen, Logan, he’s changed. Didn’t use to be so mean, so quick-tempered. A lot of the guys...” He stopped, and rubbed his jaw. “Keane always did say I have a big mouth.”

“Don’t let some stupid man code keep you quiet
now
. Come on, Stevie. I want to help him.”

“Jesus, why do you women think a man can be fixed like repairing a car, or something? Sometimes, the troubles are so deep, so internalized, no one can help.”

“I know you know the answer, Stevie. Is it...Jimmy?”

Stevie looked down at the sidewalk, out into the street, up at the night sky—everywhere but at her. Tight-lipped. No help there.

Logan tried another approach. “We’ve a few more days of training and then he’ll be fighting in the qualifiers. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Stevie snorted. “Does a grizzly eat bunnies for breakfast? Don’t worry about him fighting—he’s a warrior.” He retrieved his wallet and handed her his business card. “Listen, keep in touch, okay? Keane’s not so great at it.”

“I probably won’t be around that long.”

Stevie’s gaze swept over her from head to toe. Then, his lips curled up, as if he’d discovered a secret he wasn’t about to share. With a wave of a hand over his head, he headed down the stairs. But something he’d said earlier had stuck in her mind and begged for clarification.

“You said Jimmy’s second to last fight. Who was his last fight with?”

Stevie’s shoulders seemed to slump as he turned. Even with the distance between them, Logan spotted the sadness in his eyes. She clenched her fists together, knowing the answer before Stevie even opened his mouth.

“Keane.”

* * *

Deep in thought, Logan returned to the kitchen and, scrub brush in hand, went to work on the grill.

Keane had already washed the plates and utensils. He stood quietly by, with his hip angled against the sink and his arms folded across his chest, watching her.

A warm flush heated her cheeks. With a damp hand, she shifted the neckline of her sweatshirt higher on her collarbone and recovered a shoulder. The material had a mind of its own and slid back off. Self-conscious, she scrubbed the grill with renewed vigor.

“What did Stevie have to say at the door?”

“How much he enjoyed your sweet disposition and laughter. I don’t know how you are friends, given the way you treat him. The evening started out rough, and despite his attempts to lighten your mood, it ended tense and uncomfortable. I can tell he’s a good friend, and a nice guy.” She bore down on the grill brush while her point was being made.

Keane snorted. “Nice guy. Just your type, too.”

Logan halted the grill brush mid-circle. What was going on in that thick skull of his? He almost sounded...

“Tomorrow, we’ll sleep in.” His deep, low voice—sexy as hell—caused her to drop the brush. It clanged against the grill irons.

“Sleep in? Saturday’s the first two qualifiers.” She turned, ran her eyes over him, and wanted to lick her lips. Keane was built better than a model in a physical fitness magazine. But was he prepared for the fights? “Why the change in routine?”

“I’m ready.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to squeeze in two more days of practice.”

“What I need is sleep. A night of solid, dreamless bliss.”

“Okay, a nice cup of rose mint tea—”

“Not on the menu.”

Logan frowned and stomped her foot. Jeez, three nights until the qualifiers, and he wanted to go on a bender.

“Fine. Drink yourself silly. But remember, you promised me you’d fight and win. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’ve invested a lot of time here and tonight, all you’ve been is a rollercoaster of nasty and irritable.”

Keane shifted off the counter and sauntered toward her.

She continued, undaunted by the powerful man closing the distance between them. Her temper spurred her on. “Mr. Steak-For-Breakfast—remember him? The guy with the wry humor and shit-eating grin? Where did he disappear to? Hell, the times you smile are getting fewer and farther between. I really don’t like the way you treated Stevie. Or me.”

As he came closer, she sidestepped, moved toward the center of the room, and collided with the kitchen table. With nowhere to go, she folded her arms across her chest. She turned and rested her bottom back against the table.

Tension filled the space. A mixture of her anger, his physical presence, and something else. Arousal?

Still, she pressed on. “You told Joe that I’m on a
need to know basis
. Well I have news for you, here’s something you need to know...”

Keane moved in closer. With an unreadable expression, he looked down at her. She lost her train of thought, along with her nerve.

One more step forward caused her legs to tangle together, one knotted vine of clumsy.

“Here’s what you need to know.” His fingers caressed her bare shoulder blade and his eyes narrowed with intent. “Tea isn’t what I want, Luscious.”

Hearing her new nickname roll off his lips was a game-changer, that’s for sure.
Leaping leotard.
The way he said it made her think of all the sexy things her overeager imagination had dreamed of doing with him, in various positions and multiple times, the past few nights. She felt his hands on her hips, lifting her up and setting her on the wooden tabletop.

“This bit of skin has been driving me nuts all night.” A thumb retraced the hot path his fingers had left on her shoulder blade.

“Keane, I...”

He slid his body in between her dangling legs, swooped forward and captured her lips, effectively silencing her concerns.

He tasted of Yuengling, not that she minded, as his tongue wound around hers in a sensual twist. So tender, so perfect was his kiss, she felt every muscle in her body fill with music—a heady sensation similar to the rush she always got after a performance. But better. Then, he withdrew.

“Open wide,” he demanded.

She hesitated, feeling shy and wanton at the same time, though the latter won out. Parting her thighs, she leaned back onto her arms.

The corners of those plump, pink lips turned up. Logan felt breathless, as his ruggedly handsome features transformed by a jaw-dropping, make-me-yours-tonight sensual smile.

“Your lips, Luscious. Open your lips.”

God
,
she’d just spread her legs wide
,
and he was talking about her mouth!

Her lips parted as she closed her eyes and gasped. Something salty touched her lower lip and her embarrassment was forgotten. Slowly, Keane caressed her mouth with the smooth edamame pod he’d plucked from the bowl on the table, using it as an erotic toy. Her tongue darted out for a taste and he offered up the bean. She devoured it as if it were an oyster, or some other rumored aphrodisiac.

He slowly ran a finger along the moist seam of her lips, making her knees weak. Withdrawing it, his tongue ran along the same path, licking up the salty trail.

Her lips parted invitingly.

This time, his invasion was more aggressive and she found herself breathless from a kiss that made her blood sizzle and skin hot.

He pulled back and caressed her shoulder. “Couldn’t take his eyes off this either, ol’ Stevie.”

Her heart did a perfect cartwheel as she opened her eyes. “I doubt he noticed or even cared about a bit of shoulder.”