Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (26 page)

Strike fast and move on to more important matters
,
Logan.
The righteously vindictive part of her spurred her on.

It was a perfect chance at revenge.

But she’d held out on airing the dirty laundry this long. Pierre counted on it, didn’t he? Knowing how much she hated the notoriety. Banking on her to keep her mouth shut and growing more and more confident in her silence. Her problems were so insignificant compared to Keane’s, yet the first step to solving them was admitting you had one. That was Dr. Felter’s recommendation. That’s what Logan had told Keane.

It was time for her to take the good Doc’s advice.

“Over here, Logan,” another fan hollered. She shot him a grin over her shoulder but her attention remained on Sophie, who was still busy writing her notes. Perfect.

Swift and fast.

But before she took another step forward, she spotted him. The biggest, smuggest, most self-serving ass she’d ever regretted crossing paths with was now hovering in the aisle, smack in between her and Sophie Morelle. It wasn’t a coincidence how close he lurked to the reporter.

Logan was about to give
him
an earful. This time, she was ready for him.

In her short career in the cage, her world, priorities and heart had shifted. Now he stood in
her
place,
her
Octagon arena, with hundreds of
her
adoring fans. And even if tonight was her last as Octagon Girl, Pierre wasn’t the star. She was.

What goes around
,
comes around
,
Pierre.
Revenge was going to taste oh-so sweet. Fame...he could keep it. Logan planned on hitting him where he’d least expected it, in his pocket.

She squared her shoulders and strode forward until she was close enough to hear his wheezing exhale.

“Pierre.”

The jerk didn’t even greet her, just began speaking nervously, “About the finale. You know, Anya and I are slated to win. The hip hop duo and belly dancers aren’t
real
dancers. But any negative press could really hurt us, affect how America votes.”

“You are so damn arrogant. What won’t you do for fame, huh?”

“The show’s executives think you should be there.”

Logan gave a mental fist pump in the air. Surprise. Surprise. The wholesome family show was fed up with his bullshit, that’s what he really was saying. This was perfect. Upon spying Pierre, she’d made a split decision—she was going to take him down, with money instead of fists. Though she wouldn’t walk away from the opportunity to land a well-deserved kick. Make him sing instead of dance.

She decided to forfeit some of her savings for lawyer fees. Her salary from Keane winning the fifth bout was enough to cover a few months more in rent, plus initial lawyer fees. Money well spent. But knowing the networks needed her to make nice—that Pierre needed her—that was priceless. And she’d thought his showing up was a publicity stunt. Ha.

“It’s reality TV, Logan. Everyone wants their favorites to win or there’s no show.”

Pierre ignored her Keane-worthy scowl, and continued on, “I’ll apologize on television about the fall—”

“Drop it, Pierre. We both know the truth,” she stated, her tone suspiciously calm, void of all the heartache he’d caused. Hell, she had bigger heartaches to contend with.
Make it fast
,
or it’ll be too late.

He swiveled his head around and nervously eyed the crowd, as if his lie had been announced over the loud speakers. “Ah, about that—”

“One million cash, or I tell all. Tonight.” She bit her lip, then added, “Plus payment of the full sale price on the co-op. All my antique furniture, china and porcelain collectibles.”

Pierre’s face flushed a beautiful scarlet shade. “That’s nearly everything I’m making off the show...”

“...and, I keep the painting.”

That did the trick. The vein in Pierre’s forehead popped out like a sugar beet root. “You told me it had been stolen. Why you...liar!” All self-control gone, he stomped around the ramp, enraged.

Sophie Morelle’s head snapped up from her notebook.

Logan had Pierre exactly where she wanted him. Now he was the one about to get dropped on his ass.

The arena reverberated with the opening chords of a Def Leppard song. Not that it stopped Sophie Morelle and her cameramen from heading up the ramp. Or Pierre, who was in full temper-tantrum mode, flailing about like a child who’d had his toy snatched away.

But the music signaled the beginning of the bout, forcing Logan’s hand. She could finish off Pierre and expose him as a liar once and for all. It would be so easy to hand that bloodhound of a reporter an Emmy-worthy story of lies and deceit. Or Logan could high-tail it over to the cage and hastily figure out Plan B with Stevie.

Pierre was going through some kind of metamorphosis on the ramp, his face flaming red, his fingers clenching and unclenching, but grinning like they’d just had the most pleasant conversation. Clearly, he’d caught sight of Sophie and company.

“So my breasts caused you to drop me—
that
was your lame-ass excuse?” she began, raising her voice high enough to earn some attention. How far could she push Pierre? His fear of being thrown off his precious show was priceless. Bad press? It was his turn to grovel. “I wonder what Sophie’s going to do when I clarify things; tell her how you need beginner lessons in ballet 101, where most dancers learn how to position their feet in preparation to catch their partner. Helps with a little thing called
balance.
”

Sophie Morelle was sprinting toward them. Pierre saw her, too. The blood drained out of his face. Good, she had the jerk right where she wanted him.

Someone cranked up the music. “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak,” a Def Leppard classic
.

Of course, the song had to be about heartbreak.
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.

The bout was beginning momentarily. The source of her genuine heartbreak was headed toward the ring.

Payback was within her power.

Sophie bit her lip and paused. And then she let the perfect moment for revenge slip away. Nothing was more important than the man headed toward the cage. She had to stop the fight.

Logan stepped back. In a total Keane move, she feinted left, hustled by a surprised Sophie on the right, and headed down the ramp without a backward glance.

Chapter Twenty-Two

GROUND AND POUND: A wrestling move, where a fighter secures his/her opponent to the mat and punches them, in an attempt to get them to submit

Keane jogged in place at the top of the ramp. Figures the underwear model would select such a lame-ass song for his entry music, some crap about heartbreak. He watched his opponent pause and lean in toward that abrasive redheaded reporter below. A similar gesture to the moves he’d been putting on Logan. This crowd-pleaser was a real ladies man. But could this Marky Mark handle himself in the cage?

Not your problem.
Not like he’s a kid.

His temple throbbed. The days of fighting for pleasure were long gone. All he seemed to do lately was agonize over putting a beating on guys who’d willingly entered into the cage, most of them trained in mixed martial arts moves Keane hadn’t used in ages. It was incredible he’d been able to even pull off a Peruvian necktie on the German. A move he planned on never using again, not after the way the German had been fighting for breath.

When are you going to stop punishing yourself?

He rolled his shoulders as if the gesture might shake off the question foremost in his head. And shake off the image of Logan, with her piercing green eyes and her throaty voice so full of...
love
. She should have known better than to get involved with such a mean bastard, should have listened to Rosie’s warning the night of the snowstorm. She should count her blessings he’d be leaving her in one piece, unharmed and better off.

A Marine always finished what he’d started, it was part of a fighter’s code of honor. Stuff the emotional shit. Hell with sentiment.
Love.
Keane felt a familiar fury wash over him, and he took comfort in it.

If he had a hood, he’d have yanked it over his head. A way to block everything and everyone out. Bare-chested was one thing, but bare-headed left him...exposed. Gritting his teeth, he headed down the ramp.

The fans jumped to their feet and fist pumped the air. “Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay.” He ignored them and focused on the welterweight standing with the reporter and her crew. Judging by the way the redhead’s attention kept angling Keane’s way, she intended to interview both of them, like this was some demented freak show or something. Fuck that.

He lengthened his stride, planning on brushing by the group.

“Hey, Boom-Yay, wait up.”
Freakin’ great
,
the underwear model.
“Don’t take this personally but I’ve got moves the German’s never seen. Just thought I’d warn you now—this is gonna be some match-up.”

Keane snorted. The mics picked up on it, and cameramen shifted their gear high on their shoulders, ready to capture the unscripted drama unfolding on live television.

The welterweight smoothed things over. “Never seen someone pull off a Peruvian necktie like that. Man, you’ve got mad technique.” Assuming a fighter’s stance, his opponent lifted his fists chest level for a knuckle tap. A perfect photo op.

At least he’d stopped yapping. Keane didn’t want to hear anymore, didn’t want to
like
the freakin’ guy. Get the picture over with and get out of Dodge. He lifted his fists.

The redhead nudged her way between them. “Hold up, guys. One sec. Ready? Lights. Camera. Action. This is Sophie Morelle reporting from Mellon Arena and the match-up of all match-ups for the welterweight championship. The winner of this bout will move on to Tetnus in Las Vegas this July.”

Keane shifted, but Sophie grabbed him by the arm.

“You can’t begin to imagine how buff these guys are, how
strong
.” A red fox had nothing on this sly redhead. Yet, it was equal rights for all, as she dropped Keane’s arm and snagged the forearm of his opponent, who—to give the guy some credit—looked equally displeased.

Caden tried stepping back. Keane spotted how Sophie’s leg wound around the back of his ankle, stopping him. How she easily manipulated a six foot three, one hundred and seventy pound brawler as if he were a toddler.

“This guy’s got a body like a Greek god. C’mon ladies, you know you’ve seen his package plastered on every billboard from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles.”

At the mention of the billboards, Caden’s brows narrowed so much, Keane spotted two thick creases form on his forehead. Man, he felt sorry for the guy.

His opponent’s hand snaked around Sophie’s waist and nudged her away.

Sophie held her ground, and with a surprising combination of lethal hip and carefully placed foot, she gyrated into him. Except he moved sideways. Everything was a freakin’ blur after that.

His opponent angled away from the reporter. She went flying by him and straight into a cameraman. Like a slow motion movie, the cameraman lost his balance, the huge camera on his shoulder tottered and came crashing forward, smack into the back of Caden’s head.

Keane reached for him. But it was too late. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and then, Marky Mark was out for the count.

“Get the medics, now!” Keane bellowed, kneeling over the guy.

“He’s not...dead?” Sophie cried out, falling to her knees beside the unconscious man and grabbing his wrist. “Thank God, a pulse.”

Cameras flashed around them. Pandemonium broke out in the arena. A few people standing around them looked stunned.

Keane took it all in until his chest contracted so tightly, he had to gasp for breath. His skin felt damp and cold. This situation was way too familiar for comfort.

His opponent didn’t so much as twitch. Damn, it wasn’t a good sign. Keane should know; Jimmy hadn’t twitched either.

Jimmy had been flat on his back, one leg bent, his head twisted sideways. His brown eyes blank and unresponsive. His teasing smile muted. An image Keane tried to forget, but couldn’t. He’d killed his best friend with a knock out—except it had taken him months to die.

“Where are the goddamned medics?” He yelled again, tearing his eyes away from his opponent and searching the crowd for help.

“What have you done to my welterweight?” Jerry was the first to burst into the melee, jockeying for position between the arriving EMT crew and the hordes of converging reporters. “If he’s isn’t able to fight in the next bout, I’m going to sue you, your parents, your boyfriend, your television station, the whole lot,” he threatened Sophie. Jerry turned toward the medics. “You too. Either do your job and fix him or you’re all gonna pay!”

Jerry’s wild gaze fixed on Keane. “You! What do you think you’re doing? Get up and get the hell in the cage. We’ve got a fight to win.”

Keane stood, and blinked. At least this asshole had snapped him back into the present. “He gonna be okay?” Keane asked one of the EMTs as he helped lift his unconscious opponent onto the stretcher.

“We’ll need to check him out at the hospital. A knot on the head the size of a baseball might mean there’s swelling inside. Nasty concussion. Ah, think I can get an autograph? I’ll get his later.”

Jerry tried to body block the stretcher. “No, no, no. Where are you taking him?”

“Enough!” Keane barked out and snatched the medic by the scruff of his neck. “If you interfere, you’re gonna be laid out on a stretcher headed outta here too.”

“But what about the bout?”

Keane couldn’t bear looking at Jerry, let alone express the obvious answer. He had to get outta there before he lost it completely. Turning, he noticed Logan hovering just outside of the circle, studying him intently. Watching how freakin’ weak and raw he was.
How the fuck did she get out of the locker room?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Felix’s voice boomed. “For the first time in MMA history, by way of K.O. the
loser
in tonight’s much-anticipated welterweight bout is...Sophie Morelle.”

Keane heard Sophie cry out, but ignored her. The stretcher cleared the top of the ramp.

“Are you okay?” He felt Logan’s warm hand on his chest, over his heart. A quickening heart that’d give a racecar driver a run for their money. Thump. Thump. Thump.
No
,
I’m far from okay.

“Sal,” he snapped at the handler who’d come up next to her—another face gawking at him like he had two heads. He narrowed his eyes on the trainer. He couldn’t look at Logan, unwilling to watch her expression fill with pain from what he was about to do. Time to call it quits.

“I’m done. Make sure she makes it home okay.”

“Aw, Keane—”

“Do it.”

Sal stood undecided, looking like a sad old dog. Keane didn’t dare look Logan’s way.

He’d held up his end of the bargain. She knew from the get-go where this was leading. It was for her own damn good. Still, he hesitated. The bout hundreds of times worse than the one that should have gone down in the cage played out in his head.

The pain of it all was too much to bear, and he made up his mind.

Keane didn’t wait around. Barreling past the spectators abuzz with excited chatter, he pushed through the crowd, stalked up the ramp, headed down the long cold corridor, and out of the arena. Not once did he look back.