Read Online Knock Out (Worth the Fight) by Michele Mannon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michele Mannon
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Hell, buckets of water wouldn’t quench the thirst she had for him.
“Be right back,” was all she could muster before stumbling into the living room.
Late-night host Sophie Morelle’s voice filled the silence. The cocky darling of cable television was Logan’s favorite after-hours host. Tonight, she was listing reasons why some washed-up actor should star in a new sitcom—something about more strippers in the prime-time line-up.
In the kitchen, she filled two tall glasses, not really paying attention to Sophie. For the first time in months, Logan was eager for what might come next. Starting with the surprise waiting for her in the next room.
It wasn’t until she headed back into the living room that she realized who Sophie’s guest was. That someone landed an invisible sucker punch and knocked the air out of her.
She dropped the plastic glasses, the water showering her legs and bare feet, the glasses landing hard then rolling in opposite directions across the wooden floor. Not that Logan really noticed, as she grabbed the remote off the couch and turned up the volume. There was no mistaking that smug voice. Pierre.
Logan glared at the TV. The fame hound sat on a chair across from the host, as arrogant as could be, while three buxom women in tight tube tops and tutus were paraded in front of him.
“Pierre LaFeur, a favorite to win America Gets Its Groove On , is with us tonight. Pierre, some people think you’re callous for not taking any responsibility for what happened on last season’s finale, where you so famously dropped your former partner. Come on, Pierre, her average-sized tits interfered with you catching her?”
“Well...er...for a ballerina—”
“I understand that several other male prime-time hosts—not saying any names here—have called you an expert on female anatomy. In the spirit of joining the boys’ club and trash-talking women, tonight we’re asking you to vote for the biggest set of hooters.”
The women pranced across the stage, each stopping to pose in front of Pierre.
When the camera zoomed in on the awkwardly ridiculous expression on his face, Logan attempted a laugh. But her throat constricted tightly.
If the world knew the truth. How Logan had made it through three months on a reality show she’d had no desire to be on. How four weeks before the finale, she’d been basking in the warmth of a standing ovation from her performance before the Queen of England. How one week after Pierre had fumbled his catch and dropped her on the show’s finale, she’d caught him in a pretzel position with her understudy, Anya, in her bed.
She felt Keane come up behind her. Pimp my plié , the humiliation never ends.
Sophie Morelle continued on relentlessly. “Personally, I find the buzz about your former partner’s breasts offensive. But hey, viewers are eating it up—as you well know, Pierre. Clearly, the network is thrilled to have you back this season. But what you might not know is not everyone agrees with you. Her knockers don’t seem to be an issue for this hunk of sin...”
A picture filled the television screen. Logan let out a dry, inaudible rasp and her eyes darted toward Keane, who was silently towering over her. His eyes shifted from curious to narrowed and pissed-off. The lines around his mouth pulled tighter.
Fearing the worst, her attention swung back to the offensive image on the screen. The paparazzi had really gone all out, bulbs blazing. There, decked out in full, fluorescent pink Octagon Girl regalia was Logan. Shot from the side, they’d captured her pressed up against a sinewy mass of male. Keane, no mistaking him. No mistaking either of them. Or the leering faces in the background.
His hands cupped her bottom and back. Her head was angled toward his. And their mouths were lip-locked in what appeared to be a toe-curling kiss.
“Fuck,” Keane growled in her ear.
Sophie continued on, oblivious to the tension building like molten lava in Logan’s
“Be right back,” was all she could muster before stumbling into the living room.
Late-night host Sophie Morelle’s voice filled the silence. The cocky darling of cable television was Logan’s favorite after-hours host. Tonight, she was listing reasons why some washed-up actor should star in a new sitcom—something about more strippers in the prime-time line-up.
In the kitchen, she filled two tall glasses, not really paying attention to Sophie. For the first time in months, Logan was eager for what might come next. Starting with the surprise waiting for her in the next room.
It wasn’t until she headed back into the living room that she realized who Sophie’s guest was. That someone landed an invisible sucker punch and knocked the air out of her.
She dropped the plastic glasses, the water showering her legs and bare feet, the glasses landing hard then rolling in opposite directions across the wooden floor. Not that Logan really noticed, as she grabbed the remote off the couch and turned up the volume. There was no mistaking that smug voice. Pierre.
Logan glared at the TV. The fame hound sat on a chair across from the host, as arrogant as could be, while three buxom women in tight tube tops and tutus were paraded in front of him.
“Pierre LaFeur, a favorite to win America Gets Its Groove On , is with us tonight. Pierre, some people think you’re callous for not taking any responsibility for what happened on last season’s finale, where you so famously dropped your former partner. Come on, Pierre, her average-sized tits interfered with you catching her?”
“Well...er...for a ballerina—”
“I understand that several other male prime-time hosts—not saying any names here—have called you an expert on female anatomy. In the spirit of joining the boys’ club and trash-talking women, tonight we’re asking you to vote for the biggest set of hooters.”
The women pranced across the stage, each stopping to pose in front of Pierre.
When the camera zoomed in on the awkwardly ridiculous expression on his face, Logan attempted a laugh. But her throat constricted tightly.
If the world knew the truth. How Logan had made it through three months on a reality show she’d had no desire to be on. How four weeks before the finale, she’d been basking in the warmth of a standing ovation from her performance before the Queen of England. How one week after Pierre had fumbled his catch and dropped her on the show’s finale, she’d caught him in a pretzel position with her understudy, Anya, in her bed.
She felt Keane come up behind her. Pimp my plié , the humiliation never ends.
Sophie Morelle continued on relentlessly. “Personally, I find the buzz about your former partner’s breasts offensive. But hey, viewers are eating it up—as you well know, Pierre. Clearly, the network is thrilled to have you back this season. But what you might not know is not everyone agrees with you. Her knockers don’t seem to be an issue for this hunk of sin...”
A picture filled the television screen. Logan let out a dry, inaudible rasp and her eyes darted toward Keane, who was silently towering over her. His eyes shifted from curious to narrowed and pissed-off. The lines around his mouth pulled tighter.
Fearing the worst, her attention swung back to the offensive image on the screen. The paparazzi had really gone all out, bulbs blazing. There, decked out in full, fluorescent pink Octagon Girl regalia was Logan. Shot from the side, they’d captured her pressed up against a sinewy mass of male. Keane, no mistaking him. No mistaking either of them. Or the leering faces in the background.
His hands cupped her bottom and back. Her head was angled toward his. And their mouths were lip-locked in what appeared to be a toe-curling kiss.
“Fuck,” Keane growled in her ear.
Sophie continued on, oblivious to the tension building like molten lava in Logan’s
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