Knockout Read online

  Knockout

  by Tracey Ward

  Knockout

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2014 Tracey Ward

  Editor - Jessie Allen

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The first time Kellen Coulter walked into my world I was thirteen years old. Old enough to know what beautiful looked like, to recognize it when it sat down at the kitchen table in ratty blue jeans and a gray hoody pushed away from ruffled, chestnut brown hair. Old enough to understand why I couldn’t look away from his square jaw, imperfect nose and midnight blue eyes. They were almost black, the irises blending in until he looked inhuman. Scary. Exciting.

  When I walked into the kitchen and saw him for the first time, I froze. I didn’t understand then that he was used to that reaction. He was seventeen, four years older, three grades higher and infinitely more streetwise than I was. He also knew exactly what he looked like and when he smiled at me, it was the end for me.

  I was ruined the moment I met him.

  “Hey,” he said, lifting one hand from where they both rested on the table. I noticed that his knuckles were cracked and raw.

  “Hi,” I replied hesitantly.

  I had come in to get a soda from the fridge before I sat down to do my homework. I had planned on doing it at the kitchen table, but now I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t scared of him, not really, but he made me nervous. It wasn’t that he was too good looking, it was that he was too rough looking. He was more than my wealthy, suburbia, four car garage upbringing could handle.

  “I’m Kellen,” he said.

  His voice was nice. Surprisingly gentle considering his exterior. The more I looked at it, the more I was convinced his nose had been broken a couple times. Without a doubt, he was a fighter.

  He was also still smiling at me. I started to get the impression he was laughing at me. Probably at my tongue tied reaction to him or the staring I suddenly realized I was doing. The thought ticked me off.

  I tossed my book bag onto the table across from him, my eyes unabashedly locked on his.

  “Jenna,” I told him, spitting out my name like I was throwing down a gauntlet. “Are you here to see my dad or my sister?”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Prettier than my dad.”

  His smile widened briefly before it faded altogether. His eyes flickered to his hands, to the injured and broken surface of his skin, before coming back to mine. His entire expression changed and that quick smile seemed like something I’d made up. Something I dreamed.

  “I wish I was here to see her, then,” he muttered.

  “Did you get in a fight?”

  He didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

  He didn’t lie to me either, something I appreciated. At thirteen years old, I was good and ready to be done with the lies that I was fed to protect me. They didn’t protect me at all, they only pissed me off when I found out about them. Like when I found out that my mom hadn’t actually gone on vacation to visit her sister on the East coast when I was eight. She’d had breast cancer and had to get surgery. She was gone for almost a month. She even gave me a souvenir when she got back – a small snow globe with the statue of liberty inside. She hadn’t even set foot in New York! She must have ordered it online. I used to have it sitting on my dresser where I could see it every day. Now it sat in the back of my sock drawer under the nylons I wore once and never needed again.

  “What was it about?” I asked.

  “Something stupid.”

  “Then why’d you fight about it?”

  “Because I’m a guy.”

  I scowled. “That’s not an answer.”

  “When you’re from my neighborhood, it is.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  He grinned. “I already told you that.”

  “Was it about a girl?”

  “Do you mean over a girl or for a girl?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A lot.”

  “Tell me,” I said, starting to sit down in the chair across from him. The second my butt hit the chair, I shot back out again. “Oh, wait, hold on! Do you want a soda?”

  I could feel his eyes on me when I opened the fridge door. I was suddenly very conscious of my long, dark hair, my tall gangly body and my startling lack of boobs. They hadn’t come in yet. Laney, my sister, with her stupid C cup liked to tell me that they never would. That missing piece of me had never made me feel more like a child than it did in that moment. I knew he wasn’t looking for them, he wasn’t being gross and checking me out, but I knew he saw me. All of me. He was very alert. Very aware.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said.

  I glanced around the fridge door to see him looking at the entryway to the kitchen. He was probably looking for my dad. Probably wondering if it was a good idea to be sitting in his lawyer’s kitchen with the guy’s daughter. But I knew from experience that my dad would never bring home a client that couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t care what neighborhood he was from. My dad had grown up rough as well, ‘from the wrong side of the tracks’ he would always say, but he worked hard, put himself through college and spent his entire adult life becoming a very successful attorney. Now he did a lot of pro bono work with kids growing up the way he did. Kids like Kellen. People he felt that, given the chance, could become better than their upbringing.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten into a fight either,” I said, grabbing two sodas and heading back to the table. I firmly set one down in front of him, grinning. “But you did it anyway.”

  He grinned back. It was nearly a smile and I realized I was trying to get it again. To bring it back and see if it was as brilliant as I imagined.

  “You’re a bad influence.”

  I rolled my eyes, not knowing what to say to that. It was weird, but I felt flattered by the comment.

  “So tell me the difference,” I insisted, popping the top on my soda.

  He did the same. “Fighting over a girl is pointless. Either she’s yours or she’s not, you don’t have to beat a guy to the ground to find out. If you do, she’s not worth it. Fighting for a girl, that’s different.”

  “How?”

  He took a sip of his soda. I knew he was stalling but I waited patiently. Patience was something I inherited from my dad. We both had it in spades. The ability to wait people out, to let them come to us and tell us what they nee
ded to, even if they didn’t want to.

  When Kellan finally set his can down, he kept his eyes on it. He spun it in circles on the table over and over again between his battered hands.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “It just means something being able to defend someone who can’t defend themselves.”

  “A girl can defend herself,” I said, bristling.

  He looked at me then. His eyes were so dark it was impossible to read him, but his smirk told me he was laughing at me again.

  “I think you can, Nonpareil. But not everyone has as much piss as you.”

  I looked at him in surprise, shocked by his phrasing. My mom would go through the roof if she heard him talk like that in her house. It wasn’t a curse, but she would consider it vulgar and she’d never stand for it. I wasn’t even allowed to say ‘crap’ or ‘butt’. I was pretty sure ‘piss’ would earn me an old school mouth full of soap and a weekend of grounding.

  My mom ran a tight ship. Loving, but tight.

  “What does nonpareil mean?”

  “It’s French for unequaled. It means nothing can measure up to you.”

  I felt it then, the traitorous heat of a blush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I knew he could see it but there was no way I could hide it so I owned it instead.

  “Why would you call me that?” I asked quietly, embarrassed by the question. But I had to know.

  “That’s what they called Jack Dempsey. He was an Irish boxer in the 1880s. He couldn’t be beat.”

  Okay, so not exactly the compliment I had thought it was, but I was intrigued anyway.

  “Because he was full of piss?” I asked, feeling a little wild saying it.

  Kellen chuckled. “Yeah. And please don’t tell your parents I taught you that word.”

  “I knew it before you got here,” I said defensively. “I go to public school. I don’t live under a rock.”

  “But did you say it before?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. When I didn’t answer, he nodded. “I should have watched my mouth. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. So he never lost a fight?”

  “Dempsey? No, he did. One to a guy he later went back and beat. Two more to a guy that had rigged both fights to win. He lost his last fight because he had tuberculosis.”

  “If he lost so many fights, how did he get that nickname?”

  “Because fighting isn’t always about winning. Sometimes it’s about not giving up.”

  I would look up Jack “Nonpareil” Dempsey that night. What I’d find out was that of his first 65 fights, he never lost one. In one of his later fights he was obviously beaten but he refused to go down. His opponent begged him to quit because he couldn’t stand to keep hitting the guy, but Dempsey refused. He fought till the last, stretching the fight out to the 13th round until it finally ended. The other guy had to knock him out to make him quit.

  That’s a lot of piss.

  “Why do you know all of this about him?”

  Kellan shrugged. “He’s a boxing legend.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Because you’re not into boxing. I bet you’ve heard of Mike Tyson. Muhammad Ali? George Foreman?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “The guy on QVC with the grills?”

  Kellan laughed. It was so full, so surprisingly loud that it startled me a little. He laughed like he didn’t care. He did it with his whole body, his entire voice and it rang through the house until I was sure it had slipped under every door, into every corner. But best of all, it came with that heart stopping smile.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy,” he told me, still chuckling.

  I could read his eyes then. He wasn’t laughing at me anymore. He was looking at me like a person, maybe even an equal. It gave me butterflies in my stomach.

  “You’re really into boxing? Is that why you fight?”

  He shook his head, his face turning serious. “No, I told you. I fight because I’m a guy and I’m stupid. Boxing is different. It’s a sport, one I’m into because my grandpa was a boxer. He came over from Ireland to fight in Vegas.”

  “Did he ever get big enough to sell barbeques on TV?”

  He smiled again, drawing one out of me too.

  “Nah, he couldn’t even sell matches on the side of the road.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Kellen shrugged. “It’s a tough sport. How ‘bout you? You play any sports? I’m looking at you and thinking basketball.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s what everyone says. Just because I’m tall I’m supposed to play basketball?”

  “I guess not. What do you play?”

  I felt embarrassed again. “Golf.”

  Kellen nodded. He didn’t seem terribly surprised and after walking into our house, how could he be? My mom had decorated it to look like a friggin’ country club. The kitchen was pure designer for a warm country chic feeling that actually made me feel like I was in a showroom instead of our house. The entryway was immaculate, the living room was unlivable (I was yelled at one time for leaving an indent of my butt after sitting on the couch) and my dad’s den was completely ridiculous. Tough leather chairs, dark wood paneling and wall to wall bookshelves full of books he never touched. My mom hadn’t even picked them all out. She had a decorator do it based on the color, size and texture of the spines. I liked to go in there sometimes and move books around just to watch her head spin. She could never tell exactly what had been changed but she knew something had. I never told anyone I was doing it. Some joys are only for yourself.

  “Are you any good?” Kellen asked, lifting his soda again.

  I was about to tell him that yes, I was very good but also that I hated it, but I never got the chance.

  “God, Jenna, could you be louder?” Laney demanded, storming into the kitchen.

  The second Kellen saw her, he snapped his can to the table and stood up. I looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t stood up when I came in.

  Laney also stared at him in shock. He stared back, a different kind of grin building on his face. He took in her short blond hair, her curvy figure and the full swell of her chest. I knew in that moment that I was forgotten. That I didn’t exist in the room anymore when his dark blue eyes latched onto her chocolate brown ones. Laney was two years older than me, only two years younger than him, and even though later I would grow up to be something of a beauty myself, I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t what Laney was. What Kellen wanted.

  “Hi,” Laney breathed, smiling easily at him.

  “Hi,” he replied. His voice sounded deeper than before. He offered her his hand across the table. “I’m Kellen.”

  “I know,” Laney said, bumping into me to get close enough to shake his hand. Her armpit hovered over my head, grossing me out and making me worried her deodorant was going rub into my hair. I ducked down, curling into myself to avoid it. “I’ve seen you around school. I’m Laney.”

  “You go to Weston?”

  “Yeah. I’m a Sophomore. You’re a Senior this year, right?”

  “Yeah, but I might graduate a semester early.”

  “God,” Laney laughed, “why?”

  “I’m in an accelerated program.”

  “You’re in Higher Focus? The classes with all the gifted kids?”

  Kellen grimaced at the word ‘gifted’ but he nodded. “Yeah, it’s how I ended up at Weston High. The schools in my neighborhood were too easy. Now I’m just serving my time, waiting to get out.”

  Laney chuckled. “Like prison?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “But if you get out early you’ll miss out on all of the good stuff.”

  He looked at her skeptically. “Like what?”

  “Like Prom and graduating with everyone else. What happens if you graduate early? They hand you your diploma and you go home? No parties? No fun? You like fun, don’t you, Kellen?”

  “Ugh,” I groaned.

  Laney scowled down at me. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

  I
glared back up at her. “Yeah, so do you.”

  “I already did mine. I just finished. You better do yours before mom gets home and finds out you’ve been slacking.” She turned to smile at Kellen. “We should leave her to do it. She gets distracted really easy. Do you want to come wait for my dad in the living room with me? We could watch TV?”

  He looked uncertain again. I wanted to warn him about sitting on the couch, basically telling him don’t, but then he was up and following Laney. She was already heading out of the kitchen toward the living room, confident that he would be close behind. And why wouldn’t he be? Hang out in the kitchen with a little twerp while she did her homework or chill on the couch with a hot, viable girl his age? No contest. I wasn’t even mad.

  “Use a coaster,” I warned quietly, watching him take his soda can off the table. “My mom will go ballistic if she finds water spots. She’s crazy like that.”

  He stopped to look down at me, his eyes smiling. “Thanks, Nonpareil.”

  “No problem, Rocky.” I told him dryly.

  Chapter Two

  Three Months Later

  I went through a lot of trouble in school. I always had a really hard time with math and science. English was alright because I didn’t mind reading, but what I really loved was art. Guess what art is – an elective. And you can only choose it so many times while English, science and math are crammed down your throat every second of every day. On top of that, I was forced to pick up a foreign language too. Mom was thrilled when I told her I had chosen French.

  “I speak a little bit of it,” Kellen told me one afternoon.

  I was sitting on the floor in the living room with my books on the coffee table. Kellen was on the couch waiting for my dad again with the TV tuned to a football game but the volume on mute. I had told him I could focus if he turned the volume up, but he waved me away. I had also offered to go to the kitchen so he could have the room to himself and listen to the game like a normal person, but he said he liked the company. I gave up.

  “Really?” I asked hopefully.

  “A little. My mom knew more. What are you trying to do?”