The crowd roared in response. Logan had told me the room held five hundred, but I swear to God, it sounded like a Yankees game from the inside.
"We've got a fantastic show for you this evening," continued Charlie, "including one new face from all the way over in Chicago."
A few audience members let out good natured boos.
"Now, now, be nice, folks. We're all friends here. And on that note, I'd like you to give a warm welcome to our first fighters tonight. You've seen them both before, but never in the ring at the same time. In the blue corner, we've got a fan favorite. A local boy. He's two hundred pounds of raw punching power. Give it up for Joe 'Kitty Cat' Thomppppsssson."
The rumble from the bleachers grew louder still, and Charlie drank it up. He'd always seemed reserved to me, but he was every bit the showman now, his voice rising in a trembling crescendo that made me think of the boxing matches my dad used to watch on TV.
Jonah leaned over until his shoulder lay against mine, which wasn't difficult considering how cramped it was behind the bar. "You know why they call him Kitty Cat?"
I shrugged. "Because it's so intimidating?"
He shot me what I'd come to think of as his panty-dropping grin. It didn't do much for me, but I'd seen plenty of women go weak at the knees before it, so maybe I was just missing something. "Because whenever people knock him down he seems to always wind up on his feet."
"And here I was expecting some joke involving the word 'pussy.'"
"Then you obviously don't know me very well. I'm nothing but serious when it comes to pussy."
I laughed. "And there it is."
By now, Charlie had welcomed both men into the ring. They were shirtless, and while neither quite had Logan's sheer size or tone, they each cut rather intimidating figures. God, when did I start comparing all men to Logan?
After a little more ceremony and a touching of their thin black gloves, the two men took a few steps backward, and the fight was on. I'd watched Logan train a lot, but that didn't prepare me for the reality of this sort of combat. This wasn't a gentleman's game in any form. Almost any kind of damage they could inflict with their body was allowed. The men circled one another, probing and testing, before one of them would snap forward like a snake to land a bone shuddering punch. Each impact left me wincing in sympathy, but somehow they soaked up the punishment.
One of the men seemed eager to take things to the ground, but the other kept him at bay with a lightning quick array of punches and kicks. They slugged it out like that for several rounds, and it felt like neither really had the edge, but moments before the bell rung for the third time, one of those punches connected, and the other man dropped like a stone.
The crowd roared their approval. I wanted to be mortified, but the energy in the air was infectious, and I found myself screaming too.
The next two fights weren't quite so intense, both ending in submissions rather than knockout blows, and before I knew it, Logan's time arrived.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for," called Charlie. "This is going to be some fight, folks. The local hero against the Illinois powerhouse. In the blue corner, hailing all the way from snowy Chicago, give a warm Las Vegas welcome for Martin 'Caesar' Bianco!"
A few more boos rang out from the crowd, but this time most people showed Caesar the same respect as the other fighters, cheering and hollering as they'd done all night. The guy that stepped into the ring certainly looked like he deserved it. He was a ridiculous specimen of a man — broad chested and long limbed and padded from head to toe in thick slabs of muscle. If I had to guess, I'd have said he was even taller than Logan. Objectively, he should have been good looking, with the kind of strong chin and blonde shaggy hair usually found in glossy magazines, but the movie star smirk on his face was so off-putting it ruined any sense of appeal he might have had. It was a look that said "everybody is paying attention to me and that's exactly the way things should be."
"And in the red corner, the reigning Final Blow champion. He's a Vegas legend in the making. Make some noise for Logan 'Blackjack' Anderson."
My lungs hitched as Logan strode into view, muscles flexing in the spotlights. I'd seen him training many times before, but this was different. There was an intent to his movements now, a sense of gravity and power that set adrenaline surging through my veins. He walked out there like he owned the place, like he owned the world. There wasn't a man in the room that could compare to that raw strength and sheer masculinity.
I'd thought the crowd was loud before, but that was a whimper compared to the cacophony that erupted as he stepped up to meet his opponent. I'd been right, Caesar was taller by at least half a foot, which made him a truly intimidating foe. But Logan didn't look fazed. He just radiated steely confidence.