As I creep around the corner of some shipping containers, I can see two men standing out front of the warehouse door itself. Now, I may be utterly out of my element here, but I do know door security when I see it. I skirt around the shadows to the side of the building, and find myself creeping between a pile of old wooden crates trying to ignore the possibility of coming across rats or worse. I creep up to the dirty little window emanating light from inside.
The whole cab ride over, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d find tonight. I mean sure, I had some suspicions about the nature of what Logan was up to, but nothing - absolutely nothing - prepares me for what I see when I finally claw my face up to the edge of the window and peer through.
The scene is medieval.
Logan is stripped down to the waist, his tattooed muscles glistening with sweat under the crappy overhead lights as he slowly circles around the man facing him. The other guy is shirtless as well, and both of them eye each other with grim looks with their fists raised up. They’re surrounded by a jeering crowd, all shouting and waving money and fists as the two men in the ring dance around each other.
The guy across from him swings wildly at Logan, who ducks the fist and crashed his own into the guy’s ribs. Logan steps back for a second but his opponent rallies and sends an elbow crashing into his gut, doubling him over. I’m cupping my mouth with both my hands to keep from screaming as the guy starts to rain blows down onto Logan, even though he’s on his knees in the ring.
This is where he goes. This is what he does. This is why I found him that night bleeding and broken in my elevator.
I almost can’t watch this happen, and I’m just about to turn away when Logan suddenly springs to his feet. The whole vibe of the place changes in a heartbeat as Logan slams the guy over onto his back and just starts to wail on him. He looks ferocious and animalistic and just so raw in the way he lays into his opponent. That is, except for his face. Because his face is blank and neutral, as if he’s just going through a motion has has to do.
The fight is over thirty seconds after that when the other guy goes limp on the ground beneath him. The crowd of men around them go wild as the bell sounds, and there’s a furious exchange of screaming and yelling and fists full of cash as some sort of referee raises Logan’s arm and two other men drag his unconscious opponent from the ring.
A man wearing a bomber jacket with black hair and an olive complexion pushes his way through the crowd and approaches Logan. He’s grinning, but there’s something dark and something sinister in that smile. Logan glares at him as the man claps him on the back and mimes a few shadow-boxing punches. He’s chuckling as Logan just stands there glowering at him, his chest heaving and his skin shining with perspiration.
The man says something and pokes him hard in the chest, and suddenly Logan just spits at the guy’s feet. There’s a sudden stillness between the two men, and I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen next. But the man only laughs as he points a finger at Logan, prodding his chest again as he winks at him, before he turns and walks calmly away. I watch as Logan shakes his head and spits on the ground again before he walks out from my viewpoint.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Quinn?!” Logan hisses at me as he steps out of the side-door to the warehouse. I’m leaning against the side of his car, glaring at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”
I take a step towards him as he rakes a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, still shirtless in the dim glow of the streetlight. “What the fuck am I doing here?” I’m shaking my head and staring at him “Are you fucking crazy, Logan? Do you have some sort death wish?!”
“Lower your voice, Quinn,” He growls, his eyes darting to the side door. He grabs my arm. “Look, just get in the car-”
“No! What the hell was that back th-”
“Get in the fucking car, Quinn, before someone sees you.”
I shoot him a last glaring look before I step into the car, jumping as he slams the door after me.
“That’s what you’ve been doing!?” I hiss at him, staring at him like he’s completely insane as we roar back towards Manhattan. “I mean, you said you were boxing for fuck’s sake, but Jesus.” I shake my head at him, suddenly scared about what I’ve just witnessed. “I mean there aren’t even any gloves.”
The wind buffets against his face and through his hair, and he grins and shrugs before he turns and spits blood out through the open car window. “Yeah, well, that is why they call it bareknuckle.”
I stare at him. “It’s barbaric.”