Logan laced his fingers through the chain link fencing, sensing movement behind him, he kept still, body coiled with predatory tension. He bit down on his cigar as a heavy, swift steel toed kick landed to his kidney. Logan went down to one knee, coughing. He spit his mangled Cuban out onto the bloodied concrete floor and swiped with the back of his sweat slick scarred knuckles, trying to remove the loose tobacco from his bruised and busted mouth.
“That was my last cigar.” he growled, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in clear warning.
“Sorry princess.” The faceless brute laughed, deep, raspy, and a little crazy.
Logan rose from the floor. He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He liked it when he landed a crazy one. The Wolverine reached out a long well muscled arm, curling his fingers. His invitation unmistakable. The contender’s questioning gaze was faintly amused as he glanced over his shoulder at his whiskey laced, drunken buddies, jeering him on from the crowd.
“Ain’t you had enough, buddy?”
Logan just turned away and took one powerful step, pulling himself almost three quarters of the way up the fence and twisted, launching himself in mid air, fists clenched and let loose a savage roar. The biker quit smiling.
“Logan, help me…”
Logan’s eyes flew open. He laid there for a moment, stinging hazel eyes darting around him. He looked down, quirking an eyebrow. A slender arm rested across his chest. It felt like a glowing chain around him in the dark. Her bright auburn hair gleamed in the shadows cast by the cheap motel bathroom lighting, with deep gold and rich red, platinum highlights framing a quiet oval face. His eyes trailed down the the gentle curve of the melting softness of her body beneath the sheets. All wrong. Her hips were too narrow and her lips too thin, her eyes… Logan couldn’t even remember what color her eyes were.
He untangled himself from the nameless woman as stealthily as he could manage and stood, going to the table in the corner and grabbed the fifth of whiskey sitting there.
She stirred at the movement and he felt her eyes come to rest on him. He said nothing, just put the bottle to his lips and swallowed. She sat up slowly, her body long and trim. Too tall…
“Why don’t you come back to bed, baby. I can make you forget all about whatever keeps you up at night…” She twitched her way over to him, her lips going to the hollow between his neck and shoulder, barely a whisper from behind. Logan’s nostrils flared and he shut his eyes, putting the bottle back to his lips.
“Get out.” he rumbled, setting it down with a clink.
“What?” she said, her voice incredulous.
“I said get the fuck out.” he growled softly. She stepped back.
He spun and flung her denim mini skirt and what barely qualified as a top from where they sat discarded, dangling in the chair, at her bare midriff. She visibly flinched, pulling the scratchy sheet around her naked perky breasts and reached for her clothes, fiercely indignant.
“Son of a bitch, you’re a bastard!” He’d been called worse. Much worse. Logan picked up the stack of money he’d won that night in the bar fight laying on the nightstand, and let it fly in her direction, money floating through the air. He stalked towards the meager bathroom facility.
“I want you gone when I get out.”
“No fucking problem, asshole.”
Logan slammed the door behind him. Not even a minute later, a slam answered him in return. Logan walked over to the sink, bracing himself on either side of the porcelain, knuckles white. His eyes drew upwards, taking in his reflection. Haunted. Dark. Pissed off. Broken…
He picked up the sink and felt it tear out of the wall and floor, dust and debris flying. Long, lethal claws growing, he launched it at the mirror as hard as he could.
...There went his deposit.
Ignoring the shards of glass crunching under and slicing his bare feet, Logan turned on the shower at hot as he could possibly stand without peeling his skin off and rested his forehead against the cool, wet tile, watching the blood swirl in the water down the drain. What he wouldn’t give for some good old fashioned amnesia, right now. Where was a crazy mad scientist when you needed him? Oh, right. Logan had “taken care of" that.
He stayed under the spray until his nuts were in his throat. His hopes to be free of the bone deep chill that had settled in his adamantium skeleton, that had nothing to do with the cold, useless.
He shut off the water, wrapped a complimentary blinding white piece of sandpaper around the curve of his dripping ass, and stepped over the butchered vanity. Grabbing a cigar, he pulled on his clothes as quick as he could. He threw the key on the bed and didn’t bother to look behind him as he left, yanking up the zipper on his worn leather jacket. Winter would be here soon, and it was a long ride to the very last place he ever wanted to go again…