Page 49 of His Favorite Color is Blood
“What did you call me?” asked Grim, and right next to Misha, his hand caressed the handle of a knife he wore on his hip.
The prospect seemed a bit lost without the support of his friends that he clearly expected. One of the men even shook his head at him, mouthing something akin to “you just fucking had to.”
The prospect spread his arms, his pale face getting red. “I mean … just sayin’ it like it is.”
“If you don’t know any better, maybe you should spend some time with Grim,” suggested a biker with a mohawk haircut and a scar around the eye.
Grim’s fingers curled as he wordlessly called the offending youth over.
The prospect looked at Spike as he took a step closer to Grim. “Prez?”
Spike narrowed his eyes and pushed him forward. “Do as you’re told, Prospect.”
The prospect stood in front of Grim, and on one hand, Misha didn’t envy him the fear that he could read out of the man’s tense muscles, yet on the other, at least the idiot would be punished for his hateful words. Grim came here to do a job for the guy’s club, and this was the welcome he was getting?
“All I’m saying is, I’m not gay,” the prospect grumbled.
“See? You’re learning already,” said Grim, and then his arms suddenly moved, quick and proficient at grabbing his prey. Misha couldn’t exactly see what happened with the men obscuring the view, but there was a loud crack, and the prospect yelled in terror, stumbling out of Grim’s arms with his hands clenched on the bottom part of his face.
“Next time,apologize,” said Grim. “Magic words keep the pain at bay.”
Spike didn’t spare the prospect much attention, but he clapped his hands and invited Grim inside with a gesture. “Now that’s done, let’s get down to business.”
Grim grabbed the handles of Misha’s wheelchair and casually pushed him toward the entrance. One of the bikers yanked at the back of the prospect’s vest and hauled him in another direction, but judging from the lack of intervention, everyone seemed to think Grim’s actions were just. And looking at those men—at the tattooed bodies, muscles, and stern faces—Misha assumed Grim couldn’t have had it easy as an openly gay man. There were things he needed to do to keep those macho guys respecting him.
Inside was a large room with several beat-up sofas, a collection of alcohol in a tall bookcase, and a billiard table. The old carpet covering the floor stank of dust and piss. Misha wasn’t happy that the wheels of his chair had to roll over it, but then again, his wheelchair had seen worse.
“Is he, like, a mail order husband?” One of the older guys snorted and elbowed Grim.
Grim frowned. “Just because he’s Russian? No. We met in Louisiana.”
Spike’s eyes swept over Misha, and it was the first time any of the bikers met his gaze. He was talked about as if he were a chair, yet completely invisible. “Youwanna stick around here, or go to one of the guest rooms? Grim told me you’re staying the night.” From his tone, Misha sensed Spike was trying to be nice but would be uncomfortable if Misha stayed in the lounge. That was all right. Misha didn’t want to stay with them either. He wanted a room that locked from theinside.
Grim leaned down and looked into Misha’s face. “What do you think? I need to talk to them about old times and the job. How about you get some sleep?”
Misha nodded with more eagerness than he wanted to express. “But you’ll come over before you leave?” he asked, painfully aware of everyone listening.
“Sure. I need to reconnect with the guys and get some intel,” said Grim. It didn’t escape Misha’s attention that the bikers communicated without words when Grim mentioned a “job.” Clearly, any details were not for the ears of an outsider.
Misha gave Grim’s hand a squeeze and nodded again, even though a flush emerged on his face. Maybe he shouldn’t be freely expressing any tenderness, but with a protector like Grim, he was not afraid to have any hateful words thrown his way.
No matter how many episodes ofWife WarsMisha watched on the small TV in the guest room, one of the last words Grim had for him in the truck wouldn’t leave his mind and came back like a boomerang.
“I think I might be a psychopath.”
What did Grim mean exactly? Was this yet another clue for Misha that getting involved with him was a big mistake and he should be working toward independence instead of falling into Grim’s arms day after day? Was it even smart to plan a future with someone who killed for a living in the first place? That was what Grim did after all. Rode all around the country to do dirty jobs for different chapters of the Coffin Nails MC. And he confessed to having a history of aggressive behavior on top of that. What if his fists turned on Misha one day?
That last question was blurry even in Misha’s head. It was the rational part of his brain trying to pick a fight with his heart. So far, Grim had proven time andtime again how much he would sacrifice for Misha. But was it because he actually had feelings for him, or was it because Misha was the perfect sexual outlet for Grim’s fetish?
He dropped the remote when the door opened, and Grim let himself in, carrying two of their bags. He grinned and dropped them on the mattress before pushing Misha on the bed and rolling over next to him. “You look so bored.”
Misha took a deep breath of Grim-scented air, as overwhelmed by his presence as he always was. “Me? Not at all. Debbie was just telling Kathy that her children are spoiled hippies. Great stuff.”
Grim laughed and kissed Misha’s hand, staring into his eyes. “You must bereallybored to watch this kind of shit.”
“I kinda like trash TV. It’s this noise in my brain that helps me from thinking too much and going crazy.” When Misha looked at Grim, all he could see was the guy who saved him, the guy who helped him learn a handstand, and the guy who gave him great orgasms. It was hard now to focus on the thoughts that occupied him for the past few hours.
“You don’t look like your friends,” he said in the end.
