Page 50 of His Favorite Color is Blood
Grim’s thick black eyebrows shot up, and he raised himself on his elbows. “How come?”
Misha chewed on his lips, hoping not to insult Grim. “You are always so ... clean cut.” When Grim started getting to his knees, Misha groaned, displeased with the word choice. “I’m not saying that they’re dirty or anything. It’s just that you look like a model in leather, and they look like ... how you’d imagine bikers.”
Grim snorted and massaged Misha’s hand with his thumbs. “Is that good?”
“Yes. You always smell so good too, and you shave every single day ... you’re so well groomed you make me ashamed I want to give up the routine Gary made me follow.” Misha exhaled and moved his fingers over Grim’s forearm, playing with the dusting of hair he found there. “And they all have tattoos. You don’t have a single one.”
Grim shrugged, for a moment lost in thoughts, and he brushed his fingers over the glass-and-bone pendant on his neck. “I just don’t want to. My dad and uncle had so many tattoos, they wore torn jeans and loose tank tops, and scruff. I guess I really don’t want to be like them in any way. I’m not gonna sound like them either,” said Grim, and his voice slipped into a thicker accent that he sometimes spoke with close to orgasm. “I was lucky to have a fresh start, and I’m gonna bewho I want to be, not someone I was born to be. I might be a biker, but I’m no scum.”
There was an intensity in Grim’s steel-grey eyes that made Misha swallow around a lump that appeared in his throat. Oh, how much he could relate to that. Having had alcoholic parents, he always made a point of watching his drinking habits and learning skills that were actually useful, to not settle for just anything. It ultimately led to Misha’s kidnapping, but he really felt that his life was on the right path once again.
Grim leaned in for a kiss and then traced Misha’s forehead with his lips. “My job needs to be done as quickly as possible. I want to go tonight.”
Misha nodded. “And you’re sure I’m safe here?”
Grim slid his hand down Misha’s back. “Yes. My brothers wouldn’t let anyone take my property.”
“How did you get into doing your first job for them?” Misha hoped he sounded casual.
Grim stretched and put his arm around Misha. “They just noticed I was good at killing. And I wasn’t afraid the way the others are. I’m excited when there’s danger. It’s like a good adrenaline rush.”
Misha watched Grim’s eyes for any signs of lying. “So you like it.” Like Zero, or the other sadists Misha had witnessed in action. Was he catnip for evil?
“Danger? Yes, of course,” said Grim and slowly pulled himself back into a sitting position before rolling off.
Misha sat up on the bed. “No. Hurting people.”
Grim frowned with his hands already at the bag he brought with him. “Yes. Why do you ask? You’ve seen it.”
“Does it turn you on?” Misha sucked his lips in, working hard on putting his thoughts into words.
Grim scowled. “Fuck no. I mean ... not this way,” he said, gesturing between himself and Misha as he pulled out his skull mask, which didn’t look nearly as scary when it was neatly folded.
“Do you seek out targets just because you enjoy hurting them?” Misha curled his shoulders, worried what could happen if his questions touched a nerve.
Grim exhaled and pulled out his work clothes, which were packaged into a large ziplock bag. “The club does it for me. I don’t want to hurt people, who don’tdeserve it.” He snorted. “So if there’s no job for a long time, I might go for a little hunt to places where I expect to find someone worthy of my fists and knives.”
That was at least mildly reassuring. “How did this start for you?”
Grim shrugged, slightly tense in the shoulders as he sat on the bed, and pulled off his pants. “I was an angry kid,” he said, pulling up the black pants Misha knew he used on the job. “My parents were deadbeat fucks, and a lot of the time, there wasn’t even enough food for me to eat. I was this kid who’d steal the neighbor’s pie from the windowsill, and it wasn’t just because I wanted dessert. I got into fights, I got suspended, I was in juvie. I suppose this anger was always there, just waiting for something to feed on. This dark piece of me that could keep me satisfied if I let it take over.”
Misha nodded slowly, putting the information into compartments. “So you don’t feel compassion for other people?” Though what he really wanted to know was if Grim felt it at all. If he would feel it for him.
Grim looked back after pulling off his shirt. “Sometimes. I’m not very good at it. It’s easier if I know who I don’t want to hurt. Clears my head of doubts.”
“Were you ever in love?” Misha asked, feeling like an annoying reporter for theKiller Times.
Grim laughed and pulled on his tight black longsleeve. “Yes. You?”
Misha looked through his memories, but there hadn’t been a single man but Grim to ever be considered a gentle partner. He had crushes, but they had been all fairly innocent. “No,” he mumbled and looked down to his hands. “Who were you in love with?”
Grim stood up and stretched his neck, grabbing the mask and gloves. His footsteps were loud as he walked up to the bag that stored all his weapons. It took him a long moment to speak again. “I need to focus on the job right now. You don’t want me to get killed, do you?” he asked, pinning Misha to the bed with a sharp glare. He pulled on the mask, ultimately hiding any clues Misha could read from him.
“Sorry.” Misha looked up into the empty eyes of the skull mask, but they didn’t frighten him anymore. All he saw when he looked up was the person who had saved him from Gary’s basement and the person who pinky-promised not to kill him. It had to count forsomething.
Grim shrugged and looked out into the bright lamps over the highway outside. “They’ll bring over some food later. I might be late, depending on how quick I get the guy. He hasminions.”
Misha snorted and shook his head. “Am I your minion?”
