Page 29 of His Favorite Color is Blood
Grim smiled and approached the house, stopping next to a pickup truck parked in front of it. The building was in poor shape, with paint cracking off the wooden siding and a broken banister at the porch, but he could see the reflection of a television screen in the window. A lot of green and moving dots. Someone was watching sports.
“Wait for me here,” said Grim and pulled out his mask. He tossed some talc inside it back at the truck, so he didn’t have thatmuch trouble putting it on.
Misha nodded and didn’t waste time, donning his own as well. His heart began drumming in his chest in anticipation. Could he handle this? What the hell was he doing out here? This was crazy.
He followed Grim’s lead and put on his new leather gloves, but before he could voice any concern, Grim leaned close and kissed him gently. It was like a flame suddenly appearing in the cool air.
“Give me five minutes.”
Misha was so focused on the unexpected touch that he unconsciously followed Grim’s lips when he pulled away.
“I’ll be okay,” he muttered as soon as he composed himself. He didn’t want to be an anchor at Grim’s feet.
Grim nodded and opened the bag in Misha’s lap. He took two guns and put them into shoulder holsters before walking off into the night. Misha watched Grim’s silhouette, hypnotized by the sway of Grim’s shoulders. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny the intensity of the connection they’d forged in less than three days. Would he have felt the same way about anyone who saved him from Gary’s basement? Somehow, he doubted it.
He pulled out his new prized possession, the Ruger, and when he held it, despite only having an hour or two of practice with it, he felt as if he could withstand even the toughest onslaught of bullets and take out enemies one by one. The shadows around him kept at a distance, and he wasn’t very afraid, too focused on watching the light in the window. Would it go out? Would someone scream? Would there be gunshots?
A muted yell came as a surprise, even though he anticipated hearingsomething. For a moment, the reflection of the television disappeared, and he couldn’t hear any more noise as he stared into the darkness and waited. Grim must have silenced his target, because if there were a struggle, Misha would hear more screams.
He was in the middle of nowhere with a biker assassin, and yet, he still felt more protected here than he ever had in the fake safety of his nightmarish room. He could breathe out here. He wasn’t sentenced to follow every whim of a man who took away his freedom and could sell him off any day he got bored of him. At least if he died here, in the outside world, he’d have a chance to fight.
He gasped when the front door opened, and Grim appeared on the porch, waving at Misha as if nothing happened. “It’s all ready for you,” he said, walking over casually.
Misha put the gun in his lap and wheeled forward, though it was hard to keep steady on the uneven ground. He would soon find out what was going on, but now that he approached the house, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
“What’s that face?” asked Grim, who must have noticed Misha’s hesitation.
“It’s a mask, not a face,” Misha answered sternly, but there was no way he could get up the two steps to the porch. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He had a gun and a baseball bat, but couldn’t go up a flight of stairs.
Grim leaned down, offering his arms. “Damn, you’re right. I have such a smart sidekick.”
Misha grinned and let Grim sit him on the intact part of the railing. “I’m the brains.”
“But are you also the one with guts?” asked Grim, helping Misha into the chair as soon as he pulled it up.ThatMisha wasn’t sure of.
The voice of a sports commentator was loud as he talked about the game that was still playing on the television in the background. The changing colors reflected on the wall beyond the wide open door of a house to which they clearly came uninvited. It was so surreal.
“Maybe,” Misha said and slowly wheeled inside, wary of what he would find inside, yet certain Grim had cleared the way for him. The house smelled of burnt food and had yellowed photos hanging on the walls, but the sofa he could see in the living room was modern, made of leather, and it housed a big pizza box.
The baseball bat burned his knees as he entered, but the sight of a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at him from above a patch of grey tape wrapped around a bushy blond beard startled him. Misha was taken aback until he recognized the broad nose and his mind filled in the gaps on that face. It was the guy who tried to bully them at that mall after they bought the wheelchair!
There must have been some recognition in the guy’s brain, because he started to mumble something behind the tape. Misha’s breath sped up.
“My surprise …” Misha whispered, surprised and yet oddly appreciative. Grim must have felt bad about not being able to show the damn homophobe his place back at the mall, but he hadn’t forgotten that the bastard had hurt Misha’s feelings. Now that he could actually take revenge on the asshole, he wasn’t sure where to start.
Grim closed the door and walked into the living room. The black clothes hugged his body in all the right places, and he seemed even more handsome ashe moved around, looking at a collection of miniature cars displayed on several narrow shelves. He put his hand at the edge of the first one and moved his fingers over the smooth surface, sending every item to the floor. The tiny windshields screamed as they broke, and their captive moaned, pushing back against the chair he was fastened to with even more tape.
Witnessing Grim so casually damaging property gave Misha the courage he needed, and he looked back to the man, squeezing his hand on the bat. His veins were filled with heat. For once, he was the one with power. “So, you think it’s all right to call someone with amputations ‘Stumpy’?” As soon as he said those words, so much anger bubbled up in his chest that he turned around and swung the bat, straight into the middle of the flat-screen TV.
A loud, muffled scream resonated behind Misha’s back, but as the first hit didn’t do that much damage, he smashed the bat against the television at full force. The screen dented, and the images dissolved into colorful rows around the dip in its surface, but Misha wasn’t done yet. He swung the bat again and again, powered by an energy that exploded in his chest. He wouldn’t leave a single place on that damn TV untouched!
The sportscaster went silent.
“You’re turning to the dark side,” said Grim with a loud laugh as he approached, touching the upper corner of the television. “I like it.”
Misha growled and gave the remains of the screen one more smack. “The hell I am! Fuck this! Why am I always the one supposed to take shit from everyone?” He turned toward the man strapped to the chair and bared his teeth. “You hear me? You have no right to say that kind of trash to me.” He wheeled closer and pushed the bat against the man’s chest. It dented slightly as the man tried to get away, making little pleading sounds as he did so, but if he could be a dick to people, so could Misha.
The man’s eyes went wider as he looked at something behind Misha’s back, and a split second later, something thudded in the background. “I hope you have insurance, Pat,” said Grim, and as Misha looked back, he saw the television lying on the floor.
