Page 70 of His Favorite Color is Blood
Tomas squeezed his mouth shut and started backtracking, followed by Misha, who crawled slowly but made sure never to leave Tomas out of sight. He kicked the door shut, and they finally entered the living room, where Grim rushed to Tomas’s side and stuck the needle of a small syringe into his neck. Their victim's body went limp immediately, his eyes rolling back.
Misha let out a long sigh and put the safety on the gun before sagging to the floor. It was as if the energy fueling his body leaked out through a giant hole. “Are you all right?”
Grim moved his hand over his stomach. Something was stuck to the front of his shirt. “Fucker had a stun gun,” he said, wincing.
Misha moved closer on all fours, instantly alert. “Are you in pain? Do you need to go to a hospital?”
Grim scowled. “No, but there are fucking hooks in my skin.” He looked up, and for once, tension seemed to leave his body. “Help?”
“What? Show me.” Misha got close with a frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how these work. I was so scared when I saw you down.”
“That fucker was waiting for me. He must have noticed there was something fishy going on yesterday,” muttered Grim, slowly uncovering his stomach where two wires stuck out of his flesh. “At least he didn’t get me in the dick.”
Misha snorted, overcome with so much relief that he couldn’t stop laughing once he started. “Your dick is so big it’s hard to miss.” He looked at the nasty little hooks from up close and started gently pulling them out by changing the angle several times. Grim’s abs moved beneath his touch, and they were both relieved once he was done.
“Thanks,” said Grim and rolled the wires, pushing them along with the gun itself into an empty bag of crisps that he took from the sofa. “Can you cuff him?” he asked, quickly getting to his feet and out of the living room.
Misha nodded and ignored the pain in his knees when he moved back to Tomas and pulled the man’s arms behind his back.
He could hear some splashing, but the moment he was done with the handcuffs, Grim returned with the front of his black top clinging to his body. “Can’t believe he got me like that.”
“I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
Grim glanced at him, and a brief smile ghosted across his lips. “Let’s go and deal with this,” he said and pushed the wheelchair back into the corridor.
Misha followed Grim in silence, set on not complaining about his knees. There were much worse things to come tonight.
Misha’s knees stung, and there were even smudges of torn skin that he could see in the semi-darkness as Grim drove through disused grounds covered by weeds and grass with occasional patches of trees on the horizon. The solid shape of the abandoned paper factory loomed in front of them, much darker than the city-litsky. They had a man in the trunk, and Misha would be the one to end his life. Somehow, after the attack on Grim, this perspective seemed mildly less horrible.
Grim was silent for most of the drive, watching the ill-kept asphalt with holes emerging from the darkness and into the reach of their headlights. Despite the weird moment of humor back at the house, Misha’s nerves were like electricity wires, ready to spark if the wrong thing touched them. Grim had shown him the knives Misha could use during the filming, but that didn’t make him any less uncomfortable. He longed for the peace they shared at Grim’s home in the forest, for being together with Grim without the constant pressure and fear.
When they reached the open gate of the factory, Grim drove past the fence and stopped the car by the largest building on the grounds, where the production must had taken place. The moment the engine stilled, Grim leaned back in the seat and took a few deep breaths. “All right. We’re here. There’s no other vehicles.”
“And it’s a safe, secluded space, right?” Misha opened the door to have a better look.
Apart from the large hall, there was an old house that must have been built at the turn of the century and a block-like building that could have contained office spaces and common areas where the workers might have had their lunches. Right now though, it all seemed desolate. It even smelled of rot.
“Should be,” said Grim and left the car, walking around it to approach from Misha’s side.
“How long will he be out?” Misha pointed to the trunk of their car. This whole thing was surreal. How did he get here?
Grim opened the door and reached inside to pick up Misha. “We still have some time. Those tranquilizers can put a horse to sleep,” he said, pulling Misha into the air and into the safety of Grim’s embrace. Misha was quick to wrap his arms around Grim’s neck and breathed in the scent of his cologne, which at this point was like a calming potion for Misha’s agitated senses. Just a few whiffs and the heat of his lover’s body were enough to make him feel so much better.
“I do care about getting to Zero. I do want him dead,” he confessed with a heavy heart. “I just wish that didn’t entail putting you in danger.”
Grim looked at Misha, his eyes catching the moonlight as they became completely focused. “I’m in danger all the time, birdie,” he said and used his free hand to open the door to the back seat.
“But this is different. This is because of me. What are you doing?” he asked when Grim put him down on the backseat instead of reaching for the wheelchair, but Grim’s frown told him to stay still. A second later, Grim’s warm, rough fingers traced the abrasions on Misha’s knee.
“I’m so sorry. I should have noticed earlier, but I was too distracted.”
Misha looked down to the shallow wounds in surprise and glanced at his roughened palms as well. “It’s nothing. You got it much worse.”
“I should have thought about it,” insisted Grim and crouched in front of Misha, pressing his lips to Misha’s knee, his fingers skimming up the stump.
Misha went still and clenched his thighs. After all that Grim went through because of him, he was still there to care for him. “I’m scared,” he whispered, watching another tender kiss land on his dirty knee.
Grim looked up at him and sought Misha’s hand in the darkness. “Of what?”
