Page 48 of His Favorite Color is Blood
He nodded, not willing to waste Grim’s time with his hangups.
Chapter 17
Misha
They drove down thehighway between lovely forested hills and a river, and Misha was increasingly agitated at the thought of not being invited into Grim’s world. It was almost as if he were some kind of mafia arm candy. Only without any legs, gay, and not in the actual mafia.
“So how did you get into the motorcycle club in the first place?” he asked, unable to settle in his seat. The prospect of meeting more people was so sudden he had to focus on some other topic in order to keep calm for Grim’s sake.
Grim shrugged. “I was in prison for theft, and I met a guy there who was a member. We hit it off, and he sponsored me when I wanted to be a prospect for the club.” For a few moments, he was silent, but then a smile emerged on his handsome face. “I don’t have any family left, you know. I was alone in the world until I became a Coffin Nail. I was finally part of something bigger. For Thanksgiving, or Christmas, I know there will be a place for me at someone’s table. I know that if I’m in trouble, my brothers will have my back.”
Misha looked at Grim, struck by the straightforward tone. He was sure the answer to his next question wouldn’t be as easy. “And your actual job for the club? Was it easy for you to start doing what you do?”
Grim chewed on his lip. “No. It wasveryeasy,” he said in the end. “I’ve always been aggressive. The club gave me a way to channel that part of myself.”
“So you think this is something … you were born with?”
“Would you hate that?”
Misha frowned and took his time to think before answering. “Not as long as you control it. I suppose it’s a bit like a superpower. Could be used for good.”
“I think I might be a psychopath,” said Grim.
Misha’s lips parted, and he stared, unsure what to say to that. Grim slowed down the truck, and just as he pulled off the road, Misha noticed a compound of grey concrete with the name of Grim’s club over the entrance. He drove past it and toward the closed gate in a tall metal fence with spikes on top.
A black-haired, scruffy-looking guy in a black leather vest jogged over to the gate, and after having a long, hard look at the truck, started opening it up. He gave Grim a short wave. Misha wanted to keep calm, as there was no danger, but the sole presence of people he didn’t know put him on edge.
Grim drove into a courtyard that housed a few cars and a whole swarm of bikes. The building on the other side of the yard had several gates, and it looked like some sort of garage. Grim didn’t bother to drive over there and stopped the truck by the fence.
“I’ll get your wheels first,” he said and jumped out of the cab.
Misha gave him a short nod, watching big men in leather cuts pour out of the grey brick-like building. He took the longer pants and pinned them with safety pins, so his stumps weren’t on show, but that didn’t help him feel less vulnerable with the possibility of strangers scrutinizing him. And those men seemed so tough too, with tattoos peeking out from beneath clothing and mean-looking faces.
One of them, a man with a grey beard and a potbelly, came up to Grim and patted him on the back. “Good to see you back in this part of the woods.”
“It’s good to be home, Spike,” said Grim and pulled the man into a hug before exchanging similar greetings with several other people. Each second away from Grim, away from the wheelchair, was pushing Misha closer to the edge of panic, and he breathed a firm sigh of relief when Grim hopped onto the bed of the truck and returned carrying the wheelchair.
Spike followed Grim and looked up at Misha as if he were a new set of rims on Grim’s wheels. “I was wondering why you came in this big box.” He patted the truck.
For the first time in such a long time, Misha was self-conscious when Grim took him into his arms to help him out of the cab. All the other bikers were staring at the scene like spectators in a zoo, and he was getting out of breath.
Grim sat Misha in the wheelchair with so much care, it was as if he thought Misha could break any second in his clumsy man-hands that Misha knew weren’tclumsy. When their eyes met, Grim nodded and winked at Misha before stretching to look at his brothers in arms. But immediately afterward, he said something that froze the blood in Misha’s veins.
“Guys, this is Misha, my property,” he said, tickling Misha’s nape.
Misha blinked a few times, unsure what to say, so he cuddled up in Grim’s big black hoodie, which had lately become his favorite safety blanket. That was an unexpected way to be introduced, especially since some of the guys’ faces expressed a similar queasiness to the one he felt inside. Did Grim just tell them he was his prisoner? It could be for his protection, but after literally being property for the last five years of his life, Misha couldn’t help the stinging in his eyes and the dull thud of his heart.
Misha cleared his throat. “Property?” He wouldn’t wait to clear this up until they were alone.
Grim looked down at him, and a bright smile lit up his face. “Oh, that just means that if anyone touches you, I’m gonna rip his throat out and stick it up his ass.”
Despite the cold fear that gripped him seconds ago, Misha bit back a smile and nodded. He could live with that.
Spike frowned and ran his fingers through his grey hair. “I don’t think there will be need for that.”
One of the other bikers crossed his arms on his chest. “Yeah, no fags here.”
Grim’s face turned toward the guy, who looked the youngest of them all with a few red pimples on his forehead, and at the front of his cut was just one patch. After all the conversations he’d had with Grim in the recent weeks, Misha had a vague understanding that “prospect” stood for a candidate for a full membership in a biker club. Spike stepped away from the guy with a low sigh and rolled his eyes.
