Page 67 of His Favorite Color is Blood
“Yeah, but it’s just Milk. Something’s off,” Grim said and stuffed the wheelchair into the car, jumping into the driver’s seat as if the asphalt were burning his feet.
Misha looked out of the window as they left and didn’t question Grim anymore.
Grim drove into the parking lot by the club-owned garage with the squeak of tires. Misha was silent again, but Grim didn’t even bother with putting on some music, as his brain was the source of enough noise. Getting out of the metal box was both a relief and yet another reason for anger. Milk would be here tonight, and he’d have some explaining to do.
“I’ll be fine, just get it close,” Misha said as Grim went to get his wheelchair on autopilot, even though his brain was still going over what had happened.
He put the wheelchair next to Misha when Milk’s blond head appeared in the doorway leading to the garage backrooms. Grim rushed toward him, trying to keep his hands low as he approached. The moment Milk saw him, he walked up to him as well.
“How’d it go?” Milk loud-whispered with his eyes wide, but the moment heat exploded in the depths of Grim’s chest, he grabbed Milk by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall.
“You gave me the wrong guy!”
“What? No. I checked the address a few times. Show it to me. Did you hurt someone innocent?” Milk asked frantically as Misha wheeled closer.
Grim pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of his jean pocket and pushed it into Milk’s hand. “Of course not, but I could have, and the guy’s already in a wheelchair.”
Milk looked down at the paper and then stared up at Grim with that dumbfounded expression. “That must be him. He’s in a wheelchair.”
Grim took a deep breath that didn’t seem to fill his lungs well enough anyway. He let go of Milk. “No way ...”
Milk frowned. “They’re kids. He didn’t exactly need to chase them down or lock them in a basement.”
Grim swallowed hard, staring at him with a heaviness spreading in his limbs. “But ... he’s defenseless,” he whispered.
Milk spread his arms. “So it should have been easy to deal with him! What the fuck? I stuck out my neck to get this for you.”
The squeak of wheels was an insistent presence behind Grim, and all he could focus on was the grating feeling of failure and the thought he’d have to hurt someone like Misha.
He gave Milk a slow nod and pushed back his hair, turning away from him only to see Misha moving back and forth in his wheelchair. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered and slowly made his way toward the clubhouse.
By the sound of it, Misha didn’t follow, so Grim looked back to see what was going on with him. “We’re going.”
Misha stopped riding around the yard, only to resume after a few seconds and roll the wheelchair Grim’s way. He didn’t say a word as he passed Grim, and his hair obscured his eyes.
Grim stuffed his hands down his pockets and watched Misha trying to get inside through the door. Grim eventually pulled it open and gestured for him to enter. Misha looked around the empty lounge, cautious as if he were on enemy ground.
“Is that the only reason why you thought it wasn’t him? Because he was disabled?” he asked quietly and groaned as soon as he wheeled over to the steep stairs to the second floor. He muttered some curse words under his breath.
Grim smirked. No matter how angry Misha was, he still needed Grim’s help. But the question hung in the air like toxic gas, making Grim’s stomach flip. “Do you want to tell me something?”
Misha punched the wall.
Grim leaned against it and stared at Misha without a word.
“I was so stressed about this. Being in a wheelchair doesn’t make him a good guy,” Misha groaned and crossed his arms on his chest, pretending there were no stairs he needed to conquer.
Grim swallowed hard. “I ... don’t do this kind of stuff. He’s weak. He can’t defend himself. Like a bird with broken wings can’t get away from a cat.”
Misha looked up the stairs and then back at Grim. “The less challenge the better. This isn’t about you having fun. We need to get this guy to save Dennis. And he’s a child molester, for fuck’s sake!”
“Maybe you should have stabbed him then, if you think it’s so fucking easy!” hissed Grim, folding his arms.
“Maybe I would have if I wasn’t counting on you. Why don’t you install knives in my wheelchair? That would make things so much easier.”
Grim frowned, and all of a sudden, he could see many places that could be used for hiding weapons so that Misha would always be safe, even without Grim around.
“So what? If you find out Zero has a peg leg, you won’t kill him anymore?” Misha grumbled.
