Chapter 17
Misha
They drove down the highway 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 was very easy,” 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’t clumsy. 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.
“What did you call me?” asked Grim, and right next to Misha, his hand caressed the handle of a knife he wore on his hip.
The prospect seemed a bit lost without the support of his friends that he clearly expected. One of the men even shook his head at him, mouthing something akin to “you just fucking had to.”
The prospect spread his arms, his pale face getting red. “I mean … just sayin’ it like it is. ”
“If you don’t know any better, maybe you should spend some time with Grim,” suggested a biker with a mohawk haircut and a scar around the eye.
Grim’s fingers curled as he wordlessly called the offending youth over.
The prospect looked at Spike as he took a step closer to Grim. “Prez?”
Spike narrowed his eyes and pushed him forward. “Do as you’re told, Prospect.”
The prospect stood in front of Grim, and on one hand, Misha didn’t envy him the fear that he could read out of the man’s tense muscles, yet on the other, at least the idiot would be punished for his hateful words. Grim came here to do a job for the guy’s club, and this was the welcome he was getting?
“All I’m saying is, I’m not gay,” the prospect grumbled.
“See? You’re learning already,” said Grim, and then his arms suddenly moved, quick and proficient at grabbing his prey. Misha couldn’t exactly see what happened with the men obscuring the view, but there was a loud crack, and the prospect yelled in terror, stumbling out of Grim’s arms with his hands clenched on the bottom part of his face.
“Next time, apologize ,” said Grim. “Magic words keep the pain at bay.”
Spike didn’t spare the prospect much attention, but he clapped his hands and invited Grim inside with a gesture. “Now that’s done, let’s get down to business.”
Grim grabbed the handles of Misha’s wheelchair and casually pushed him toward the entrance. One of the bikers yanked at the back of the prospect’s vest and hauled him in another direction, but judging from the lack of intervention, everyone seemed to think Grim’s actions were just. And looking at those men—at the tattooed bodies, muscles, and stern faces—Misha assumed Grim couldn’t have had it easy as an openly gay man. There were things he needed to do to keep those macho guys respecting him.
Inside was a large room with several beat-up sofas, a collection of alcohol in a tall bookcase, and a billiard table. The old carpet covering the floor stank of dust and piss. Misha wasn’t happy that the wheels of his chair had to roll over it, but then again, his wheelchair had seen worse.
“Is he, like, a mail order husband?” One of the older guys snorted and elbowed Grim.
Grim frowned. “Just because he’s Russian? No. We met in Louisiana.”
Spike’s eyes swept over Misha, and it was the first time any of the bikers met his gaze. He was talked about as if he were a chair, yet completely invisible. “You wanna stick around here, or go to one of the guest rooms? Grim told me you’re staying the night.” From his tone, Misha sensed Spike was trying to be nice but would be uncomfortable if Misha stayed in the lounge. That was all right. Misha didn’t want to stay with them either. He wanted a room that locked from the inside .
Grim leaned down and looked into Misha’s face. “What do you think? I need to talk to them about old times and the job. How about you get some sleep?”
Misha nodded with more eagerness than he wanted to express. “But you’ll come over before you leave?” he asked, painfully aware of everyone listening.
“Sure. I need to reconnect with the guys and get some intel,” said Grim. It didn’t escape Misha’s attention that the bikers communicated without words when Grim mentioned a “job.” Clearly, any details were not for the ears of an outsider.
Misha gave Grim’s hand a squeeze and nodded again, even though a flush emerged on his face. Maybe he shouldn’t be freely expressing any tenderness, but with a protector like Grim, he was not afraid to have any hateful words thrown his way.
No matter how many episodes of Wife Wars Misha watched on the small TV in the guest room, one of the last words Grim had for him in the truck wouldn’t leave his mind and came back like a boomerang.
“I think I might be a psychopath.”
What did Grim mean exactly? Was this yet another clue for Misha that getting involved with him was a big mistake and he should be working toward independence instead of falling into Grim’s arms day after day? Was it even smart to plan a future with someone who killed for a living in the first place? That was what Grim did after all. Rode all around the country to do dirty jobs for different chapters of the Coffin Nails MC. And he confessed to having a history of aggressive behavior on top of that. What if his fists turned on Misha one day?
That last question was blurry even in Misha’s head. It was the rational part of his brain trying to pick a fight with his heart. So far, Grim had proven time and time again how much he would sacrifice for Misha. But was it because he actually had feelings for him, or was it because Misha was the perfect sexual outlet for Grim’s fetish?
He dropped the remote when the door opened, and Grim let himself in, carrying two of their bags. He grinned and dropped them on the mattress before pushing Misha on the bed and rolling over next to him. “You look so bored.”
Misha took a deep breath of Grim-scented air, as overwhelmed by his presence as he always was. “Me? Not at all. Debbie was just telling Kathy that her children are spoiled hippies. Great stuff.”
Grim laughed and kissed Misha’s hand, staring into his eyes. “You must be really bored to watch this kind of shit.”
“I kinda like trash TV. It’s this noise in my brain that helps me from thinking too much and going crazy.” When Misha looked at Grim, all he could see was the guy who saved him, the guy who helped him learn a handstand, and the guy who gave him great orgasms. It was hard now to focus on the thoughts that occupied him for the past few hours.
“You don’t look like your friends,” he said in the end.
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 be who 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’t deserve 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 the Killer 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 for something.
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 has minions .”
Misha snorted and shook his head. “Am I your minion?”
Grim walked up to Misha, grabbing him, not too gently, by the jaw. “No. You, my pretty birdie, are my property.”
Misha’s breath hitched, and all of a sudden, he didn’t know if his cage was still open or not, yet he knew he was too afraid to check the lock. He ran his thumb over Grim’s lips. “I’ll be waiting.”
The mask’s insect-like eyes betrayed nothing, but Grim opened his mouth and gently bit on the finger. “Sweet dreams, baby,” he said and walked out of the room, leaving Misha confused.
Despite all of Grim’s dark insides revealed, Misha still worried more about Grim getting back safely than about the fate of the poor fucker who would end up under Grim’s knife. After all, this was bound to be someone who was involved in criminal activity one way or another. And Grim was the best at what he did. The respect he was treated with spoke volumes about his skill.
And yet, as Misha lay in bed and continued watching the Wife Wars marathon, he kept missing details as his thoughts trailed to Grim, who left without a single person for backup. Not even a sniper to cover him. To Grim, who claimed to have loved before yet wouldn’t say whom. If he really was a psychopath, maybe he just knew that telling Misha about being capable of love would make him more likeable? Maybe he was playing with Misha’s feelings, all to get the kind of sex he craved with a willing amputee, who would stay with him for as long as he wanted.
Misha once had Gary order him a book about psychopaths, simply because he thought it could potentially help him deal with all the shit he needed to live with, and if the book was right, Grim’s intelligence could make it easy for him to outwit Misha. Thirsty for affection as he was, Misha would be easy prey for a psychopath, one that would crawl into a web of lies and never break free again.
No amount of adoration could be the same as being loved. No amount of great sex could be the same as real feelings of care and affection. Misha would always feel the undercurrent of fear that Grim could leave him at the drop of a hat if he got bored. No promise was truly unbreakable.
A knock on the door pulled him out of his dark thoughts, and he quickly switched off the sound of the TV, watching the door as if it were holding back a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. He reminded himself of what Grim said, and in the end, asked the stranger to come in.
The man with the mohawk and the scar underneath his eye peeked inside, chewing gum loudly enough for Misha to hear from the bed. “Is Logan still in the clubhouse?”
Misha stared, his brain unable to compute what he realized his heart already knew. “N-no. He’s gone.”
And just like that, he knew who Grim had been in love with, and he knew from the tender way Grim had talked about Coy, their love had been true. Grim wasn’t some complete psycho trying to toy with Misha for his sick pleasure. There was something broken in Grim too, but a broken heart was still a heart.