Page 20 of Black and Brown

But it’d become second nature for Mirage to disguise those feelings.

“I’m over this cafeteria food, but if I don’t eat it, I’ll starve. It’s either this underseasoned shit or the microwave meals from my grocery orders.”

Mirage set his tray of meatloaf and green beans on the table. He wanted to slam it but refrained from what would’ve been considered an impossible outburst for him to display.

“I’m a grown-ass man. I should be able to go out and eat what the hell I want. Fuck, at least have a real pizza delivered.”

Grace cut his eyes at him for a second, then went back to reading his daily delivery of The Washington Post.

At least his partner joined him for most meals now instead of lurking in the dark like before, although Grace rarely ate.

He stayed quiet while he read one of the eight newspapers he had delivered each day.

Mirage sometimes wanted to ask Grace what frozen meals he made for himself.

They must be good because he was never as ravenous as Mirage.

Grace would drink a cup of black coffee or juice in the morning. And on rare occasions, he’d indulge in a chef salad and a glass of unsweetened tea in the evening.

Mirage didn’t frown, but he was curious.

How does he maintain all that muscle and never eat?

The serums that enhanced their physical strength added some bulk but didn’t prohibit them from needing daily sustenance to maintain their heightened energy.

Mirage swallowed his last bite of the blandest apple pie in the world—was there a shortage of brown sugar in DC or something? Grace closed his paper and stood as if indicating he’d been waiting long enough.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Grace? Spectre said for us to chill until he called for us. They must be working on new simulations.” Mirage lowered his hood and stood to leave. “I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll see you—”

Grace slammed his paper down, his lips thinning into a tight line.

What the fuckin’ fuck now?

Grace crowded him until he was inches from him, and the scent of warm vanilla musk and earthy leather invaded Mirage’s senses.

He wanted to close his eyes and take deep inhales, but he kept his expression neutral.

He sighed, appearing unfazed at the determination in Grace’s dark eyes before interpreting the message he was relaying.

“All right…let’s go,” Mirage muttered.

Grace

Grace didn’t stop his long strides, although he heard Mirage’s multiple sighs behind him.

He walked so close to him that it was impossible not to.

Grace shoved open the door to the gun range hard enough for the knob to punch a hole in the wall and beelined to the array of handguns.

Mirage grabbed a pair of protective earmuffs before selecting a VP9 handgun, though Grace knew it wouldn’t be long before his partner moved to the cork boards to throw some knives and maybe an axe or two.

After an hour of Grace switching from handguns to rifles, ending with a Mossberg shotgun, Mirage inched in close behind him.

In response, Grace pulled back one earmuff while he reloaded.

“You’re angry…why?”

His partner’s warm breath sent chills down his spine. If he were capable of feeling pleasure, he imagined that heat would spread lower.