Page 29 of True North
That light, careful touch gave Misha the courage he needed to step forward. The pub was full of brass and dark wood, lit by wall sconces set at regular intervals. The shifters sat at a big table that took up an entire wall near the bar, or maybe a line of smaller tables pushed together. None of them seemed to notice Misha and JT coming in, which gave Misha a chance to take stock as he approached.
Maybe twenty people sat around the table, more than Misha had hoped but fewer than he had feared. They were men and women of all ages, some dressed casually, some looking like they had come directly from a long day’s work at a law firm. One guy was wearing dirty work clothes, so Misha wasn’t even the most disheveled person in attendance. That made him feel better. The shifters he’d known growing up didn’t stand on ceremony; maybe these shifters didn’t, either.
A big, dark-haired guy with a bristly beard sitting at the head of the table saw Misha then and sat back in his chair, a gesture that drew everyone else’s attention. Twenty heads turned; twenty pairs of eyes lighted on Misha.
He froze. His stomach took a queasy roll. He should have stayed home.
JT stepped forward, ahead of Misha, letting Misha take shelter behind his body. He said some things that Misha couldn’t hear over the roar of blood pounding in his ears. The big man nodded and smiled and rose to his feet, even bigger standing up than he had looked sitting down, and came over to shake JT’s hand.
JT turned to Misha. “This is Lenny. He’s in charge.”
Lenny offered his hand to Misha. He was enormous, but Misha refused to be intimidated. Lenny was only a black bear, after all. In bear form, Misha would probably outweigh him by a lot.
Misha shook hands in a normal way, not trying to assert his dominance by attempting a crushing grip or whatever bullshit it was that men did. He managed to meet Lenny’s eyes as he said, “I’m Misha.”
Lenny clapped him on the back, hard enough that Misha staggered slightly. “Misha! Great! Come have a beer.”
Misha shot a pleading glance at JT. Surely JT would go with him and sit beside him and run interference for him. But JT held up his hands in a who-me gesture and said, “I’ll wait at the bar. Have fun.”
Misha turned to look at the long table, full of strangers who were all—still—staring at him. He should have stayed in the woods; he should never have gone into JT’s house or interacted with him at all. He had made so many mistakes in his life.
Lenny was saying something about beer. He spoke too quickly for Misha to catch everything he was saying, and he realized then the full extent to which JT had learned to slow down and use simple sentences with simple words. He could understand JT pretty well. He could hardly understand Lenny at all.
Lenny had finished. His eyebrows were raised, waiting for Misha to respond. Misha swallowed and told himself to stop being such a frightened infant and said, “Please, slower.”
“Oh,” Lenny said. “Right. Sorry. Okay. What beer do you like?”
Easy enough. “Moosehead,” Misha said: better than Molson or Labatt, and usually available. He’d settled on Moosehead in Toronto, the times he went out drinking with coworkers or Alyosha, and it seemed like a safe bet now.
Lenny grinned, so at least he didn’t disapprove. “Great. Moosehead. Coming right up.”
Beer in hand, Misha reluctantly sat where Lenny directed him, an empty seat near one corner of the table. The people on either side of him scooted their chairs to make room. On his left sat a man with a goatee wearing a baseball cap with a sports logo Misha didn’t recognize. On his right was a young woman, maybe still a teenager, wearing a purple headband in her dark hair. Misha bobbed his head awkwardly to each of them in turn and then sat hunched over his beer, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
Back in his seat at the head of the table, Lenny gestured to Misha with a big, open-handed sweep of his arm. “This is Misha.” Misha expected some further introduction to ensue, but instead Lenny simply said, “Okay, where were we?”
Misha’s shoulders slowly unknotted as the conversation moved on without anyone expecting him to say anything. He had been dreading an evening in the spotlight, trying to cobble sentences together while everyone stared at him, being forced to answer questions he didn’t want or know how to answer. Instead, to his surprise and relief, his presence at the meeting seemed to be a complete non-issue.
As his anxiety faded, he began to listen to the discussion. He found it easiest to understand English when he sort of… relaxed his brain and didn’t try too hard to translate. If he let the words wash over him, he could get the gist. The shifters were talking about an upcoming party—a cookout, Misha was pretty sure. They were trying to decide on a date. It was such a prosaic topic that Misha nearly laughed aloud when he realized what was going on. He had expected important political maneuverings of some nature, but maybe this was what passed for important in a small place like this. And really, what was more important than spending time with friends and family? Misha would be lucky to lead a peaceful life of cookouts and community.
He had, once. He’d given it up, and for what? Some dream of a different life, a different place where he could touch as many dicks as he wanted to. Because that was the whole reason, wasn’t it? That was why he had left Russia, and that was why he’d gotten himself into trouble in Toronto, the kind of trouble he couldn’t ever get back out of. Because he was horny. Because he wanted things that had brought him nothing but grief.
He took a dispirited sip of his beer. He didn’t even like Moosehead all that much.
“Hey.” The black-haired girl beside him gently bumped her elbow against Misha’s. “Are you okay?”
Oh, god. Was he visibly having a meltdown? What a charming first impression he must be making. He forced himself to straighten up and smile, and hoped it looked genuine. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
She held out her hand. “I’m Hannah.”
A quick glance around the table reassured Misha that there were enough side conversations going on that their quiet voices wouldn’t cause any disruption. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, proud of himself for remembering the phrase.
She grinned at him. “Hey, your English is really good!” she exclaimed, and then launched into a long sentence spoken way too quickly for Misha to follow.
“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “I don’t…”
“No, my fault. Lenny said we shouldn’t,” and then he lost the thread again. People talked so quickly, they used idioms he didn’t know, and they slurred their speech, one word sliding into the next like an avalanche traveling down a mountainside.Ekspekyoota, and how many words was that? One? Four? He wanted to be home with JT, who paused slightly between each word, giving Misha’s brain a chance to catch up.
He took another sip of his Moosehead for fortification. “Could you… more slow, please?”