Page 3 of Jack of All Trades

When he stepped into the loft apartment, he couldn’t help but stare. He’d been to nice homes before, even into the homes of a few famous men in the city. This place, however, had them all beat.

As much as the rows of cars had been a surprise hidden in the old warehouse, Maltin Graves's home was even more of a surprise. It was a modern, sleek, industrially designed home that felt both warm and rich at once.

It was a big, open space. Long couches made of steel pipe and wood frames held brown leather cushions, long beige and black rugs under them, and shining wood end and coffee tables. Off tothe right sat a long dining table made of shining barn wood and steel girders.

The kitchen was tucked under the loft within a loft bedroom that sat above it all. To reach it, a metal twisting staircase was on the side of the kitchen wall.

The walls were concrete on the sides, and the entire back was whitewashed old brick. The huge and paned windows in the back and the side facing away from the street let in light to allow his many plants to grow.

“This place is so beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said curtly again as he strode to a desk at the end of the living area. It was little more than a tall table on steel legs. He wrote out a check and handed it to him. “Here is the money to obtain the materials you’ll need. The home goods store knows you’re coming, and they’ll report to me if you get anything that won’t be needed. They’ll credit me if any money is left.”

Jack stared at him as he took the check. “I’m not a thief.”

“No offense, but I’ve heard that in the past.”

“Not from me. I don’t steal.”

Graves’ eyes moved up his face until they reached Jack’s eyes, and there was a flash of red that made Jack move back a step. “As I said. No offense.”

Jack was caught in that gaze, pulled in like some sci-fi movie with a tractor beam pulling him off the planet and into a spaceship.

Into the gaze, he was taken, a lick of flames showing around the frame of his vision, like Maltin Graves was setting the world afire.

It was gone as quickly as it came, and Jack shook his head to clear it.

“Do you have a truck?”

It took him a moment to regain himself from the strange vision, but once he did, he croaked, “No. I don’t.”

“There’s one on the northern side of the building you can use. I expect it to be returned in the same condition it was taken.” Graves grabbed a set of keys from the desk, holding them out to Jack.

Jack laid his flat hand out, and the keys were dropped into his palm. And, with that, he was dismissed without another word.

Keeping his composure wasn’t easy. Over the four years since leaving his family, his temper had snapped at the worst times, making it hard to control it. The older he got, the less patience he had, which wasn’t great for his current profession.

He left before he could say anything that would get him fired, not only from his present job but future ones. Colin had warned him he was on his last chance, and he didn’t know where else he’d work.

Sure, there were always studio jobs, but between background checks and security bonds, he was afraid he’d be discovered. It’s not like anyone would cast him out of town if they found out he wasn’t a witch. But the stench of it…the embarrassment of it. It was too much for him. Besides, those jobs always went to folks who knew the right people.

No, he had to content himself with fixing roofs and sucking dick.

The truck obviously wasn’t one of the prized vehicles kept in the warehouse. It was a simple pickup with a long bed and a crew cab. He got in and started the engine, letting it warm up a minute or two so the heat would come on before he started the trip. His fingers were freezing, so he rubbed his hands together while he waited for the cold air to stop and the warm air to come through the vent.

A rap on the side window made him jump and yell. His head spun to see Graves standing on the other side of the door, his scowl tainting his overly pretty face.

After rolling down the window, Jack asked, “Did you forget something?”

“No. Why are you just sitting here, wasting all my gasoline?”

The warm air had just started coming through the vents, but having the window down killed that warmth. Not to mention, the man’s cold, dark eyes glaring at him froze him to the bone. “Sorry, I was just warming it up.”

“Fuel-injected cars do not need to be warmed.”

He was not up for arguing that he, in fact, did need to be warmed; he simply apologized. “Sorry, sir. I’ll leave right now.”

“Make sure you do,” he said, then, in a flourish, left without another word.

---