Page 6 of Jack of All Trades

The coffee was perfect, and Jack sipped until he neared his stop, then he gulped. The city flew by the window as he watched the people all scrambling to get to work, school, or shopping.

The dream was in the recesses of his mind. He couldn’t shake it, that image of his…well, his paws and the claws that were long and sharp as razors, cutting through the wood of that door…

He made it to the warehouse, walking up the short hill to see Maltin Graves standing outside, his normal scowl clear long before Jack got to him. “Mr. Graves, good morning.”

“Yes, fine. I need to…I need to go to the studio this morning. The warehouse will be open, but my apartment will be locked. Do not go into the warehouse for anything except to use the facilities and don’t touch any of my vehicles.”

Resisting the intense urge to roll his eyes was probably harder than the rest of the job would be. “No, sir, I won’t.”

“Good. Here is the key to the warehouse. I’ve notified all the businesses in the area against copying the key.”

Hold it in, Jack, hold it in. Don’t punch him. Do not punch him.

“I wouldn’t, sir. I’ll go get started.”

“The ladder is already set in back for you. I won’t be long. Just hand delivering my scripts because the messengers are incompetent.”

With that, he left, and Jack started around the building, finally getting how the guy had so much money to spend on all those classics.

The studios. He wrote scripts. Perfect for a recluse, someone who had a real distaste for other people. Well, it made sense.

Not that he couldn’t have inherited money too, but even so, buying all those cars, he’d have to have some more coming in to keep up his lifestyle. Another thing Jack would never have, skills like writing.

On the roof, he worked until noon, climbing up and down that long, long ladder three times alone. That was dangerous, but he’d rather fall and break his neck than ask the guy to spot him if he was still there. He walked to a convenience store and bought a bag of chips and energy drink–the effects of the coffee had worn off hours ago–and then went back to work until five, when he climbed down to find Maltin Graves waiting at the bottom.

“Are you almost finished?” Graves asked before both his feet were on solid ground.

“No, sir. I figure another week at least. I’m going as fast as I can. Maybe…I don’t know. If I had some help?”

“I’m not hiring more people to come here and get an idea of what I have inside. You’ll just have to go faster.”

Maltin Graves might be the most handsome man he’d ever seen in his life, but he wouldn’t spit on the fucker if he was on fire. Now there was an idea, setting him on fire…

“I’m going as fast as I can. If you’re not satisfied, you can fire me and get someone else.”

The way his brows rose almost to his hairline was comical, but Jack wasn’t laughing. He was too busy fuming.

The piercing glare that came when his brows righted was intense, and a bit frightening. Sure, there were laws against murder using powers, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen all the time.

Dark eyes, eyes that could draw a person in to get lost in them. He knew in that very second that if he didn’t hate the man so much, he could get lost in those eyes. But his hatred for the man burned inside him, bubbling up like a vat of acid consuming flesh and bone.

“Just get here bright and early in the morning.”

“No problem,” he spat, watching the man turn on his heel and head back to the door of the warehouse. “No problem, you prick.”

He didn’t say it loud enough for Graves to hear him, but he wanted to shout it. He wanted it to ring out and stick with the man, never to let go of him.

Instead, he left, seething with intense anger all the way home to change for his date with his other client, one that didn’t throw scowls at him. One that didn’t think he was so above Jack that he couldn’t be bothered to speak to him with anything more than disdain.

Jack supposed he should be used to it. Most of his life, he’d been fielding that attitude. At least Maltin Graves wasn’t a member of his family. Their hatred and scorn hurt much more. In fact, he didn’t know why Maltin’s bothered him at all. He was some rich fucker, living in the industrial wasteland of Valleywood, writing scripts.

Still, it ate at Jack. Ate at his gut to the point it ached like he’d swallowed razor blades.

He dressed in a black button-down shirt and his best jeans, checking himself in the mirror as his roommate, Garvey, came in from the hall. “Hey! I wanted to ask you about your temp job.”

Garvey was an omega wolf, packless, and wandering. He’d only recently come to Valleywood to try his hand at acting. So far, he’d landed an amazing part as a dishwasher to the stars at Mama Vee’s Italian restaurant, where he made just above starvation pay.

“Garvey, you know what I do. Are you ready for that? Most of the clients are men. You’re not gay, or do I have to remind you of that?”

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