2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The wind calmed an hour after he got on the roof and started the job. Thankfully, Jack saw little of Graves. The problem was, he’d have to converse with the asshole. The job was bigger than he first thought. Sure, the hole wasn’t huge, but the snow caused hidden and bigger structural issues that he’d have to fix, or else the entire thing would cave in on his precious cars.

After the sun fell, he climbed down the ladder carefully, wondering if Graves wanted Jack to tell him he was leaving or not, but he figured he’d better give him a heads up on the extra work that was needed.

Once he was in the warehouse, he walked steadily but slowly so he could get a better look at the cars and trucks. There was an old ’55 GMC pickup painted sun yellow. The chrome was shining like it had seven spotlights on it. He wanted to touch it, but knew Graves would know, probably sensing fingerprints.

Speaking of sensing things, he wondered if Graves was a supe. He looked to be only around thirty, so he either came from money or his career had taken off early to give him the means for all the classic cars. One alone was over a hundred grand, but all of them, there had to be millions of dollars on rubber in that warehouse.

Up the stairs and to the double doors where he knocked, though the metal hurt his knuckles. When Graves opened, his scowl was evident again. “Yes?”

“It’s too dark to work, so I’ll be back tomorrow, but…I hate to tell you, more needs done than just the hole. Most of the roof needs to be fixed.”

He glared like he hated Jack, but that glowing red was there again. That kind of glare reminded him of his family when they were ready to throw a hex at someone. Suddenly, thinking Graves was a witch made Jack uneasy.

“If I find that you tore it up to keep working, I’ll…” He seemed to think better of the threat. “Just do what you need to,” he said, before slamming the door with a heavy thud.

“Well, okay then,” he said between gritted teeth. “Thanks so much, and I’ll be back bright and early,” he said sarcastically to the metal door.

Home was a studio apartment with two sets of bunk beds for the occupants. His bunk was the top one next to the only window in the place, and he spent an hour staring out of it once he was back. His roommates were gone, off on dates or respective jobs. It was rare that he was alone in the studio, but for some reason, that evening, he hated it.

The place was too quiet. It allowed random thoughts to move through his head. Jobs, men, hopes and dreams that he had no prospects of reaching. No actual goals had ever come to him, mostly because he didn’t have faith they’d ever be reached.

He was all looks. Sure, he was handsome. He had those blond good looks that he’d seen in movie stars and models. He kept up his appearance by working out daily, and walking everywhere didn’t hurt, well, except his feet.

Depressed, Jack stared out of the window that needed a good cleaning to see the city.

Growing into a love/hate feeling for the city was possibly the worst of it. Yes, he loved the city because he could disappear and become invisible.

The skyline was nothing but a shadow with the lights on in the thousand windows making it seem like the sky had fallen, but the stars refused not to shine. Behind each of those lights lay people of every kind, and most likely, people who had real powers.

If he was powerful, like his family, he’d have millions of dollars and he’d tell men like Maltin Graves exactly where he could shove his shitty…beautiful face.

Pouting like a kid, Jack stared off at the skyline until his eyelids were so heavy they fell and led him into a sleep that was filled with nightmarish images.

That was the thing. Jack rarely dreamed. At least, he didn’t remember them if he had them. This was one he’d never in his life forget.

Through a fog, he walked deep in some forest with trees that towered over the world. It was night and the cool wind blew through the fog, stirring it like someone would walk through any second. The swirls of the fog were ominous, but he didn’t feel fear. Not exactly.

At least, not his own fear.

A growl sounded in the night, and he looked around for the source. All he saw, however, was that damn fog and those towering trees. There were no animals in that forest, no flap of wings, no scurrying of rodents. Only the fog and that was silent.

The crunching of leaves was under his feet. The growling was so close, like he could almost feel the hot breath of whatever made it on his neck. A house came into view, a small cottage in a clearing with a wooden picket fence that had long ago lost its whitewash, and the gate hung open and off its hinges.

That was where Jack was headed. He was sure of it. A dim light showed in one window that became apparent the closer Jack got to the cottage. Someone was home. That made his heart pound, and the growling grew louder, drowning out the thumping of his heart. So close…

The house was there in front of him, and he moved faster to the rounded wooden door with the tiny window, for the occupant to look out of and see who could be visiting.

To the door he went, but once there, instead of knocking, he raised what he thought was a hand, but it wasn’t. And instead of knocking, he scratched. With his claws.

One long swipe of those claws on the wood dug deep grooves in the wood and from inside of the cottage, a scream came, a desperate sound of sorrow and pain. It was that scream he heard as he woke, covered in sweat, a scream of his own caught in his throat.

He looked out of the window to see the same scene he’d fallen to sleep to and the night skyline and the twinkling stars of the city buildings.

Chest heaving with his panting breaths, he slid to the floor and padded to the bathroom, closing the door quietly.

In the mirror, he was shocked to see how pale he was, eyes reddened in fear. Jack looked at his hands, stared at them, wondering what the hell the dream was trying to tell him.

Not that he’d ever had a premonition before, but those in his family had. They spent time over their breakfast each morning, analyzing their dreams, picking apart every part of them for hidden meaning.

Sitting on the lid of the toilet, Jack continued to stare at his hands, the dream still thick in his memory. A gentle snore came from the other room, and Jack recalled the growl. It was at that moment he realized it was him. He’d made the growling sound in the dream.

Jack was sure his family would spend hours going over the details of that dream. Wishing he could call them, ask them to tell him what it could mean, how to help him. That, however, would not happen. It would give them false hope that his powers were coming in at long last.

If only he could believe that, but that wasn’t the way it felt. There was something dark in him, and he’d suspected that for years. Dark, menacing, but powerless, that’s how he’d felt for most of his life.

When he got back in bed, his phone vibrated, and he checked to see he had a message from one of his regulars.

Looking forward to seeing you tonight.

A client, sex, transactional sex. That was what his life had become. Jack thought crazily that at least his family had given him good looks to barter on even if he hadn’t received their powers.

Lying awake the rest of the night, Jack worried about the dream until he couldn’t think about it any longer. His head hurt. His chest hurt from the way his heart had tried to pound right out of his chest. After a shower, he dressed in an old T-shirt and his loose jeans, knowing he’d be doing splits and contorting all over with the roofing job.

When he got his shoes, however, he noticed the hole in the left's sneaker sole. Frowning, he cursed under his breath and made a note to pick up a new pair. He went through shoes a lot, walking all over the city.

After he was dressed, he left to head to the bus stop. He needed coffee, but refused to wake his roommates in making a pot of the cheap coffee they kept in the apartment's kitchenette.

The Rocky Mountain Java Company made the best coffee in the city, so once he got off the bus near the studios, he walked to the business and saw people at tables, on laptops, and quietly sipping their morning brew.

Stepping up to the counter, Jack waited for only a moment before a blue-haired server turned and said, “Welcome to Colorado Java Company.”

Her lashes were bespeckled with glitter, and Jack wondered how she kept it from falling in her eyes but didn’t think on it long. His need for coffee was too great after the terrible sleep he’d had and the job ahead of him. “I need a double shot, fat-free, caramel latte with cold foam, please.”

“Very good,” she said, writing his order on the pad. “Size?”

“The biggest you have.”

“That kind of morning?”

Her eyes, well, they sparkled too, like they already had glitter in them she didn’t notice. Smiling despite his morning so far, he said, “Yes. And it’ll be that kind of day too. The guy I’m working for is…not pleasant.”

“Oh? Shame. I love my boss. He’s the best. Maybe get a job here?”

Not that he wouldn’t like it, but it wouldn’t pay as much and would take that much longer to get a car, so he could quit going through shoes like they were tissue paper. “I’ll think about it after this job is over.”

As she turned to start his order, pulling out the large cup from below the counter, she said, “If you do, just ask for me, Nina Nile.”

“Are you the…manager?”

She nodded happily. “Just promoted last week. And you, excuse my forwardness, would bring in the guys and the girls.”

He felt his face heat like they were pouring the hot coffee directly on it. “Uh, thank you.”

“Shy too. Sweet.”

After getting his coffee, he paid and left a tip in the jar before heading back outside, glad it was much warmer than the previous day.

He was still smiling as he crossed the street to get back to the bus stop. Pondering how nice it would be to work there, making coffee instead of giving blow jobs and working on top of rickety roofs.

Maybe he’d consider it in the future. After he finished the roof and…made a little more money.

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?”

“Gay for pay, my brother. Gay for pay.”

After Jack deposited the number and address into Garvey’s phone, Garvey went into the bathroom, and Jack was left to shake his head, laughing. So much for thinking he could get a legit job somewhere.

If Garvey couldn’t live on what it paid, he wouldn’t be able to, either.

He met Joshua Kerns at the cheapest hotel in town, the L’Hotel Valeur. It was a scuzzy place, and Joshua could afford much better, but when he fucked, he liked it cheap in every way. Including the surroundings.

The place creeped Jack out something fierce, though. There were over-the-top frightening clown paintings all over the walls. The entire time he was at the L’Hotel Valeur, he kept his eyes on the stained and out-of-date carpeting.

Joshua texted him the room number, not that he needed to. It was always room twelve. Always that dirty room with the dresser positioned perfectly to reflect the bed and what was happening there.

The way Jack got through it was to see it in the most positive of lights. It was sex, after all. He didn’t hate sex, not by any stretch. In fact, he’d been thinking about sex a lot more the last couple days. The surprise was that he was almost looking forward to being with Joshua. That was a first.

In the hall, he knocked on the door to room twelve and waited. He heard the footsteps approach, and the door was flung open. Joshua stood grinning from ear to ear. “There he is.”

He said that every time, like he was speaking to someone. Putting on his best smile, Jack stepped into the room, avoiding the clown pictures like the plague. “Joshua, how are you?”

“Better now. I’m telling you, those producers on the show are making me insane.”

It always started the same. Joshua brought him into the room, told him about his week, like he’d kept every minute pent up until he spoke to Jack. The thing was, Jack found it strange. Joshua had a wife and three kids. Jack often wondered if he ever told his wife about his day, or his grown kids.

Joshua had a full head of white hair, puffy white hair that sat three inches above his heavily lined forehead. He wasn’t horrible to look at, perhaps, but Jack still felt it was wrong each time they were together. Not just wrong, as in Joshua was married, and it was a financial exchange. Jack felt, with all his clients, that he was meant for something else. That he was meant for someone else.

Talking himself out of those thoughts was easy on the surface. Down deep, however, was this gnawing need to find that person who was his, all his, and that he belonged to.

“The scripts alone need work, but the producers are always on the side of the writers unless the writers want more pay, you know. It’s all a terrible circle.”

For once, something Joshua said intrigued Jack and he asked, “The writers…do you know all of them?”

“Huh? Oh, sure, most, anyway. It’s important for big directors to know the best writers.”

He had already started to undress, and he was down to his baggie boxers, black socks, and those funny suspenders that kept his socks in place. His leather shoes were placed neatly under his side of the bed, pants folded along the crease and placed perfectly over the back of the desk chair. For liking things dirty, he couldn’t go so far as to let his expensive clothing touch the floor for longer than it took to get them off.

Jack broached, “Do you know…I mean, he said he writes scripts, but…Maltin Graves?”

Hearing the name made Joshua lose his smile. “Graves? You know him?”

“I’m working for him,” he said, then realized Joshua didn’t think Jack did anything besides hooking. “Fixing his roof, I mean.”

“Right,” he sighed in relief. “Forgot you do…labor too.”

“Well, do you know him?”

A quick jerk of his head that Jack took for a nod came before he went to the bed and sat on it. “Strange duck, that one. He only works at home and insists on bringing the scripts in himself, but he won’t stay for changes in the script if we need to change something. We’re forever having to call him. Some days, I’d like to turn him into a lamppost and break the lightbulb.”

Jack laughed at that. “You’re not alone.”

He joined Joshua on the bed, glad he’d left his pants on because the bedspread was always sticky and disgusting. “He’s old, that one. Older than most witches get. I’ve heard rumors he’s something like…oh, over two hundred years old.”

Jack gaped at him. “Two hundred? Are you sure?”

“Oh, rumors fly in this city, you know. He doesn’t look to be over, I don’t know, thirty-five, but he has been around a lot longer than that. He wrote the script for a movie that debuted in the nineties. That would have made him a small child.”

Leaning over and resting his elbows on his thighs, Jack let that sink in for a moment. “Two hundred.”

“And, well, he’s a recluse, mostly. That makes sense from his age being, well, elevated like that. I’ve heard it myself, him calling himself a half-breed.”

“Half-breed? Like what?”

“Witch and shifter. I don’t know his lineage, though. I don’t believe anyone does.”

It made sense. Back in the distant past, it was frowned upon to be anything but a full-blooded shifter or witch, or anything except the gods and demigods. “I’ll be damned.”

“Can we get on with it? I’m tired of talk of that man.”

“Sure,” Jack said as he started to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s get on with it.”