Thread: Father's Mechanic (rpfiend_123 & AndNich123)

The faint scent of aftershave lingered in the air as the man in the impeccably tailored suit walked away from him. It would soon be replaced by the not-so-faint musk of gasoline, grease, and tide laundry detergent that seemed to constantly surround the one left standing on the concrete, feet from the entrance to a modestly sized pool house. A grimace overtook the manufactured smile on his face as his newest employer walked away from him. It wasn't that he hated the wealthy on the contrary, he'd been almost exclusively employed by men wealthier than him many times over. It was these same numerous encounters with rich people that had left him with a certain perspective - a certain expectation, if you will, that the well off rarely seemed to surpass. It seemed that Mr. Coleman was no different than his last few benefactors. The air of superiority that eaked from every pore in the man's body was palpable from the way he stood and walked to the way he talked down to him. But Micah took it in stride. Ever since he left home right after high school and set out on his own - he'd leaned to have thick skin and a humble attitude. It was this personality, combined with his work ethic, that had landed him some choice apprenticeships with some brilliant minds of the mechanic world. Now, it seemed, he was on the other side of it, and had made a respectable living maintaining luxury autos for the rich and famous. This, though, was something of a peculiar arrangement. Previously, he had just stopped by his client's homes and garages when work needed to be done. He would show up for the day, work until the job was complete, and leave. Never had he been offered lodging as well as pay in exchange for his services. It was this unique experience, along with the list of dream-cars that Mr. Coleman owned, and Mike was keen to work on, that had made him so willing to agree to the terms of the contract. Although, as he had just found out, his new gig came with some strict guidelines. It was these guidelines that he'd been mulling over in his head as he turned on his heel to walk along the side of the pool house to the several-doored garage that would be his place of work as long as he was employed here. At 6' 3, he was quite an imposing figure and years of his strenuous occupation had left him broad and muscular. He was in his late 30s, yet time's toll on his body seemed to just be beginning. The slightest hint of grey was beginning to twinge in his jet black hair, and his grey eyes were accented with wrinkles from where he squinted against the brightness of shop lights. His skin was naturally tanned due to the Spanish heritage from his mother's side, and where his wrists were exposed just a bit from the cuffs of his long sleeved shirt, bright colors of what appeared to be sleeves of tattoos peeked out. He wasn't too concerned with the 'no smoking' rule - he'd quit a few years back - beyond that, he had his gin and whiskey vices he could keep well slated from the roomy kitchen in his pool house. It was the no entertaining female companions rule that had him most worried. There are ways around that. he thought to himself, remembering the days of sneaking girls in and out of his room in high school. Besides, it's not like he'll come around much. Again, he knew how the elite treated their help he'd be fine. He slid open a black electric panel on the far end of the garage and typed in a 4 digit code, opening a side door and stepping in to flip on the lights. The expanse of the garage was breathtaking to those who appreciated that sort of thing. The floors glistened with a shiny black, freshly waxed sheen. The stark red of the tool chests lining the spotless white walls looked enticing to him. He headed over, opening a few drawers and starting seemed to be a bottomless inventory. He only made it through a few before he realized he'd need to get settled in the pool house before he could truly feel free to start in on his work. With that, he flipped the lights off and headed back to the pool house to unpack. The next few days at the Coleman residence was uneventful for him. He'd get up in the morning, make coffee and breakfast in his kitchen and sit out on the patio surveying the lawn maintenance crew fastidiously prune and mow. It truly was like eden surrounding his little corner of the estate. Then he'd get dressed in his 'work issued' clothing - which he found ridiculous. It's not like he was at a real garage with a brand to promote. But nevertheless, he'd been issued a week's worth of long and short sleeved shirts - colored navy and grey, with his name embroidered on the side of them, just under the lapel, and Coleman's Garage in a retro script on the back. He wasn't issued pants, or one of those goofy one-piece things that he hated wearing, so he just threw on some snug jeans that fit his muscular frame well for each day of work. One day, after he'd gotten the hang of where everything was and in what shape each automobile was, he'd decided it was a good day to spend some time under the hood of one of the beauty's Mr. Coleman owned. It was a sunny spring morning, so he opened up one of the garage doors and moved the car out just under the awning that the door made - and he set to work inspecting the black beauty.