2007-05-15: The Lift to Heaven


Jack_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: After Gene trashes Trina's car, Jack does his best to make it all better.

Date It Happened: May 15, 2008

The Lift to Heaven

Ron's Hack Shop - Waterfront, NYC

The text message that Jack sends Trina is simple. Just an address for a warehouse on the waterfront, with a notation to meet at 1 pm.

On the outside, the building looks terribly run-down. The windows are boarded, most of the glass has been broken, and someone has artfully spray-painted an enormous phallus pointing toward the door in bright yellow and pink. The door in unlocked, and other than the day-glo member, it's unguarded.

The inside of the building isn't much better. The floorspace has been divided into rough sections, each containing a different sort of vehicle. Near the borders, trucks rub elbows with motorcycle and sedans are cozied up to SUVs. At the rear of the structure lies the workshop, the only well-tended piece of real estate in the establishment. There are an even dozen roll-away toolboxes, a lift, frame machine, paint booth, and all the other essentials for the frequent ground-up rebuilds that Jack requires.

The Irishman Himself is leaning against one of the lifts, drinking a Rolling Rock and smoking a cigarette. His simple white t-shirt and jeans have yet to be oil-smudged, but he's eyeballing various vehicles and pieces of equipment.

Trina is very fortunate today. Her cheap pay-as-you-go with its entirely unreliable battery actually decided to WORK for more than a few hours. Phones aren't, after all, nearly as important as certain other things. Like chrome. When the brunette makes her way into the building, she's got her macho face on. It's the only face you can wear in places like this and in her back pocket is the pack of paper-rolled bravery. There's a sniff, and a rub of her nose with her forearm with an adopted extra bit of masculinity thrown into the mix for good measure. Army green cargo pants hang around her hips, held up by a black canvas belt with a broad silver buckle. Black tennis shoes and a black tank pull her together, and her pony tail brushes against her back as she walks. Run down doesn't scare her.
Following the anatomy's instructions, she walks to that door, takes a breath, and then opens it to walk through. It's once she's inside that she allows those silver-painted, kohl-lined eyelids to narrow a little and look about her with an appraising glance until they reach that workshop partway through her walk. Then her lips turn down with a faint sign of contentedness. Not a bad setup, after all. 'Please, Jack, don't be too far away,' she silently muses to herself.

Jack scuffs his battered boots idly against the cement floor, then lifts his beer and drains it. With a clatter that reverberates through the large, silent warehouse, he chucks the empty into a metal drum with a sign that reads 'SAVE THE SAND' across the front. Then he pops open another and takes a swig before flicking his spent cigarette away, sending it spiraling into a corner.

After a small startled jump that she really hopes no one saw, Trina moves towards the sound with a slower, longer stride than her usual pace, adapted for places like this. "Hellooo!" she finally calls out into the open air, pace starting to slow even more. While run down may not concern her, an entirely empty warehouse after the message to meet someone is considerably more suspicious. Particularly when there are the sounds of people moving. "Anybody home?"

"SHIT!" From the other side of a Dodge lineup, there's the sound of tools, trays, and parts hitting the floor in quick succession. A moment later, a sheepish Jack peeks over the roof of an Intrepid. "Uh. Hi. C'mon over." He waves in the direction of the lifts, where everything seems to be centralized.

There's a visible sigh of relief. Yay. He didn't stand her up! Although, part of Trina is almost a little worried that she wasn't ready for it if he had. Dangerous situation, trust is. Usually trust simply leads to shattered expectations. Despite that knowledge, it's in the human heart to hope and trust. She'd forgotten how *good* it feels. How it warms the heart upon just seeing the familiar face. "Hey," she allows with a smile, moving quickly to stoop and help collect the fallen bits and maybe steal a kiss in the process. "Y'alright?"

"Pride's the only thing that's injured," Jack replies wryly. Once he's jumbled a wad of wrenches into one tray and a double-handful of bolts into another, he nudges them out of of the way so he can kiss Trina back proper-like. When he pulls back, he smiles crookedly. "S'good to see you, lover."

Trina returns that kiss hungrily, eating up every bit of affection and giving it back in kind. "You're just sayin' that 'cuz you know what I'm gonna give to you later since it looks like you made good, handsome." There's a playful eyebrow waggle, and then Trina continues to sort things into a semblance of order among the various tray divisions in the best order she can come up with without wasting time. She's a little anal-retentive about it, so sue her. As her fingers separate a few miscellaneous odds and ends by length and width, she continues. "Where's your guy?"

Jack stands, but leaves one hand resting lightly on Trina's shoulder. "He'll be here," he replies. "I thought I'd give you a chance to look around before you brought your Baby in, though. I know how particular you are." Rather than act disdainful as most men would in his position, his expression is pleased and his voice is an affectionate purr.

"I have *no* idea what you're talking about," Trina replies with a poor attempt at keeping a straight face. It quickly fades, however, as she tries to push herself up to her feet not too long after him. The box is brought up with her so that she can set it up on the table from whence they presumably came. Then she turns around and hopefully doesn't take Jack too badly by surprise when her macho act dissipates and she bounds towards him, looking to latch her arms about his neck and her legs about his waist. "You are the absolute *best*. Have I told you that lately?"

Thoroughly and pleasantly surprised, Jack laughs gleefully and wraps his arms around Trina, then spins her into an impromptu circle. When he comes to rest, he leans back against the edge of the lift to support their combined weight. "You have," he murmurs. "But really, I never get tired of hearing it. You're not so bad yourself." That's a serious understatement.

As she's caught up in waiting arms, Trina offers her own melodic laughter into the air, head nestling into the crook of Jack's neck as she holds on in the spin. And then he rests with her against the lift, and she raises her head. "You're the absolutely *fucking* best," she repeats with a grin bright enough that it might possibly be capable of charging half of Manhattan, punctuating the statement with another kiss before finally disentangling herself so she can slide down his muscled front with the side of her lower lip firmly caught between her teeth. It only makes her speech a *little* more difficult to understand. "Is it really cool if I poke a bit? Don't wanna give any sorta bad first impressions if he shows up." Not that she's chomping at the bit or anything. No, no. Not at all. Not her! ….okay, so maybe a little. It's shop time. For free. *So* awesome! Before he says anything, she is quick to amend, with a swearing right hand lifted shoulder-height. "Won't push any buttons. Promise."

Jack doesn't bother trying to hide his reluctance as he releases Trina so that she can frolick. "Go nuts," is his simple reply to her question, he he propells her toward the array of tool and equipment with a gentle, two-handed shove to her bottom. "This area's going to be yours during the afternoons." That cost him. A lot. Was it worth it? Of course it was, dolt.

Trina, naturally, has no friggin' clue that Jack is playing sugar daddy, and she honestly hasn't put much thought into how he swung it. If she did, she might be more reluctant to even be here. There's a giddy, girly squeal that is intended for Jack's ears alone as she immediately races to the lift control. The box is opened, and the wires examined. Woo! Next! The box shut, she's over to the lift mechanism. Then it's to the next place. Like a little bee dancing from flower to flower, so Trina dances between a myriad of points as she opens chests and everything else. "…God, you weren't kidding. This guy has an amazing setup." Then there's a pause, and Trina's eyelid twitches once in thought. Wait… Wait for it. Waaaaait for it. Oh, oh! There it is! The faintest tickle of an idea. Turning to face her beau, she tilts her head, ponytail falling to the side. "…Doesn't he need the place in the afternoons, Jack?"

"Uh. Nah. Ron's a night person, really. And so are his customers." Portions of the previous statement are true. Kind of. Jack shuffles his feet for a moment, then points to a bay between a Monte Carlo on jack-stands and a BMW convertabile. "You can park her there for the nights, if you like. It's a safe place, no worry she'll get fucked with. Nothin' get touched in here without the proper say-so."

"I just can't believe how awesome this is," Trina finally admits, moving to check out the spot indicated to her with neck craning out past her body until she finally gets a good view of the whole thing. Any suspicion is immediately dispelled by the waves of giddiness that wash over her with each tidbit Jack provides her as to the nature of the arrangement. Blinking a few times, she then rears her head back with a shake. "It… It's perfect," she finally decides, hands coming out to her side to show how little wrong she'd come up with before clapping down on her thighs. Then there's a laugh. "And I don't gotta put up with Tito's buddies. It's better than perfect." When the laugh fades, Trina comes back to her more sober demeanor and finally strides back to his side, only to rest her head on his shoulder while she looks at the spot that will be Baby's temporary home. "I don't know how you swung this, Jack, but *thank* you. How long do I have? Did he say?"

From the grin on Jack's face, Trina's expressions of gratitude just made his sacrifices more than worthwhile. He's just going to need to keep that in mind when he takes Ron's blind, batty mother out to play bingo. And this is on top of the cash to rent the space. Still, anything for his girl. "I'm pleased that it pleases you, lover. You'll have as long as you need, and Ron can get cheap parts if you don't ask him where they came from. I figure we'll be able to get her lookin' good as new in no time at all."

A week. She's known this guy a *week*. As far as Trina's concerned, she's met the Gawd-damned mother fucking prince of all princes. How she ever came to deserve half of this, she may never know. And she sure as hell ain't asking any questions. Instead, her arm slips around Jack's waist in order to offer an affectionate squeeze, pressing more tightly into his side. "I don't know how I'm ever gonna pay you back for this one, babe."

Jack lifts one hand to cup Trina's cheek and his thumb trails across the line of her cheekbone. "Not to worry, m'dear. You're… This is…" He's peering into her eyes now, searching for the end to his own statement. "Fuck. I just really like you, I guess." He shrugs one broad, sloping shoulder. "It feels good to do something nice for you."

"Then I'm lucky," Trina replies, taking the hand from her face in order to gently kiss its fingertips and then nip at one playfully before she continues. "Really fuckin' lucky. Man. I just… *MAN.* You're the catch of a century." Still holding that hand, she curls it around hers and holds it against her chest fondly as she reaches up and offers another kiss. "So how much longer 'til your guy shows, y'think?"

Blushing under the weight of Trina's unexpected praise, Jack ducks his head and smiles. "Thank you," he murmurs, pleased to be appreciated for his generosity and unorthodox talents. The mention of Ron elicits a raised eyebrow. "Mmm. Forty-five minutes, maybe? He's grabbing lunch and some more beer. Hope you like pierogies."

She understood hope, you, and like. It's that last word in the sentence that makes Trina tilt her head, brow furrowing in confusion. It sounds like stogies. But Jack, that she's seen, doesn't smoke them, so that doesn't make sense. Nor has she ever heard those fat things called that before, anyway. "What's that? And Baby's down about a block, so if you're up for audio torture we can get her in here whenever you're ready. One of my boys at work called in a tow for me, and I had 'em leave it there. …I hope that's okay."

"Pierogies. They're.." Frowning, the Irishman tries to figure out how to make whipped potatoes, onions, and bacon wrapped in pastry sound tasty. "They fry 'em," he finally finishes. "And yeah, bring your girl on in. I'll open the bay up for you." Already moving to the huge hatch at the rear of the shop, he pops a grimy green button and starts its slow ascent. "That's what we're here for, right?"

"Fried is always good," Trina declares with all assurance, Southern breeding showing absolutely no fear. As she trots by, her hand snakes out with absolutely *zero* sneakiness to grab herself a handful of Mr. Derex's ass before picking up the pace to scoot past with every intention of totally grabbing and running, smoothly moving to duck under the bay door with a strangely maniacal-sounding cackle filled with her own amusement. The bouncing ponytail only seems to make it seem more out of place. "Be right back!"

"Oooh." Trina's ninja grab-fanny maneuver earns her a laugh and a grin. "I'll be payin' you back for that one," Jack mock-warns, shaking his finger at her. It's been a long time, if ever, since he's looked at anybody this way, and when he catches himself, he finds that he likes it. The instant that his lady clears the door, he leaps into an improvised, hop-skipping dance. Gleeful Irishman!

The grounds may be silent for a moment, but eventually the terrible sound fills the air. It's groaning, creaking, grinding, and squealing. It's downright painful to anyone even before you begin to consider emotional attachment. There's the tell-tale wobble of the front left wheel, and unbalanced rise and lift of the front edge of the car. It's amazing what the front end of a Camaro can do. Trina's practically hanging out of the window, eyes fixed on that front quarter as she coaxes the car into the garage. Her face is a portrait of agony, each new chorus of sounds eliciting a new iteration of wince. There is also a whole *stream* of expletives that accompanies her once each wave of discomfort passes her, describing Gene, his mother, his grandmother, his car, the engineers of the Camaro, the issuers of Gene's driver's license, Chevrolet and every employee they have ever sought to hire, and a few other random people thrown in for good measure.

Jack cringes in response to Baby's wailing protests. Then Trina's cursing starts wafting his way. The normally stalwart Irishman blanches, then looks away and clears his throat. He's not fond of the Chevy label either, but it hardly seems nessescary to insult each employee's family line all the way back to the time of the quadrapeds. On the other hand, he felt the same way about Acura after getting Julia all shot up and whatnot.

Finally. *Finally* the poor, abused Mustang makes it into the spot alotted for it, and Trina gets out of the car. Her hands go out, as if Jack could not plainly see, to point out what the [insert long stream of new expletives] did to her Precious. "If I ever see him again," she concludes, "He's fucking dead." Okay, she doesn't mean it, but it feels really good to say it. Her arms cross and her lips curl downward into a rather immature pout as her arms cross. "DEAD," she repeats. "And I tell everyone that his skull is just a really trendy resin ash tray."

Now looking at the damage up close, Jack lets out a low whistle. "Shit," he finally mutters, and quick-steps over to Trina's side to wrap her up in a hug. "Forget about that jerkoff, lover. We're gonna get this car shipshape in no time, you'll see." He smiles encouragingly and gives her a quick squeeze.

If ever there was a way to be swayed out of a bad mood, Jack's smile seems to do the job quickly and the hug is more than sufficient to bring a smile back out onto her lips. It's like magic. With a small sigh, she finally lets her rage go and draws her hands up under her chin, pressing into him once more. "Thanks to you. I am *so* gonna give you some gratitude after I close up tonight if you're free."

"For you, I'm always free," Jack purrs as he snuggles against Trina. He pauses, chewing at his lip nervously. The silence hangs for a long, ponderous moment. Finally, he spits out, "Uh. SoI'vebeenthinking. Wannacomeworkforme?" When he's finished he gulps, and a bevy of self-directed curses that far outshine Trina's previous efforts flies by, internal-monologue style.

Trina's head rears back at that, head tilting. "Really? You haven't even seen me mix. I'm nothin' great. I mean, I'm not *poisoning* people, but…" Finally she allows her face to release the creases of confusion. "I mean, what if we…" Don't work out? No, Trina. Don't go there. Don't, don't, don't. "I mean," she begins again, "what if I don't fit in or I suck worse than I think I do? I don't wanna be any trouble for you."

Jack sucks in a deep breath. He's thought about this. Forcing himself to proceed slowly and intelligably, he replies, "Well, most of my customers drink shots or beer, so the mixin' shouldn't be a problem. I can help you with anythin' you need to learn. And I'm pretty sure you'll fit in just fine." He gives Trina a long, meaningful look up and down. "No pressure, seriously. But.." He meets her eyes for the first time since making the offer. "I like havin' you around. Seein' more of you would do me just fine."

Trina thinks about it for a moment. A good long moment. Moving out of Rob and Sue's place might not be so bad. Let 'em spread their beautiful brand of good on someone else in need. And… it's Jack. She has to admit that there is precious little that she wouldn't do for him, even if only to herself. "Alright," she finally says. "If it's alright with you, I'll part time it with you while I'm serving my last two weeks with the crew. If it doesn't work in the first two weeks, I know they'll let me stay. You just have to say the word."

Jack deflates with a loud sigh of air, and the tension sloughs away from his face and muscles. "Excellent," he replies.

Ron arrives a few moments later, interrupting the possibility of further romance with his fat gruffness. He checks the damage on the Mustang, the solemnly offers a few hours of his time for some of the more difficult bits. There is much talking and little actual work accomplished before Jack rushes Trina over to start her shift. It might not sound like a date to you people, but for a couple of motorheads, it's paradise.

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