Jamie Riley

Early morning light slid across the pavement, turning the cool grey a soft silver and casting long, quiet shadows between parked cars. Jamie leaned against the hood of his own ride, a sleek black coupe with tinted windows, spotless paint, and chrome rims that caught the sunrise like jewelry. It was polished to a mirror shine and low enough to the ground to make every other car beside it look tired. He stood with his arms crossed and a half-burnt cigarette between two fingers. He wasn’t looking at the horizon, but he felt it. That quiet moment before the day really started, when everything held its breath.

Twelve years in this life. Twelve years since he and Anthony—or Tino, as people knew him now—had made the same decision, one after the other like falling dominoes, and stepped into the Cortez Crew. They’d been fourteen and eleven, still baby-faced, hearts still beating soft. They’d joined the gang like it was a door opening into something larger than themselves.

Actually, it had been. Larger, darker and bloodier. Cortez had already been massive back then, bigger than their block, bigger than their families, bigger than the cops who kept chasing them and never seemed to catch up. They were everywhere, and it wasn’t a secret they liked their boys young enough to shape. Not everyone from their old crew had made it past the first few years. Overdoses, car crashes. Wrong place, wrong time. Names carved into memory but fading from the street. Jamie didn’t say them out loud anymore. The streets forgot people fast, and he’d learned to do the same. 

Jamie and Tino had made it. They’d made it further than most, and they were doing well now. They had put in the work, climbed the ladder and gotten their hands dirty enough to earn respect and keep it. Debt collection, security, operations. Quiet jobs, loud ones.

A low growl of an engine pulled his attention. He watched as a beat-up sedan lumbered into the lot, tires crunching against the gravel like bones. It wasn’t Tino’s car. It was too boxy, too loud, and too fucking ugly. Then it hit him. Of course it wasn’t Tino’s car. That one was totaled last week, wrapped around a traffic pole in the middle of the night. Tino had probably been high. He had always driven like a man who thought the road was his personal racetrack, especially after a few lines. Jamie had stopped being surprised a long time ago. At this point, it was like waiting for a train wreck that everyone knew was coming. The guy could barely keep it together when he was sober, but throw in a little trouble and Tino was practically bulletproof. 

The door of the sedan creaked open. Tino jumped out, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his navy hoodie, a grin on his face like he owned every mistake he’d ever made. “Borrowed the ugly one. It’s my cousin’s. Said it runs, at least.”

“You’re lucky it runs,” Jamie said, deciding not to ask which imaginary cousin Tino had borrowed it from, or how recently it had been stolen. “Thought you’d have a funeral for that other car by now.”

“High-speed crash at three in the morning? I call that a warm-up.”

Jamie resisted the urge to sigh loudly. “You know most people call that a near-death experience.”

Tino extended both arms dramatically, presenting himself like evidence. “Do I look near-death to you? Or do I look fantastic? Be honest.”

The worst part was that he kind of did. Not fantastic, exactly, because Tino’s version of fantastic usually came with a black eye and bruised knuckles, but fine. He looked less like a man fresh from a wreck and more like he’d lost a very normal fight in a parking lot. Frankly, Tino hadn’t changed one bit. Sure, the grime wasn’t as thick on him these days. He wore jackets without holes now, shoes that hadn’t been fished out of a dumpster, and his curly hair looked like it had seen a comb sometime in the past week. He had a soft face, androgynous almost, which always seemed at odds with the temper he carried like a second skin. Maybe that’s why he overcompensated with the piercings and tattoos. There were gold rings in his ears, a matching one hooked through his left nostril, and the ink crawling down his arms told stories no one ever got to hear. A chaotic sprawl of symbols, phrases, and fucked-up imagery that matched the storm inside him.

But Jamie could still see the boy underneath all that. The one with dirt under his fingernails and scabs on his knees, wearing shirts either two sizes too small or two sizes too big. The boy who never smelled like soap, who showed up half-starved and half-wild and dared the world to say something about it. Now he just wore it better. The recklessness and aggression had sharpened, like rusted edges turned into blades. He still picked fights for no reason, still grinned through busted lips. It didn’t matter how much money they made or how high they climbed. Anthony was still the same disaster in a better jacket.

“You look medically concerning,” Jamie said flatly. He dragged his eyes over the sedan and made a face. “Is anyone gonna come look for this thing?”

Tino shrugged. “Depends how attached they were.” He strolled up and, without asking, slipped a hand into the pocket of Jamie’s jacket to fish out a cigarette.

Jamie didn’t flinch. He was used to the invasion by now.

“So,” Tino said, pulling one out from the package and twirling it between his fingers. “What’s the grand plan, Mr. Big Brain? Or am I just here to make you look good?”

“Some guy missed his payment.” Jamie flicked ash from his own cigarette. “It’s a straightforward job. We don’t need to turn it into a mess.”

Tino grinned around his cigarette. “I love when you say ‘we’ like I ain’t the whole sentence.” He bumped Jamie’s shoulder as he lit up. “Relax. I’m practically house-trained now.”

Jamie never admitted it, but the guy had a way of making him laugh, even if it was just to avoid losing his mind. When the cigarette burned down to the filter, he dropped it, crushed it under his shoe, and gave the sedan one last doubtful look. He really didn’t want to get in that thing. It looked like it had survived three owners, two police chases, and a flood nobody had reported. The paint was dull, one side mirror was cracked, and something under the hood made a tired clicking sound even though the engine wasn’t running yet. Tino slid behind the wheel like any of that inspired confidence.

“Wanna know something fucked up?” Tino said as they pulled out of the lot, one hand draped over the wheel, the other hanging loose out the open window. “Giraffes are ten times more likely to get hit by lightning. Saw it on TV. They’re walking lightning rods.”

“Interesting.” Jamie didn’t look up. The word landed with all the enthusiasm of a dead battery. He was scrolling through his phone, looking for the address they’d been sent earlier that morning. He gave a small nod when the turn came up. “Left here.”

Tino obeyed, with a little too much flair. The turn was sharp and fast enough to make the old tires screech, cutting off a car that was heading their way. The driver slammed the brakes, horn blaring in fury. Tino didn’t seem to notice.

“Heard about a guy who got struck twice,” he continued. “Fucking twice. Can you imagine? Holy shit. You survive it once, and then boom! God takes another shot. That’s gotta fuck with your head.”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

Tino smirked. “Probably.”

Jamie shifted in the passenger seat when the gun in his waistband pressed uncomfortably against him. His gaze drifted to the window, but his mind was already blocks ahead, walking through doorways that hadn’t been opened yet, counting moments that hadn’t even happened. The job lived in his head like a blueprint, clean lines, cold facts, quiet consequences.

They rolled up to the building and the engine’s hum cut off abruptly when Tino turned the key. He leaned across Jamie and punched the glove compartment open, the little door cracking down with a cheap plastic snap. The matte black pistol inside slid forward. Tino grabbed it and shoved it into the waistband of his grey sweatpants like it was a wallet.

“How many?” Tino asked, angling his face toward the rearview mirror. He pulled off his beanie with one hand, tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat without looking, then ruffled his hair like it had been bothering him for hours.

Jamie watched him fidget, how his fingers tugged at the collar of his hoodie, how his leg bounced lightly, never quite able to stay still. He had always been a restless guy, but lately Jamie couldn't shake the thought that the drugs might be a part of it. Not that Tino was an addict, at least not the way Jamie saw it. A lot of the guys used, and Jamie wasn’t innocent either. Tino just pushed it too far sometimes, whether it was pills, powder, or whatever else he could find. Most of the time, Jamie could tell when he was sober. Other times, it was impossible to say.

“Just two.” Jamie slid his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “John’s the one we’re here for.”

The building in front of them was one of those aging apartment blocks that had long since lost its name and dignity. Just peeling paint, water stains running down the walls, and a broken intercom. They didn’t need it anyway. 

The elevator groaned and rattled as it crept upward to the fourth floor. Jamie counted the steps from the elevator to the door on the right, mentally rehearsing what he was about to say, last-minute details, reminders, warnings. His hand hovered, ready to break the silence. Tino was faster. Without a word, he stepped forward and slammed his fist against the door, three rapid, vicious thuds that echoed in the narrow hallway like a warning shot. Jamie exhaled a long, tired sigh. He could feel the raw energy radiating off Tino like a lit fuse burning dangerously close. Tino’s body practically vibrated with a jittery cocktail of adrenaline and anticipation, like he loved what was coming. Like violence was an old friend he couldn’t wait to see again.

The door cracked open, just a sliver. Tino raised his foot and kicked. The door flew back with a brutal bang, rattling the walls as it slammed into the plaster like a thunderclap. It bounced off the frame with a sickening groan, the wood protesting under the sudden force. Inside, a young man in nothing but boxers screamed, staggering backward with wild eyes and nearly tripping over his own feet. Another man sat at a chipped table, frozen mid-motion.

“Knock knock,” Tino said cheerfully, the barrel of his gun aimed with surgical precision at the guy who had opened the door.

There was a twisted kind of art to the way Tino moved. Like watching a wild animal pacing before it strikes. Jamie didn’t always understand it, and he didn’t always agree with it, but he couldn’t deny it was captivating. Tino had a way of throwing himself headfirst into danger, like mayhem was a game he knew the rules to better than anyone. It was both infuriating and strangely entertaining.

Jamie stepped in behind him and scanned the room with quick efficiency. His eyes narrowed on the man in boxers standing at the end of Tino’s gun. Thin. Nervous. Guilty all over.

“John, I assume?”

The man didn’t answer, but the panic written across his face did. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling quickly as his gaze flickered between Tino’s gun and Jamie, searching desperately for an escape that wasn’t there.

“We’re here for the money,” Jamie said. “Three weeks overdue. That’s a long time, John.”

John’s lips quivered uncontrollably. “I—I have it, just not right now. Give me a few days and—”

“A few days?” Tino sneered, stepping forward with deliberate menace. “We ain’t the fucking bank, Johnny.”

John stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall. His friend at the table started to rise in a panic, but Jamie lifted one steady hand and shook his head. The man’s fingers trembled as he sank back down. John opened his mouth again, maybe to beg, maybe to lie, but Tino wasn’t in the mood to listen. He swung the butt of the gun hard into John’s stomach. John doubled over with a choked grunt, the wind knocked clean out of him.

“You training for a marathon, Johnny?” Tino grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and slammed his head back against the wall. The drywall cracked behind him. “‘Cause you been running from this debt like it’s fucking cardio.”

“I—I swear I’ll get it! J-just—”

Tino cut him off with a savage blow to the face. Blood burst from John’s nose, and before he could cry out, Tino struck again, lower this time, jamming the barrel of the gun into his ribs. John crumpled to his knees, coughing, blood and spit dribbling down his chin. The next hit came clean as Tino brought the gun down across John’s head. Tino only stopped when Jamie’s hand closed around his shoulder. Then Tino backed off, two slow steps, leaving just enough space for Jamie to pass. Jamie moved past him and crouched beside John, who was swaying where he sat, barely upright, blinking through the blood.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours,” Jamie said. “After that, your wife doesn’t make it home from work, and your kids don’t make it out of school. Do you understand me?”

John nodded frantically, mouthing promises through a mouthful of blood and shame.

As Jamie finally stood, he wiped his hands on his jeans like the air in the room had dirtied him. He gave Tino a small nod toward the door. Tino gave John one last glance, more amused than anything else, then turned and followed Jamie out.

Author’s Note:

Hello~! Thanks for reading!

DEAD END BOYS is a story close to my heart. It’s about two boys growing up in a world that never gave them a real chance, and the complicated, messy love that grows between them anyway.

Just a heads up: this story includes violence, drug use and addiction, mention of child abuse, and other sensitive subjects. If any of that hits too hard, please take care of yourself first.

I’ve grown really attached to these characters (maybe more than I should’ve), and I hope they stick with you too. 🖤