Pt. 1
Anthony Tinoco 

Tino looked like shit when he looked in the mirror. His throat was raw, his eyes red and sunken, and his hair stuck out in every direction.

A shower helped. The hot water beat some life back into him, clearing the fog in his head and washing off the sweat from the night before. So did the eyedrops, the good kind, stinging a little going in, but cutting through the redness until his eyes looked less like he’d clawed them out. Clean clothes helped too. He’d pulled on a soft T-shirt and old jeans that hung a little loose on his hips. It made him feel a little more like himself, or at least someone passable. His body still ached in ways he didn’t want to think too hard about; his throat, his back, the dull stiffness low in his spine that flared when he shifted his weight too fast.

Caleb and the other guy were gone. The apartment felt hollow without them, quieter than he liked. He hadn’t looked toward the mattress, not once. Jamie was still sleeping where he’d crashed. Tino had taken the couch instead, one leg stretched along the cushions, the other planted bare-footed on the floor. A plate rested on his chest with a half-eaten sandwich, and the TV flickered in front of him, playing something he wasn’t really watching.

From the corner of his eye, Tino caught movement. Jamie was shifting on the mattress, the soft rustle of the sheets, before he sat up. Tino didn’t turn. Just took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slower than he needed to, eyes fixed on the TV. He heard Jamie get to his feet, the quiet creak of the floorboards giving him away.

A door opened. The bathroom. Tino still didn’t look. His fingers tensed slightly around the plate, but he kept his posture loose, lazy even. From down the hall came the sounds of water, sink turning on, something clattering against the counter, the low scrape of a toothbrush or maybe a bottle. Mundane, ordinary noises. The kind that made it sound like it was just any morning.

Jamie came out of the bathroom with his sleeves pushed up and his hair still a little messy from sleep, face damp like he’d just splashed it with cold water. Tino didn’t move at first, then shifted, sitting a little straighter, dragging his foot in to make space on the couch without saying a word.

He finally looked at him. Jamie looked back.

It lasted barely a second, maybe less, but something about it made Tino’s shoulders stiffen anyway. Jamie’s face gave nothing away, no irritation, no smugness, not even curiosity. Just blank, like maybe he was still half asleep. Or maybe he was trying not to feel anything at all.

Tino shouldn’t have been surprised. That was just Jamie, he didn’t wear things on his face the way other people did. No fidgeting, no twitch of the mouth or furrow in his brow. He’d always been that way. Even when they were kids, Jamie could sit through a storm without flinching, could lie through his teeth with a straight face. It wasn’t that he was cold, he just didn’t show you anything unless he meant to. He had that actor thing, the ability to shut a door behind his eyes and leave you guessing what was going on inside.

And maybe that’s what bothered Tino. Not the look itself, but the not knowing. Even though Jamie had always been hard to read, Tino knew him well enough to fill in the blanks most of the time. He could guess what was going on in that head, and more often than not, he was right. He’d learned the patterns, the little tells, the way Jamie’s silence meant one thing one day and something else the next. But now? He couldn’t tell a damn thing. And for once, Tino didn’t even know where to start guessing.

Tino looked away first, eyes shifting back to the TV like it suddenly deserved all his focus. He reached out and offered the plate with the rest of his sandwich, arm stretched across the narrow space between them. Jamie took it.

“Listen—”

“Vic called,” Tino said, cutting Jamie off with a smoothness that almost passed for casual. His tone didn’t waver, and his eyes stayed on the screen. One arm rested loose behind him on the couch, the picture of someone who had nothing on his mind, as he steered the conversation somewhere safer before Jamie could take it somewhere else. “We gotta leave soon.”

“Vic called you?”

The question hit wrong. Vic never called Tino. They both knew that. It wasn’t some minor oversight, it was the rule, and Jamie knew it better than anyone. So when he asked if Vic had called his phone, it felt like he was throwing it in Tino’s face. Like he needed to remind Tino of his place. Maybe he genuinely hadn't meant it that way and wasn't at all trying to be an asshole, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating.

“No, we talked telepathically,” Tino snapped, reaching forward to grab the remote with a sharp, jerky motion. “He called you. The fuck would he call me for?” There wasn’t even an attempt to soften the edge in his voice.

“What’d he say?”

“He asked why I answered your phone,” Tino muttered. “Didn’t say much else. Just that we gotta be there before two.”

They sat in silence, until Jamie shifted beside him, scratching the side of his neck. “Are we gonna—”

Tino knew what was coming. He could hear it in Jamie's tone, the way he chose his words like he was stepping around something. Not out of gentleness, but strategy. That particular weight behind his voice, the same tone he used when he wanted answers without a fight.

“Nope,” he said flatly, rising before the rest of the sentence could land, mostly because he didn’t want to be sitting that close to Jamie anymore.

Tino didn’t need to hear the rest. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to explain it, name it, or drag it into daylight where it could be stared at too long. It wasn’t the fact that it happened with a guy, that part wasn’t new, wasn’t complicated. He’d figured that shit out years ago, way too young probably. Lines like gay or straight or whatever didn't mean shit when the wrong hands got there first. That was life, you learn fast or you don’t learn at all. He liked girls but he liked guys more, if he was being honest. Not that he advertised it. But Jamie? That’s when shit got real weird, and a hell of a lot messier. Tino had always figured Jamie for straight. Still, picking it apart wouldn’t fix anything, just make it harder to shove down later.

By the time they made it down the stairs, Jamie’s phone buzzed. He answered, pausing near the railing. It didn’t take much to guess it was Vic. 

Jamie hung up and fell into step beside him. As they headed out of the building, he filled Tino in. They were meeting with the Southbound crew, out at the warehouse. First drop-off. Cortez Crew was taking a cut, and it was Tino and Jamie’s job to make sure distribution ran clean.

Tino had heard of Southbound, everyone had. A younger crew rising fast, carving out territory in smaller towns outside the city. Word was their leader had some kind of history with Freddy, which probably explained why the Cortez Crew hadn’t snuffed them out before they ever got close to city lines. They were cocky, aggressive, and smart enough to cook something the streets were already whispering about. Black Ice.

Tino hadn’t tried it, only because he hadn’t had the chance. He’d try anything once, twice, or more if it hit right, but Black Ice wasn’t easy to get. It wasn’t sold in the city yet, not officially. The Cortez Crew controlled everything inside city limits, and outside of a few rare exceptions, no one moved product here without their say-so. Southbound getting a pass meant things were changing. And from what Tino had heard, the stuff was worth the hype; clean, potent, ground so fine it looked like charcoal powder.

The rental they used this time was a silver Toyota Camry, mid-range, nothing flashy. For bigger jobs, they stuck to rentals or borrowed vehicles, always registered to someone with no ties. Jamie didn’t cut corners on that stuff. He drove, while Tino sat in the passenger seat, angled toward the window, elbow on the door, fingers idly drumming against the glass. Tino reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, leaning his head back against the seat as he took the first drag, only to have Jamie silently roll down the window, snatch the cigarette from his lips, and flick it out onto the road.

Tino didn’t react. He kept his hand raised like the cigarette was still there, dragging from the empty air with a straight face. Almost mechanically, he reached for another, lighting it. Jamie didn’t even glance his way this time. Just reached over again, plucked the fresh cigarette from his fingers, and tossed it out the window like a rerun of a bad joke.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“This is a rental.”

“Okay, Dad. Wanna ground me too while you’re at it?” Tino muttered, already reaching for another cigarette, purely out of spite. “God forbid the car smells like anything other than your self-righteous bullshit.”

Without a word, Jamie reached over, yanked the entire pack from Tino’s hand and threw it out. The window rolled up with a soft electric hum as the pack sailed into the wind.

Tino snapped his head toward him. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You’re not smoking in a rental,” Jamie said, like he was explaining basic math to a particularly slow student. “The whole point of using these cars is we don’t leave anything behind.”

Tino blinked at him, mouth open. “Leave what behind? Fucking air?” He let out a breath. “Oh, wait. I forgot about the FBI’s Marlboro-sniffing bloodhounds. Might trace me all the way back to the fucking womb.”

“You can smoke when we get there. I’m sure you can hold out for one hour.”

“Are you brain damaged?”

Jamie sighed. “No, Tino, I’m not brain damaged. But if we’re pointing fingers, I’d say the one throwing a tantrum might be a stronger contender.”

“You throw my shit out the window and I’m supposed to thank you?”

Jamie kept his eyes on the road. “When this job’s over, I’ll buy you a fresh pack of cigarettes. And a goddamn therapist.”

Tino pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been personally wounded, voice dripping with drama. “Oh no, Jamie, not a therapist! What if they trace our emotional baggage back to the crime scene?”

“Jesus. You can smoke when we get there. What’s the problem?”

Tino slammed his hand hard against the dashboard, voice rising. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that, you fucking idiot? You just tossed my entire fucking pack!”

Jamie finally looked at him. “Holy shit, there'll be smokes there. What the fuck are you even fighting about, Tino?”

Tino’s voice snapped back just as hard. “The fuck are you fighting about, Jamie? ‘Cause I was just trying to smoke!”

And that shut it down. Jamie didn’t answer. His gaze locked on the road, and his fingers curled tight around the wheel. Tino didn’t say anything either. His leg bounced fast, heel tapping the floor like a timer ticking down. He stared out the window, every part of him charged with leftover anger and nowhere to put it. The silence in the car felt like a second fight they were both too stubborn to start. 

Tino and Jamie had disagreements before, plenty of them, but they rarely fought over nothing. If that had been their thing, one of them would’ve ended up dead a long time ago, with the lives they lived and the shit they’d seen. But now they were fighting over fucking cigarettes and tone of voice. And the worst part was, Tino didn’t even know what he was really angry about. The smoke? The way Jamie always tried to play boss? It probably wasn’t even about any of that. Being pissed off was just easier than admitting he felt like shit.