Pt. 2
Anthony Tinoco

The warehouse was tucked deep off a winding back road, where the trees grew thick and the pavement gave up miles ago. No signs, no neighbors, not even cell service out here. It looked abandoned at first glance, weather-stained and windowless, surrounded by rusting fencing. But the place wasn’t dead. There were tire tracks in the mud, faint scuffs on the ground, and a set of reinforced metal doors that didn’t belong on anything forgotten.

Tino stepped out of the car first. Jamie came around the front of the car, already heading toward the entrance. He followed, squinting as he passed into the shade beneath the overhang. One of the warehouse doors was half-open, and the inside was darker than it looked, stripped bare except for a few crates pushed against the walls. A pair of guards stood just inside.

Freddy stood near the back, arms crossed over his chest, overseeing everything. He wasn’t the boss, but close enough. Armando Cortez ran the crew, his cousin, but it was Frederico Cortez you dealt with face to face.

Reyna paced along the wall, a tablet in one hand, her other hand tucked into her jacket pocket. Surveillance, logistics, clean-up; she was the one who kept the crew’s messes from turning into headlines. Tino had known her long enough to know she’d clocked him and Jamie the second they walked in, even if her eyes never lifted.

Tomas lurked near a stack of crates, cleaning dirt from under his nails with a folded pocket knife. He’d come straight from another job, by the look of him, shirt wrinkled, a fading bruise along his jaw, hands rough and still stained faintly with grease.

The sound of an engine rolled in from outside. Tino turned as the warehouse door creaked wider. Four men stepped inside. One of them led the group, tall and solid, maybe in his thirties, with cropped dark hair. Dante, Tino assumed. Tino caught the rest of the names when introductions circled back. Wes, built thick through the neck. Jaro, the cook from the sound of it, lean with jumpy eyes. And the last one, Lars, built like a tank and arms crossed, clearly muscle.

They got down to business quick. Freddy laid out the basics while Dante nodded along. Jamie stood a step behind Freddy but spoke up when it came to logistics, routes, timing, how much was going out and when. Reyna chimed in too, clarifying how the shipments would move through the city without attracting attention. Tino stayed quiet, watching from the sidelines. This wasn’t new to him, he’d run heavier shit than this. But the details mattered, and Jamie had always been better at, well, sticking to the plan.

He moved when Freddy jerked his chin toward the crate. It wasn’t huge, maybe the size of a small trunk, but dense, heavier than it looked. Tomas joined him and together they hefted it up, the metal corners biting into their palms as they carried it toward the waiting car parked in the back. The pre-prepared one, clean plates, wiped interior, nothing to trace. Tino popped the trunk while Tomas steadied the weight, and they eased the crate in with a low grunt. It thudded into place, snug against the lining.

By the time Tino circled back around, Dante and Freddy were shaking hands. Freddy spoke next, nodding once toward the car Tino and Tomas had just loaded. That one would go with Jamie and Tino, straight to the first drop site, clean handoff, no detours. The rental they’d arrived in was staying behind with Reyna, who’d be rotating it out later to cover their tracks.

Jamie and Tino didn’t talk on the drive back. That wasn’t unusual for Jamie, he could sit through an hour of quiet with no problem. But Tino staying quiet, that was strange. Normally, he’d be running his mouth nonstop, talking shit, making half-serious threats about what he’d do with his cut, throwing out useless facts about roadkill they passed. But now, nothing.

His head was too full to speak. Everything felt cluttered, like his brain was one wrong breath away from spilling out all over the dash. His thoughts looped back on themselves, Jamie’s voice, Freddy's instructions, Dante and his crew of rookies, last night. Too much, all jumbled together.

He could tell Jamie noticed. Could feel the glances Jamie kept sneaking.

They’d been driving for a while when Jamie finally spoke. “You alright?”

“Thriving,” Tino answered, like he was reading it off a medical chart. He fetched his lighter, thumbing it open with a soft click, flicking the flame on and off.

Something in him felt off-balance. At first, it was just a buzz in his jaw. Not pain, not even discomfort, just pressure, like he’d been clenching without realizing. Then the rest started to follow. His foot wouldn’t stay still, tapping the floor, heel jittering with no rhythm. The window felt too small, the air too still.

Tino moved on his seat, elbow against the door. “You got anything on you?”

Jamie didn’t look over. “No.”

No what. No pills? No blow? No clue, or no interest in finding out?

Tino´s mind began flipping through inventory. His stash at home was dry. He had a few uppers, the kind that made his jaw clench and his skin itch. That wasn’t what he needed right now. He needed something to dial it all down without lighting his head on fire.

“What do you need?”

“Oh, I dunno. A hug? Some herbal tea? What the fuck do you think?” Tino rolled his eyes before staring out the window like he was done talking. But a few seconds later, he added, more offhand: “Anything. I feel like my fucking skin's inside out”

“I don’t have anything on me. Got some oxy at home, though.”

That made Tino glance over, just a little. Not a full look, just enough to clock Jamie’s face, to see if there was any judgment behind the offer. There wasn’t. Or if there was, it was buried deep, in the same place Jamie kept everything else he didn’t want people to see.

Tino didn’t say thank you, but just turned back to the window and rubbed at his jaw with the heel of his hand, like the tension there might give him something to focus on. He hated this part. The needing, the asking.

Jamie pulled into the narrow lot behind a weather-worn building. Isaiah was already there, leaning against the replacement car. He worked under them on distribution, reliable, always looked half-asleep no matter the hour. His cap sat low over his eyes, but he straightened when he spotted them, pushing off the hood and lifting a hand in a lazy wave.

The exchange was casual. Isaiah greeted them with the kind of easy familiarity that came from years of doing the same job with the same people. He and Jamie spoke for a minute. Tino didn’t join the conversation, just hovered nearby, fingers twitching in his pockets.

He didn’t wait around. The handoff was done. The car wasn't their problem anymore, nothing left to hang around for. He turned, already heading for the street, impatient to be anywhere but standing still. Behind him, Jamie lingered with Isaiah before he finally left.

When Jamie caught up to him, he held out a cigarette without saying anything.

Jamie’s building was one of those quiet, well-maintained ones just outside the busier parts of the city. The hallway on his floor was silent, sunlight slipping in through narrow windows at the end. Jamie unlocked his door and stepped inside. Tino stepped in behind him, already familiar with the space. 

Hardwood floors, deep gray walls, furniture that matched. The couch was clean-lined and dark, flanked by a low table with a few books stacked in perfect alignment. The kitchen opened off to the right. Tino wandered in and dropped onto the couch with a quiet exhale. His shoulders slouched, body sinking into the cushions like he hadn’t sat down all day. Jamie walked past him, heading to where the bedroom was.

Tino rubbed his hands over his face. When Jamie came back, he tossed an unlabled bottle to Tino, who caught it in the air. He held the bottle loosely in one hand, rolling it between his fingers. The plastic clicked quietly, the pills shifting inside. He could already feel the weight of them pulling at him like undertow, not just the promise of relief, but the silence they’d bring.

“You can take them here if you want,” Jamie said, as if he could read Tino's mind. He didn’t wait for an answer. His footsteps faded down the hall, the bathroom door creaking open behind him. Tino stayed where he was, listening as Jamie disappeared from sight. The pipes clanked on, and water started to run.

He could take the whole bottle now, he thought. Take enough to ease the pressure in his chest and the thoughts that made no sense. But he didn’t. Tino couldn't say why he sat frozen, listening to the rush of water behind the bathroom door, like the sound could wash everything away if he let it.

His eyes drifted to the bathroom door. Jamie hadn’t locked it. Didn’t even close it properly. It hung ajar, the faint hiss of the shower leaking through the gap, steam already creeping into the hall.

It sat there like an open invitation. Or maybe it didn't mean anything.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to blur like this, lines crossed, boundaries slipping, that heavy, sour hum in the back of his skull that hadn’t let up since last night. He wasn’t good at... whatever this was. At reading signals, at playing patient, at keeping his head on straight when everything inside him wanted to splinter in a thousand different directions.

He tapped the bottle once with his nail, then again, like it might answer him. Finally, he pushed himself up, leaving the bottle untouched on the table.

The bathroom was heavy with steam as Tino stepped inside. The door stayed open behind him, like the moment hadn’t quite decided what it was yet. The shower hissed steadily, and through the haze, Jamie’s silhouette moved under the spray, back turned. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. The quiet strength in his arms. The faint lines of old scars along his ribs and hips. When he moved, his muscles pulled tight, not like he was posing, but like every part of him was built to move with intent. His back curved slightly with the steam curling down his spine, tracing his shape like gravity was tugging at all the right places. 

Jamie glanced over his shoulder when Tino entered.

Tino reached for his shirt and peeled it off. The rest followed, belt undone, jeans kicked off, boxers sliding down. He folded nothing, dropped everything in a quiet heap.

The glass door was slick and warm under his fingers as he pushed it open, stepping past the edge and into the heat. Jamie shifted, moving slightly to the side to give him space beneath the spray. It wasn’t much, they weren’t exactly working with a spa, but it was enough.

The water hit Tino’s skin like a weight, soaking into his hair and tracing down his back. He kept his face turned downward at first, blinking through droplets, letting the heat sting the tension out of his neck. His hands stayed still by his sides, unsure what to do with themselves now that he was here.

Then Jamie touched him. A hand to his throat, not enough to make breathing hard but just enough to say stay. Tino leaned in, their foreheads pressed together, breath warm between them. Tino moved slowly, hips shifting forward until their bodies aligned, a subtle friction sparking where they touched. He ran himself along Jamie’s length.

The friction built in slow, steady drags. Tino’s breath hitched, but he didn’t shy from it, didn’t pull back. If anything, he pressed in closer. Jamie let it go for a moment, long enough for the tension to bite deeper, before his hand slipped from Tino’s throat to his jaw. His fingers pressed firm, thumb grazing the corner of Tino’s mouth, guiding his chin up until their eyes met.

“Did you take them?”

Tino held his stare. “No.”

His gaze searched Tino’s face like he was double-checking for cracks. Whatever he saw, he seemed to decide to trust him.

Tino turned, unhurried, palms flat against the wet tile. The moment he settled, Jamie pressed in behind him, a hand sliding up firm to his neck. Tino didn’t resist. He let himself be pressed harder against the wall, his breathing going shallow without meaning to.

There was nothing gentle in it, but it wasn’t cruel either. It hovered somewhere in the middle, raw and jagged, like they were both trying to fuck the noise out of their heads. Tino’s eyes screwed shut. The tile was slick beneath his palms, grounding and useless all at once. His pulse thudded in his throat, every beat pounding up into his skull, tangled with the breath that rattled out of him.

He didn’t know what this was; control, regret, some twisted version of comfort they didn’t have the words for. It didn't matter. He pressed into it, chased the burn of it, let it strip him down to nothing.