Pt. 1
Anthony Tinoco 

The bed creaked beneath them, cutting through Jamie's apartment like the walls were made of paper, though it wasn’t just the bed making noise. Their breathing tangled in the air, dragging from somewhere low in their chests. The slick slap of skin meeting skin filled the space. Tino’s cheek dragged against the cool sheets with every push of Jamie’s hips. His body ached in all the places that made sense, knees burning from the angle, hips straining, muscles pulled tight. Jamie had his wrists pinned behind his back, one-handed, fingers locked tight around them. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, working its way into his hair. Jamie’s hips snapped against him, unrelenting. His grip never loosened, the other hand curled tight around Tino’s hip, fingers digging into the lines of his waist like Tino might forget how to stay there otherwise.

And Tino let him. Liked it, even, the way Jamie always took control. His hands stayed steady, no hesitation, no asking. Jamie didn’t need permission, he just had him, held Tino exactly where he wanted him, like there was never any question who got to decide how this was supposed to go. And maybe Tino should’ve hated that. Should’ve bristled at it, the way he did when anyone else tried to tell him what to do, when the crew pushed him around, when Vic barked orders like he was a trained dog.

But this wasn’t that. Here, it settled in his bones. The weight of Jamie’s hands wasn’t an order. It felt like an answer. Like for once, he didn’t have to claw his way through it all, didn’t have to posture or run his mouth or pick a fight just to prove he could. He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to watch his back. Didn’t have to be anything but this. It was safe. In a fucked-up, backwards way, it was the only thing that made sense lately. The only time his head shut up without the help of drugs. Jamie handled him, held him, not with force, but with certainty. It had happened so many times now, Tino couldn’t even count. Weeks of this burned into muscle memory. All friction. All heat. Never kissing, never lingering in bed afterwards.

The lot came into view as Jamie turned the car off the main road later that day. He parked near the warehouse entrance, where a few other cars were already lined up. Their doors creaked open almost in unison, first his, then Tino’s, as they stepped out into the narrow space between the vehicles. The jobs had been steady the last couple of weeks. Same routine; they showed up, Southbound handed over the product, money changed hands, everyone walked away.

The door to the warehouse scraped open with a metallic groan. Southbound was already waiting, two of them, Wes and Lars. Southbound didn’t bother with greetings or small talk, and neither did they. The clear plastic storage bins were stacked near the center of the space. Tino slipped his hands under the nearest one, ready to haul it back to the car, but Jamie’s hand stopped him before he got anywhere. 

“Hold up.” 

Jamie crouched by the bin, the dull overhead lights catching on the sealed plastic. Rows of Black Ice, pressed tight in vacuum-packed bags, same as always. From where Tino stood, it looked right, no reason to slow down. But Jamie didn’t rush it. He pulled one of the bags closer, turning it under the light.

“Color’s off.”

Across from them, Lars let out a short laugh, no real humor in it. “Same cook, same recipe,” he said, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Maybe the light’s messin’ with ya.”

Jamie turned the bag once more between his hands, then held it out toward Tino. Up close, yeah, it was different. Not dramatic, but enough to notice now that Jamie pointed it out. “What’s the purity?” he asked, inspecting it the same way Jamie had.

“Ninety-eight,” Wes replied without hesitation. 

“Last batch tested ninety-eight.” Jamie said. “Color wasn’t like this.”

Lars shrugged again. “Dunno what to tell ya, man. Maybe the other batch cooked different. Or maybe y’all just don’t know what the fuck ya lookin’ at.”

Tino let the sealed pack drop back into the bin.

“You saying I don’t know my product?” Jamie asked. Tino could hear the irritation curling under his voice. 

“I’m sayin’ you jumpy.”

Jamie didn’t react to the comment. When Tino looked at him, he could see the gears turning in Jamie's head. They wouldn’t know for sure what they were carrying until Tomas got his hands on it, broke it down, and ran the test. Tino half expected Jamie to call it off and leave empty-handed. But then Jamie glanced his way, and he knew Jamie had made up his mind. Jamie gave a short nod and Tino moved without question. He picked up the plastic bin he had reached for before and loaded it into the car. 

Behind him, Lars’ voice carried across the space. “What was it again? Riley, right?”

Jamie made no sign of having heard him. Lars clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You Crippy’s lil’ bro, yeah?”

Jamie still didn't turn to look at him, but instead grabbed the next bin, while Tino reached for the third.

Lars was talking about Chris. It didn’t surprise him Lars knew who Chris was. The city felt big when you wanted it to, when you stayed on clean streets and kept your head down. But underneath all that, in their world, it wasn’t big at all. Names traveled. Reputations stuck, even if you weren’t some street legend. Chris Riley wasn’t infamous by any means. His name didn’t carry any kind of weight. Tino's brother Marco probably had more of a reputation than Chris ever did. Marco had been in and out of prison enough times to earn it, though never for murder. Apparently, Chris had just lost control. Killed two people for nothing that made sense. No payout, no job gone wrong, no revenge that anyone could twist into something respectable. Just raw, stupid rage. The kind that didn’t buy you power or fear, just a cell and a sentence that never ran out. People remembered that, not because it was impressive, but because it was weak. 

Lars didn’t even look at Tino. His attention stayed on Jamie. He wasn’t subtle about it either. Tino wasn’t stupid, he could see exactly what Lars was doing, poking at Jamie, trying to knock him off balance, make him say or do something he shouldn’t. Why, Tino couldn’t say for sure. Might be ego, or just that Southbound itch to test people. It didn't matter either way, Tino knew it wasn't going to work. 

“Didn’t even recognize ya at first. You from Halston, ain’tcha?”

Halston was the street Jamie grew up in, a few blocks down from where Tino used to live, with his mom and two brothers. 

“Same buildin’,” Lars added, like they were catching up over drinks. “Could hear every fuckin’ thing in that place. Whole street probably did. Your old man, loud as hell. Belt snappin’, doors slammin’. Crippy out there actin’ like he ran shit, chest puffed, talkin’ all tough. Then soon as that door shut? Screamin’. Cryin’. Sounded like he was gettin’ fucked up bad.” He nudged the last storage bin with his boot. Tino got to it first, cutting Jamie off before he could reach for it. “Ain’t no shame though. Heard your old man fuck all y’all up.”

The drugs were packed tight in the back of the car now, the doors still hanging open. Jamie reached inside, grabbed the duffel bag off the seat, and let it drop to the floor by his feet. The weight of it landed with a dull, solid thud, full of cash. Jamie shoved it forward across the concrete with his boot, sending it sliding toward the Southbound pricks. 

When Jamie spoke, he did so as if nothing of what Lars had said sounded familiar to him at all. “If that product doesn't test ninety-eight, I’ll be coming for you first.” He motioned for Tino to get in the car. Tino was on his way, when he heard Lars’ voice:   

“Then you better hope it tests ninety-eight.”

Already sick and tired of Lars bullshit, Tino barely got his hand to his waistband before Jamie’s grip clamped down on his arm. It wasn't some quiet warning or steady hold. It was pure reaction, fingers digging in deep. Controlled, sure, but only just. The pressure bit down to the bone, and Tino felt it for exactly what it was; the anger bubbling under Jamie’s skin, finally cracking through. He was ready to snap. The kind of silent, coiled fury that didn’t come loud or messy, but when it broke loose, it was worse than any shouting match. Tino yanked his arm free with a scoff and got into the car.