Chapter 8 #2
This was about health.
Self-improvement.
He scoffed to himself, breath already coming harder than he’d like. Sure. Self-improvement. More like a pathetic attempt to prove himself to a six-foot-three SWAT-trained asshole.
Not even sure why I’m trying to be healthy anyway if it’ll just make me like that jarhead.
The thought made his gut twist with self-loathing because if he was honest with himself, too honest, it wasn’t just the irritation fueling him.
Some small, fucked-up part of him wanted Travis to see.
To notice him.
To not look through him like he had this morning. Because that hurt even more than the arguing.
Cole’s pace quickened as he rounded the next block, pushing himself harder, faster. Maybe if he exhausted himself, his brain would shut the hell up.
Maybe then he could go back to pretending, too.
He turned a corner around another almost derelict block and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
Something seemed wrong.
He’d been running so long that he’d lost track of where he was headed.
His breath had gotten shorter and he’d ended up at the side of the warehouse near their apartment.
The faded corrugated steel walls, streaked with years of pollution and neglect sent a shiver down his spine.
The wide, empty boulevard with hardly any cars and no people was the kind of space where bad things happened unseen.
Cole slowed slightly, rolling his shoulders, trying to look casual.
And then he saw him.
Scarface. Victor Ruiz. The violent thug who liked stray kitties and hated queers.
Cole’s pulse roared to life and this time it wasn’t from the run.
Scarface was leaning against a lamppost, smoking, looking like he belonged there. But his gaze had already locked onto Cole, recognition sparking nefariously in his eyes.
Cole kept his stride even, forcing himself not to react, but a chill ran down his spine.
Why did I not bring my phone? What the hell was I thinking?
Then Scarface straightened.
Took a step forward.
Cole’s blood was pumping like crazy. He kept moving, forcing his breathing to stay even.
Act normal. Be cool. He doesn’t know anything. Just a random guy out for a jog.
He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t that guy.
But Scarface was already moving towards him.
The wiry bastard flicked his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out with the heel of his boot before striding straight toward Cole—unhurried, confident. Like he already knew exactly how this would go.
Cole could turn. Pivot onto the next street, trying to run and act like he hadn’t seen him. But he wasn’t going to let this thug intimidate him.
Scarface was already in his path, cutting him off like he had all the time in the world.
Cole slowed, letting out an exaggerated groan like he was just some exhausted jogger taking a breather. “Hey, man, the sidewalk’s big enough for both of us.”
Scarface didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just studied Cole with dark, calculating eyes, head tilting slightly like he was putting it all together.
Cole glared back at him.
Scarface spoke, voice low and menacing.
“Not the safest neighborhood for someone like you.”
The words crawled under Cole’s skin, slow and deliberate.
Cole forced his lips into a smirk, the kind he used when bluffing his way out of tight spots. The kind that said, You don’t scare me, even when he could hear the warning sirens.
Because this wasn’t just about him. This wasn’t just dangerous on a personal level.
This was about the mission.
“Someone like me?”
“Yeah, I saw you and your boyfriend hanging around in the van and I know you moved in there.” He motioned to their apartment. “This neighborhood ain’t for your sort.”
One wrong move, one misplaced word, and everything could unravel. If Scarface knew who he was and the Whitaker gang figured out they were being watched then this op would go up in flames before they even got close to shutting them down.
Cole spread his arms in a lazy shrug. “Our sort?”
Scarface didn’t bite.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t blink.
Instead, he stepped closer, the intensity of his stare pressing against Cole like a knife tip testing skin.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his tone light, almost amused. “Your sort.”
Cole swallowed, throat locking up.
“Didn’t realize I needed a permission slip to hang out in my own neighborhood,” he shot back, shifting on the balls of his feet, subtly angling his body, preparing, just in case. “Let me guess. You’re neighborhood watch?”
Scarface smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”
The weight in his voice made Cole’s stomach twist.
He was alone, unarmed, and phoneless—because of course he’d been too angry to think anything through—he wasn’t sure he liked his odds. Of course, he should have listened to Travis.
Scarface took another step forward.
Cole fought to keep his breath steady. His mind raced through exits, options, anything that wouldn’t blow his cover to hell and could avoid a full-blown confrontation because he sure wasn’t much of a fighter.
Scarface tilted his head, eyes sharp as a tack. “See, the thing is…” His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “I don’t like your kind.”
Cole barely suppressed a flinch. The way he said your kind.
Then, suddenly—
A shadow. A presence. A shift in the air that sent a bolt of adrenaline through Cole’s spine before he even saw who it was.
Travis.
He moved fast—sharp, controlled, all business, and in a blink, he was there, stepping between Cole and Scarface like he’d always been there, like he’d seen this coming long before Cole had.
Scarface stilled.
His gaze jumped upward, up past Cole’s shoulder, past the sudden wall of solid muscle that had not been there a second ago.
Travis.
He was standing between them now, broad-shouldered and calm in that terrifying, effortless way that said I could break you in half, but I won’t—unless you make me.
Cole’s stomach fluttered like a whole bunch of butterflies had been let loose in there.
Scarface’s smirk faltered.
Travis tilted his head, in a slow, assessing motion. “Is there a problem here?” His voice was steady, deep, and laced with the kind of quiet authority that made it clear that he wasn’t asking.
Scarface’s fingers twitched as if debating whether to test the waters. But then he really took in the sheer size of Travis, the way he stood like an immovable force, the way his muscles tensed just enough to be a warning.
“I was just… warning your boyfriend about the neighborhood.”
The next thing he knew, Travis was reaching back. His hand landing firm and deliberate on Cole’s hip, fingers pressing just hard enough to make a point.
Cole froze.
Scarface’s gaze snapped to the touch. His lips curled, recognition dawning in an ugly way.
Travis didn’t hesitate.
He let out a slow, pointed breath, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he pulled Cole in just a fraction closer. Casual and possessive. Like it was natural.
Like it was real.
“Did…” Travis stopped for just a fraction of a second, “my boyfriend do anything wrong?”
Cole’s brain short-circuited.
Scarface blinked.
For a moment, just a second, the whole street was just way too silent. The words hung in the air, weighty, baiting, daring a response.
Scarface’s mouth twisted like he’d just swallowed a very bitter pill. “You should be careful on these streets. Both of you.”
Travis’s hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers curled in even harder against Cole’s waist. “We live here, and if anything happens to him, I’ll be coming for you.”
Cole should have been saying something. Should have been playing along, adding to the act. But his mouth was dry, a thick, heavy thud settled in his throat, and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything except the firm press of Travis’s grip. His heat. The sheer certainty in his stance, his voice.
Scarface gritted his teeth, his whole face scrunched unpleasantly, clearly weighing his options.
Travis didn’t budge.
Didn’t blink.
Just held his ground, the picture of unwavering, unshakable strength.
Scarface scoffed, shaking his head as if he found the whole thing disgusting.
Then he took a step back. “Watch your backs, boys.” Then he turned and walked away.
Travis didn’t waste a second.
His hand landed firmly on Cole’s arm—strong, steady, guiding—as he turned them both sharply away from the empty street. “Let’s go.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Cole barely had time to get his footing before Travis was leading him, pace brisk, steps precise. Not quite dragging, but not giving him a chance to argue, either.
Cole moved on instinct, following Travis’s lead, but his mind was elsewhere. Still back in that moment. Still caught in the press of Travis’s strong hand against his hip, the weight of fingers curled in just a little too much.