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Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 895 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 1-Taking a Chance on Happiness
- 2-Clink, Clink, Another Drink?
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- 2
Six days later
Tom placed a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter, and clearing his throat, he laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms. His joints gave a satisfying crack, and releasing his hands, he waggled his fingers theatrically over the typewriter’s keys before proceeding to type.
As far as the young officer was concerned, there was only one downside to policing; the mountains of paperwork that needed filling in on a daily basis. Offense Reports, Incident Reports, Arrest Reports, Accident Reports, every case required daily documentation, the demand for accurate reporting adding hours to each officer's day. It was a necessary and unfortunate part of the job, but Tom undertook the chore in the same way he tackled the other aspects of his career, with a tenacious diligence. He was a cop through and through, and he took pride in every facet of his work, even the tedious task of typing.
A rhythmic tap, tap, coupled with the occasional ping of the typewriter carriage echoed throughout the near-empty operations room. The tip of Tom’s tongue protruded from between his lips, a telltale sign he was focusing all his attention on the job at hand. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice a lone figure approach his desk, but when a piece of paper fluttered onto the scratched, wooden surface, his fingers froze, and snapping his head to the left, he watched as Booker continued walking across the room before disappearing into the stairwell.
Curiosity soon got the better of him and picking up the creased piece of paper, he unfolded it, revealing a message scrawled in Booker’s untidy hand.
Drinks tonight? Pick you up at seven.
A quiver of excitement rippled over Tom’s flesh, the sensation sending a delightful wave swirling through his stomach, the somersaulting undulation sparking flashes of heat in his groin. Since spending the night on Booker’s couch, he hadn’t had a chance to utter more than a few words to the enigmatic officer. But the note changed everything, Booker had asked him out, and even though he had no idea what that actually meant, his mind, body, and spirit immediately filled with a restless anticipation. He glanced up at the clock, his lip curling in annoyance when he registered the time. With less than an hour to finish his report, drive home, shower, and change, he doubted he would be ready by seven o’clock. His gaze returned to the typewriter, the Arrest Report mocking his conscience with its lack of completion. It would take him at least forty-five minutes to type up his statement in his usual, meticulous manner, leaving him a mere fifteen minutes to drive home. Not an impossible task, but only if he broke the law and drove above the speed limit. It was a Catch 22 situation. If he wanted to make it home on time, he needed to compromise his ethics. Therefore, he had a choice to make; type the report the following day, or risk tarnishing his perfect driving record. Either way, his moral compass would be spinning on its axis.
“Screw this,” he muttered under his breath, and pushing back his chair, he stood up. He had devoted too many years conforming to social pressure, and he was tired of the toll it had taken on him. From living up to his mother’s unrealistic expectations to proving himself worthy enough to follow in his deceased father’s footsteps, he seemed to spend his life seeking confirmation from those around him. While he rarely rebelled, in the last few days, he had felt a paradigm shift in consciousness, an awakening of the psyche. There was no longer the burning need to please, and although unexpected and rather traumatic, his intimate encounter with Booker had freed him from the stress of his virtuous life. He felt liberated, in the same way he had when he’d transformed from a strait-laced rookie officer to a somewhat cooler undercover cop. He sensed an aligning of his soul, an inner peace fighting to gain control over his spiritual turmoil. Despite his religious upbringing, he didn’t believe homosexuality was a sin, but it wasn’t always easy to stray from the gilded path of childhood conditioning. Nevertheless, he was a grown man, a freethinking individual, and he was prepared to take a chance on love, no matter how unconventional in the eyes of the church. Somehow, Booker had managed to weave a flirtatious web of intrigue, captivating his heart, and Tom’s desire to act was rapidly becoming a compulsion. While he wasn’t sure it was love, he needed to at least spend more time with the beguiling dark-haired officer so he could satisfy his own curiosity and lay to rest his uncertainty once and for all.
And so, with one last guilt-ridden look at his typewriter, he grabbed his jacket and walked from the chapel.
**
The hot, L.A. sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, lowering the temperature by several degrees. In less than an hour it would disappear behind the city’s skyline, its final breath a vibrant burst of orange and gold against a backdrop of paling blue sky. Day would transcend into night, the gloomy hues of dusk bringing the city’s colored neon signs to life, the flashing lights advertising shameless, adult fun. Strip clubs, massage parlors, and sex shops all thrived under cover of darkness, where people’s inhibitions disappeared along with the fading light. Friday night was, for most, the end of the working week, a time to forget the responsibility of paying bills and revel in the freedom afforded to those who lived in the land of opportunity. The city offered endless possibilities for anyone in pursuit of a good time. It was a virtual Arcadia of carefree singles, all looking to get laid, and on any given night, the aroma of sex mingled with the caustic stench of exhaust fumes.
Tom paced up and down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning the street with nervous anticipation. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, the gentle vibration increasing his anxiety, and when tendrils of dark thoughts began to weave their way through his mind, his uncertainty turned to full-blown panic. What if it were all a game, a cruel joke to make fun of him? Could Booker be that callous? Was he a marionette and Booker the puppeteer? Was the dark-haired officer pulling his strings just to get a laugh, making him the butt of everyone’s jokes?
A car horn sounded in the distance, startling him, and a hysterical laugh caught in the back of his throat. He was allowing his paranoia to get the better of him. Booker might be a lot of things, but Tom doubted he would go to that much trouble just to see him squirm.
Without warning, a vision of him squirming beneath the dark-haired officer’s naked, sweat-slicked body flashed into his mind, forcing another shaky laugh from his lips. He clamped a trembling hand over his mouth, the heat burning his face warming his fingers. His imagination was running away with him. Just because Booker had asked him out for drinks didn’t mean…
“Hey, Hanson! If you stand alone on a street corner, people are gonna think you’re a hooker.”
The low chuckle of amusement reflected in Booker’s voice resonated across the street, the laughter sounding much louder in Tom’s mind than it was in reality, and he instinctively ducked his head in embarrassment. Lost in thought, the young officer hadn’t seen the black Cadillac pull up to the opposite curb, and caught off guard, his blush deepened. He had no idea what had possessed him to stand on the sidewalk instead of letting Booker come up to his apartment. Since his birthday, behaving like a chump had become his new raison d'être, his humiliating faux pas bleeding his confidence as efficiently as water flowing down a drain. What was it about Booker that had him behaving like an asinine teenager? Did he feel inferior when in the company of a man who not only boasted film star good looks but an Adonis physique and a quirky sense of humor? Or was it something more obvious? The word infatuation came to mind whenever thoughts of the dark-haired officer entered Tom’s head. Perhaps that was all it was, an adolescent crush, a harmless...
The slam of a car door pulled the young officer from his reverie, and looking up, he watched as Booker crossed the street. The two men stood looking at each other for several moments before Tom broke the silence, a self-deprecating smile tilting his lips. “Looks like I still hold the number one position as the resident jackass.”
A broad grin spread across Booker’s face. “Do I make you nervous, Hanson?”
Tom bit down on his lower lip, his aura innocent yet strangely seductive. “A little,” he admitted in a quiet voice. “This is all kinda new to me.”
“Don’t worry,” Booker replied, a twinkle of amusement brightening his eyes. “I don’t bite… at least not on the first date.”
It was a silly joke devised to put Tom at ease, but the young officer was too jittery to recognize the casual attempt at humor. “Is that what this is?” he asked in a strained voice. “Are we on a date?”
Booker’s expression sobered, the sparkle in his eyes fading to a faint glimmer, and tilting his head to one side, he studied his friend’s flushed face. “Well, I guess that’s up to you, Tommy.”
The words, “Come for me, Tommy! Come for me!” echoed inside Tom’s mind, the vivid memory sending a jolt of arousal down the entire length of his cock. A moan rose in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down with a gulp, his cheeks once again flaming red. It was then everything became crystal clear. No matter how much he tried to deny it, his feelings for Booker were more than just infatuation. When he looked into the dark-haired officer’s eyes, the air whooshed from his lungs, leaving him breathless. A simple touch ignited a fiery ball in the pit of his stomach, fueling the flame in his heart, the glowing embers illuminating his soul. Yes, they were all metaphors written by a romantic fool, but the deep yearning keeping Tom awake at night was the real deal. He was falling in love, and he was falling hard.
With his head now admitting what his heart already knew, the tension flowed from Tom’s body, and a small, cheeky smile formed on his lips. “Then I guess we’re on a date.”
The dark-haired officer’s eyebrows arched in surprise, but in typical Booker fashion, he played it cool. “So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Tom’s grin widened, and putting his faith in the lap of the Gods, he stepped off the gilded path and onto the rocky road of self-discovery.
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Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained