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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- 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
- 9
- 10
- 11
Friday October13^th 1989 (9.58 p.m.)
After leaving the apartment, Booker had reluctantly abandoned his Cadillac in a narrow alleyway while Tom went in search of a car. Despite the ex-officer’s reassurances, he was fairly certain he would never see his beloved vehicle again but it was a price he was willing to pay to help out his… friend? Nemesis? Ex co-worker? The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no idea how to label his and Hanson’s relationship; all he knew for certain was what he wanted it to be. However, that longing was an unattainable dream, Tom would never be his lover, no matter how hard he wished for it and there was no use kidding himself. He needed to put all his lustful thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on what was important… getting Tom clean.
When Hanson pulled up several minutes later in a stolen sedan, the full force of what he was doing hit him hard and he remained frozen to the pavement. The blare of the horn pulled him out of his reverie and jumping slightly, he peered through the window. Tom sat in the driver’s seat gesturing impatiently with his hand and he knew it was now or never; he could walk away and go back to his life or he could go on the run with the man he adored.
Walking around to the driver’s side, he yanked open the door. “I’m driving.”
“How come you get to drive?” Tom asked with a childish pout. “I boosted the car, I should be the one to—”
“No way,” Booker replied in a flat voice, “I’m not going anywhere with you behind the wheel. If you want me to come along, then I drive.”
Tom’s lower lip protruded further and at that very moment, he looked so beautiful it took all of Booker’s willpower not to bend down and suck on the inviting flesh. But he quickly shook the thought from his mind and grabbing Hanson by the arm, he hauled him out of the car. “You can navigate.”
A cheeky smile spread over Tom’s face. “Sure thing Officer,” he smirked and walking around the sedan, he climbed into the passenger seat.
A heavy scowl creased Booker’s brow. He did not need reminding that he was an officer of the law and what he was doing was anything but lawful. “Don’t call me that,” he growled.
Tom grinned to himself. Pissing Booker off was the most fun he had experienced in a very long while, but there was an ulterior motive for his teasing. His craving for a hit was becoming an issue and if he could keep himself entertained, he was less likely to feel the effects of his withdrawal.
****
Saturday October14^th 1989 (12.11 a.m.)
Two hours later, a moody silence had replaced Tom’s taunting banter. He was jittery, feeling irritable and his bones and muscles ached, which were all signs that his body was going into withdrawal. When Booker pulled up outside a motel, he let out a sigh; all he needed to do was patiently wait for the dark haired officer to fall asleep and he could go in search of a dealer.
While Booker paid for a room, he waited beside the car and glanced around at their surroundings. They were in what appeared to be a quiet part of San Diego and he wondered if Booker had chosen that particular location on purpose. Quiet meant very little crime and very little crime meant very few drug dealers. It was a blow to his already agitated mind. He needed a fix, something… anything to take the edge off his symptoms and when he realized he might not get the relief he craved, the hand of panic gripped at his heart, slowly squeezing it in its tendril-like fingers until he started to hyperventilate. If he did not get something into his system soon, his body would go into full-blown withdrawal, and the thought terrified him.
When Booker returned with a room key, he saw Tom leaning heavily against the hood of the sedan, struggling to catch his breath. He did not need a doctor to know what was happening; Tom was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.
Moving forward, he placed a hand on Hanson’s quivering shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
“FUCK OFF!” Tom snapped crossly and picking up his bag, he snatched the key from Booker’s hand and strode across the parking lot. Reaching the room, he struggled to insert the key in the lock, but because his hands were shaking uncontrollably, it slipped from his fingers and with a frustrated yell, he angrily kicked at the door. “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!”
Booker bent down and calmly picked up the key. “Yeah,” he smiled, “that door’s a real sonofabitch.”
Tom did not find Booker’s statement the least bit humorous and when the door opened, he pushed roughly past him and barged into the room. Tossing his bag onto the double bed, he began to pace across the rose-patterned carpet as his distress intensified. Booker walked in and closing the door, he surveyed the room. He knew what he had to do and he quickly scoped out a suitable area before stating, “I need to go out and get supplies.”
It was the moment Tom had been waiting for and he knew he needed to play it cool so as not to arouse any suspicion. Flopping down onto the bed, he picked up the remote and flicked on the TV. “Okay,” he replied calmly, “and while you’re out, maybe grab us something to eat.”
A small knowing smile played over Booker’s lips as he moved towards the bed. “It’s pretty late,” he stated as he carefully reached for his handcuffs, “but I might be able to find a pizza bar that’s still open.”
“Whatever,” Tom replied as he stared at the television. “As long as it’s— HEY!”
Booker quickly snapped the cuff around Tom’s wrist and before the younger man could react, he secured the adjoining manacle to one of the metal rails adorning the headboard. “It’s for your own protection,” he advised in a soft voice.
Tom’s eyes flashed furiously and struggling to a sitting position, he attempted to pull his hand free. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” he screamed and the more trapped he felt, the more his hysteria increased. “LET ME GO! YOU’VE NO FUCKING RIGHT YOU PRICK! LET… ME… GO!”
A heavy sadness filled Booker’s heart but he kept his resolve. “I can’t,” he replied quietly, “because if I do, you’ll be out the door looking for a fix. I’m doing this for you Tommy, I—”
“BULLSHIT!” Tom yelled with such force that spittle flew from his lips. “BULL… FUCKING… SHIT! YOU’RE ENJOYING THIS! YOU’RE FUCKING ENJOYING IT!”
A dark cloud flashed across Booker’s eyes and stepping forward, he glared angrily down at Tom. “Enjoying it?” he seethed through clenched teeth. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve put my career on the line for you… again! No one gives a fuck about you except me… ME! So why don’t you quit your sniveling and start thanking me, you selfish, ungrateful prick!”
A heavy silence hung in the air until Tom finally spoke. “I hate you,” he muttered in a petulant voice and rolling onto his side as best he could, he curled into the fetal position and closed his eyes.
“Yeah? Well stiff shit,” Booker replied in a flat voice and turning away, he stormed from the room.
****
Saturday October14^th 1989 (1.26 a.m.)
When Booker returned to the motel, he found Tom curled up on the bed, shaking violently. He put down the bag of toiletries he had bought and carried a couple of vending machine sandwiches over to the bed. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly.
Tom’s eyes remained closed as he slowly shook his head. “I feel sick,” he mumbled miserably.
Placing the sandwiches on the chest of drawers, Booker took out a key and unlocking the cuff from the headboard, he placed it around his own wrist and snapped it closed. Hearing the click, Tom’s eyelids fluttered open and staring up at Booker, he held his trembling hand up in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?” he muttered.
Booker’s expression remained serious. “No, I’m not.”
Too tired to argue, Tom closed his eyes again and let out an irritable sigh. “Fine, I’ll let you have your fantasy, you sick pervert.”
An eruption of anger coursed through Booker’s body and yanking at Hanson’s wrist, he pulled him into an upright position. “Since when did you become such a homophobic prick?” he growled into Tom’s startled face. “Is it when you started letting men fuck you? Huh? Is that it? Does it make you feel like less of a whore when you insult me?”
Tears of pain and fatigued filled Tom’s dark eyes and his lower lip started to wobble. “I’m sorry,” he spluttered as the tears trickled down his cheeks. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Seeing the distress on Hanson’s face, Booker immediately felt a pang of remorse. “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” he sighed, “this whole situation is kinda freaking me out. I didn’t mean to call you—”
“Don’t say it again,” Tom whispered, his teary eyes clouding over with pain. “I know what I am, I don’t need you reminding me.”
Booker’s heart thudded painfully and reaching out a hand, he tenderly brushed Tom’s long bangs from his face. “Get some sleep.”
Tom sniffed loudly and lying back down, he drew his legs up to his chest and wrapping his unrestrained arm around them, he closed his eyes.
With his appetite now gone, Booker lay down and staring up at the ceiling, he listened to the mindless chatter on the television until he too, finally drifted into oblivion.
****
Saturday October14^th 1989 (6.16 a.m.)
With a soft click, Booker attached the handcuff to the bed and rising carefully from the mattress, he gazed down at Tom’s sleeping face. They had spent a fitful night cuffed together, with Tom’s withdrawal sickness growing steadily worse as the hours slowly ticked by. He was now suffering from stomach cramps and severe sweating, making sleep almost elusive. But as dawn broke over the horizon and a soft light filtered in through the ill-fitting curtains, he had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, although his body continued to tremble as it went through its violent withdrawal.
Getting slowly to his feet, Booker wandered sleepily into the bathroom and closed the door. After relieving his aching bladder, he stepped into the shower and turned on the faucets until a warm spray cascaded over his tired body. He felt tense, his neck and shoulders aching from the tension in his body and reaching down, he ran his fingers over his flaccid cock. He knew it was inappropriate but more than anything, he needed release and as his cock lengthened beneath his touch, he let out a low moan. Visions of Tom lying naked and vulnerable filled his mind and making a fist, he began to pump his hand over his burgeoning erection. The words, “Fine, I’ll let you have your fantasy, you sick pervert,” silently taunted him but it in no way dampened the internal fire that burned in his loins. Tom was his fantasy and he made no apology for it. Everyone had their own dirty little daydream… the man lying in the next room just happened to be his.
“Tommy,” he groaned softly and with a suppressed cry, he shot his semen over the tiled wall. His body tingled from head to foot as his orgasm shuddered throughout his body and lowering his head, he struggled to catch his breath. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and a post-climactic calm washed over him. But as his heartbeat slowed and the pounding in his ears lessened, a small frown creased his brow. Seconds later, he was running from the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, he charged into the bedroom to find Tom screaming hysterically, his face bright red with humiliation as he frantically pulled at the manacle around his wrist. “LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! YOU BASTARD! LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!”
Booker stared with wide eyes at the urine soaked bed sheet and his heart once again began to hammer in his chest. He had become so caught up in his own sexual gratification that he had not heard Tom frantically yelling that he needed to go to the bathroom, and unable to free himself from the handcuffs, he had lost control of his bladder. “Oh Jesus Tom,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear—”
“WHY?” Tom cried, as tears of shame spilled from his eyes. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Booker answered in a shaky voice. “I was in the shower and I didn’t hear you.”
Covering his face with his free hand, Tom began to sob uncontrollably, his thin shoulders trembling violently with his grief. Booker quickly grabbed the key from the small table and squatting down on the floor, he unlocked the cuff that he had attached to the bed. Tom instantly staggered to his feet and stumbling blindly across the room, he entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with such force, the painting above the bed rattled on its hook.
“Shit,” Booker muttered to the empty room and balling up the sodden bed linen, he threw it to the floor. He had embarrassed Tom in the most degrading way possible and he wondered if the ex-cop would ever be able to forgive him.
****
Saturday October14^th 1989 (9.04 a.m.)
Tom spent the next few hours alone in the bathroom. He managed to shower but as the withdrawal sickness continued to ravage his already weakened body, he found his strength rapidly declining and desperate for comfort, he crawled out of the bathroom on his hands and knees. “Dennis,” he moaned, as a sharp pain wracked his body, “please help me.”
Booker glanced up from the newspaper he was reading and a look of genuine concern flashed in his dark eyes. “Oh Tom,” he murmured sadly and moving across the room, he helped his friend to his feet and guided him over to the freshly made bed. “I know it’s tough but you’ll get through this.
“When?” Tom bleated softly before grimacing with pain as another cramp shook his body.
“Soon,” Booker reassured quietly. “I promise.”
****
Saturday October14^th 1989 (3.14 p.m.)
“I CAN’T DO THIS!” Tom screamed wildly from where he was crouched in a corner of the room. “I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME! I HATE YOU!”
Booker let out a weary sigh. “I didn’t do it to you Tom, you did. All I’m trying to do is help you.”
“NO YOU’RE NOT!” Tom yelled irrationally in reply. “IF YOU CARED ABOUT ME YOU’D NEVER MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS! I’M DYING! CAN’T YOU SEE? I’M DYING!”
“No you’re not,” Booker replied quietly. “You’re withdrawing. It’s tough, I know, but it’s the only way.”
“Fuck you!” Tom spat, his violently quivering body slamming against the wall behind him. “Get the fuck out of my sight. I hate you! I fucking hate you!”
Tired of all the abuse, Booker stood up. He had no qualms about leaving Tom uncuffed, the younger man could barely crawl to the bathroom, let alone go outside. “Fine,” he grunted gruffly. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” and picking up the key, he walked out the door.
- 9
- 10
- 11
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Chasing a Butterfly