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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- 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
- 10
- 11
- 12
*WARNING* Some readers may find the following chapter distressing.

Booker’s apartment was just how Tom had imagined it, small, messy, and filled with gym equipment. The young officer thought it reflected his friend’s insouciant personality perfectly, and as he looked around him, the casualness of his surroundings triggered a feeling of benign envy. But the morally innocuous emotion did not last long. He knew he was different and he accepted it, except on the odd occasion when he wished his life mirrored those of his coworkers. But those thoughts were mostly fleeting. After all, he’d had twelve years to acclimate to his situation, which was almost half his life.
“Here,” Booker smiled as he handed Tom a towel. “You can dry off in the bathroom while I find your clothes. I know they’re here somewhere.”
“Thanks,” Tom replied absently. But a moment later, the meaning of his friend’s words suddenly became apparent. “My clothes?”
A puddle of water formed around Booker’s feet as he hunted through some random garments piled in a heap on the floor. “Yeah. Um...I forgot to tell you, I took your clothes from the locker room the other night. Don’t worry, I had them cleaned. They’re as good as new...well, not new exactly ‘cause I’ve gotta say, Tommy, they’re about ready for the trash.”
Behind the teasing words, there was an underlying tone of friendship that brought a smile to Tom’s lips for the first time since his unceremonious dunking. “Hey, don’t disrespect the clothes,” he chuckled. “Not everyone can afford a fancy leather jacket.”
“Fancy?” Booker mouthed, one eyebrow arching in mock surprise, and grabbing a pair of jeans from the pile, he studied them for a moment before tossing them across the room. “Go dry off, Ralph Lauren, I’ll knock when I find your chic ensemble.”
The reference brought another smile to Tom’s lips. “I don’t know what's more disturbing, you knowing who Ralph Lauren is or you saying chic ensemble.”
Booker’s laugh rang out, the rakish guffaw creating life inside the drab apartment. But before he could retort with another witty comeback, Tom interrupted him. “Um...thanks for salvaging my clothes, Dennis. You really shouldn’t have bothered.”
Not one for praise, Booker shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t a big deal. Now go, you’re dripping water all over my expensive flooring.”
Tom glanced down at the ripped linoleum beneath his feet. Humor was obviously a facet of Booker’s personality, and he used it adroitly, and naturally to put others at ease. But the young officer couldn’t help but wonder if his friend also used it to deflect emotional pain by deferring it for another time; a time which may or may not, ever come. Over the last few days, he had come to realize there was a deeper, more complex side to the dark-haired officer’s character than first met the eye, giving him some hope their odd friendship could actually survive the test of time. It was a promising thought, but he didn’t dwell on it too much for fear of jinxing the one thing he craved the most.
Tossing the borrowed towel over his shoulder, he went in search of the bathroom. With only two doors to choose from, he played a game of ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe’ inside his head, which ultimately had him landing on the door to his left. With a fifty-fifty chance of being right, he stepped forward and opened the door. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face. For reasons unknown even to him, he had hoped he would get a glimpse inside Booker’s bedroom, but as fate would have it, he had picked the correct door. He glanced back at his friend and another smile graced his lips. Bent double with his backside in the air, Booker continued to fling items of clothing around the messy apartment. His sodden jeans hung low on his hips, revealing several inches of bum crack. The sight ignited an unexplained heat in Tom’s belly, and he quickly averted his gaze before Booker could catch him ogling his behind. Embarrassed, he hurried into the bathroom, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. The unfamiliar feeling so overcame him, he failed to latch the door, leaving it ajar several inches. It took a moment for the strange sensation to leave his body, and it was then he noticed he was shivering. Squatting down, his trembling fingers struggled to untie his laces, but after several frustrating attempts, he finally succeeded in unknotting the wet fibers. He pulled his boots off his feet and stared at the battered leather, a melancholy smile touching the corners of his lips. When he’d first joined the Jump Street program as a rookie cop, it was Judy who had taken him under her wing and helped kit him out so he looked like a high school student. She’d been unbelievably sweet and patient with him and yet he still hadn’t managed to let his guard down enough to accept her hand of friendship. On reflection, if he’d played his cards right, he could have had a brand-new start in life. But by the time he had felt ready to at least try and fit in, the damage was already done, and his reputation as a nervous, taciturn officer was cemented in stone. It was then he had given up trying, and although it still hurt when he was the only one not invited for drinks at the BoHo, in his heart, he knew he only had himself to blame. Funnily enough, he never held Will accountable for his solitary existence. He accepted responsibility because it was easier to acknowledge his own foibles than admit he was too afraid to stand up to his brother.
But dwelling on the past only helped to lower his spirits, and he was determined not to make the same mistake with Booker as he had with his other coworkers. Despite their ups and downs, he was beginning to feel more relaxed around the charismatic officer, and the idea of having a friend had awakened in him a long-forgotten desire to try harder. However, although it was a fresh and exciting prospect, he knew their friendship would have its limitations. But come hell or high water, he would find a way to make it work, at least until the hand of fate intervened.
The sound of Booker’s frustrated mutterings reached his ears, and placing his boots on the black and white tiled floor, he began the process of undressing. Once naked, he patted his goose-bumped flesh with the borrowed towel, carefully avoiding the tattoo of bruises covering his skin. He then turned his attention to his dripping hair, his fingers mindful of the hematoma on the back of his head. His preoccupation prevented him from hearing Booker’s triumphant yell, and unaware of the partially open door, he had no idea he was about to become the floor show.
With Tom’s clothing in hand, Booker tiptoed his way back across the room, his dripping clothes leaving a trail of water behind him. When he approached the bathroom, he pulled up short, his gaze zeroing in on the firm flesh of Tom’s bare buttocks framed within the crack of the open doorway. A licentious smile hovered over the dark-haired officer's lips, his dark eyes lingering on the erotic sight before a pang of guilt brought him to his senses. Tom was not just his friend, he was also his coworker, and coveting his naked body was neither morally nor professionally acceptable. Throughout his working life, he had kept his bisexuality a closely guarded secret, not through shame, but because he figured it was nobody’s business but his own. Discrimination was rife in the police department, and while he doubted Tom was homophobic, the last thing he wanted to do was give his new friend a reason not to trust him. And so, with one final glance, he stepped away from the door.
“FOUND ‘EM!” he shouted.
A moment passed before Tom stepped out of the bathroom, the fluffy blue towel wrapped securely around his narrow waist. It took all of Booker’s willpower not to focus on the purplish-blue contusion running the width of the young officer’s chest. But when Tom reached for his clothes, Booker noticed his bruised wrists, and without thinking, he lightly grasped his friend’s fingers so he could get a better look. “Jesus, Tom, did Parry and Shaw do this?”
The tenderness of Booker’s touch sent tiny shockwaves of pleasure through Tom’s body. Flustered, he pulled from Booker’s grasp, and crossing his arms protectively across his chest, he tucked his hands under his armpits before uncrossing his arms again and letting his hands fall to his side.
“Tom?” Booker pressed when he didn’t receive an answer.
With his face burning under the intensity of Dennis’ scrutiny, Tom shifted uncomfortably. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, his eyes carefully avoiding his friend’s concerned gaze. “I told you, they were just foolin’ around.”
Although Booker knew the young officer was lying, he made the conscientious decision not to pry any further. “Here,” he smiled as he handed him his clothes. “Get dressed, then I’ll order some takeout.”
Eager to make his escape, Tom hurried back into the bathroom and shut the door. Exhaling a weighty breath, he leaned against the wooden paneling and closed his eyes, his freshly laundered clothes clutched against his chest. If he weren’t careful, Booker would find out his secret, and any hopes of friendship would vanish on the winds of missed opportunity.
In need of some confidence, he pulled off the towel, and hurriedly dressed in his favorite McQuaid clothes. The costume helped ease some of the tension forming across his shoulders, but he was still uptight. Having never had takeout with a friend, he had no idea what was expected of him. Did he offer to pay or was it supposed to be Booker’s treat? Sweat prickled his upper lip and closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten. When he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of his pale face in the mirror, and he immediately berated himself. Tom McQuaid wasn’t a pussy like the image reflected in the glass, he was confident and robust, and he could deal with any situation, just like Booker. Although his McQuaid persona was nothing more than a fantasy, it was the pep talk he needed and closing his eyes again, he visualized his alter ego in his mind as he muttered the name McQuaid over and over until he felt the change wash over him. His eyes opened, and avoiding the mirror, he squared his shoulders and walked back into the living area before he had a chance to chicken out.
With his friend nowhere in sight, Tom perched on the edge of an easy chair, his fingers gripping the worn fabric arms. Barely a minute later, Booker strolled from the bedroom, his finely toned body now dressed in a white T-shirt and black jeans. Tom’s muscles instinctively tensed, his front teeth nervously worrying his lower lip. Socializing wasn’t his forte, and despite wearing his McQuaid face, he hoped he wouldn’t make a fool of himself like he had at Nino’s Café.
Ignoring Hanson's obvious unease, Booker headed toward the small kitchenette at the back of the apartment. “Chinese okay?” he called out, his hand rubbing a towel over his damp hair.
“Sure, that’d be great,” Tom smiled, and settling back in his chair, he tried to relax. It wasn’t easy, but he was determined to savor the moment, just in case it was the last time he ever shared a Chinese meal with someone who considered him their friend.
**
The slam of a door ripped Tom from his dream. His eyes flew open, and he instinctively stared at the chink of light shining under his door, his muscles rigid, his ears tuned for any telltale signs his brother was approaching. A loud smash followed by a string of angry expletives had him shuddering, and shutting his eyes, he attempted to silence the unwanted thoughts swirling inside his head. In need of comfort, he reached under his pillow and rubbed the soft material of Booker’s sweatshirt between his thumb and forefinger. Since his assault at the chapel two days earlier, he had kept his partner’s sweats secreted in his bed. It was his equivalent of a toddler’s blankey, the soothing texture helping to ease his anxiety. But while the childish crutch embarrassed him, his mind refused to question why it was Booker’s clothing that provided him with the security he craved. Therefore, he remained blissfully unaware of the reasons behind his choice of comfort because to psychoanalyze the symbolism would undoubtedly reveal a part of his personality he was not yet ready to explore.
The creak of the bedroom door alerted Tom to Will’s presence, the light from the living room suffusing his lids with an orange glow. Behind him, the mattress depressed, and he held his breath, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Panic welled inside him, the pressure building like a geyser, inflating inside his ribs until he was sure his chest would explode. He waited...terrified...hoping against hope nothing would happen, but when he heard the familiar chh of wood sliding on wood, he knew his prayers had once again gone unanswered. Unable to move, unable to speak, he listened to the disturbing sound of a hand rummaging through the bedside bureau. Moments later, the wooden drawer slammed shut, the force shaking the metal-framed photograph standing on top of the dresser. Silence thickened the air...heavy...expectant, a cruel precursor to what was to follow. Several minutes passed before the groaning started, and screwing his eyes closed, his mind started screaming, “No! No! No!” over and over, his futile mantra blocking out the coital vocalizations. But when an intimate hardness pressed against him, he knew he had lost the battle, and a single tear slid down his cheek.
“Can I stick it in, Tom-Tom?” Will murmured, the wispy threads of his beer-soaked breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of Tom’s neck. “I wanna stick it in.”
Tom’s body stiffened, and in an instant, he was transported back in time to when he was a frightened eleven-year-old child who was too confused and defenseless to voice his objection. And in nearly twelve years, nothing had changed. Even as an adult, he was still emotionally ill-equipped to deal with the abuse, but most terrifying of all, he felt obliged to consent. Will had taken care of him ever since their father had died and their mother had ceased to care, and as a shy and sensitive sixth grader, he’d needed his brother’s love more than anything in the world. But what had started out as fraternal affection, had quickly escalated into molestation. Will was three and a half years older, powerfully built, and with the heavy burden of worry and responsibility wearing him down, he had developed a chip the size of Everest on his shoulder. As their mother slowly drank herself to death, he had taken on two part-time jobs to help make ends meet, all while still attending school. At barely fifteen years of age, he had felt cheated out of a childhood where all his friends were playing baseball and dating girls. Abandoned by both parents, he’d looked for comfort from the only other person close to him; his brother. He had never meant to take it so far, but when Tom didn’t resist, his juvenile mind saw it as a green light to continue. Over the years, he’d managed to justify it to himself and to him, it had become the norm. But for Tom, it was a nightmare he was unable to wake up from, and the guilt and shame festering inside his soul were slowly destroying him. Forbidden to wear boxers at night, his body was always accessible. But after so long, he was too physically and emotionally battered to fight back, and so, the cycle of abuse continued, week after week, month after month, year after year, until all that was left was acceptance.
Will’s hand pushed against Tom’s unyielding body. “Aw, c’mon, Tom-Tom,” he cajoled, his soft, persuasive voice still managing to send chills of panic down Tom’s spine. “I promise I’ll only keep it in for a minute.”
As his brother forcefully maneuvered his bent leg toward his chest, Tom started to zone out. It was a trick he’d learned early on as a child. He would retreat way down into the darkest depth of self and stay there until the abuse ended. It was a sensory version of ‘Anywhere but here.’ His mind would shut down, and he would transport himself to another place, another time, when life was happy and free from pain. It was a form of escapism common with victims of assault, and the only coping mechanism he knew. His choice of fantasy was simple; his mother and father were still alive, and he was safe, and loved, and living the life of an average American boy.
“Good boy, Tom-Tom,” Will crooned, a shiver of arousal running down the length of his spine as he pushed his oil-slicked erection into Tom’s anus. “Oh, fuck, you’re such a good boy.”
Tom, however, remained too deeply embedded in his fantasy to react to the trauma of the incestuous act. The violent rocking of his body became the lurch of a yacht, its bow dipping and rising across the face of white-capped waves; the nasal pants the flap of the spinnaker fluttering in the breeze. It was a recollection of when he was eleven, and his family had vacationed in Florida over the Labor Day weekend. They’d spent their days on the ocean, their nights playing board games at their rented beach house. For Tom, it was one of his happiest memories, and he treasured it for its simplicity. As a family of four living on a police officer’s wage, vacations were a rare treat, and the trip to the Florida Keys was their last. A mere five months later, Thomas Hanson had died, shot in a diner on Valentine’s Day. It was then the boys’ world had imploded. Their mother drowned her pain in the bottom of a vodka bottle, eventually succumbing to the effects of booze and prescription medication less than a year later. By then, Tom’s abuse had already become a regular part of his life, and with his mom gone, it soon became a whole lot worse. The genital fondling quickly escalated to full sexual intercourse, leaving his twelve-year-old body bloody and raw. He’d attempted to control the after-bleeding by stuffing toilet paper down his underwear, but he wasn’t always successful. Not that Will, his Aunt Susan, or anyone else noticed. It was his own private shame and one he lived with every day.
“Oh...God,” Will puffed, his shallow breaths punctuating the air. “Oh...my...fucking...God.”
Although Tom’s mind had buried itself in the annals of his memories, his body was not immune to the physical stimulation. It was an inherent reaction, an intrinsic reflex that had passed down through the generations since the dawn of man. His erection pressed against the mattress, each measured thrust from behind creating friction between flesh and cotton. Pre-cum bubbled from the tip of his cockhead, the viscous fluid staining the pale blue sheet below. He was close to ejaculating, and yet the gratification would never register in his mind. He was nothing more than a robot responding to a pre-programmed command. He was, in his mind, his brother’s toy.
With his orgasm rising, Will’s hips began a succession of uncontrolled pistoning thrusts, the upward movement forcing his cock deeper inside Tom’s rigid body. “Yes...yes...yes...I’m gonna...I’m gonna...ohh.”
A jet of warm semen shot inside Tom, his rectum filling with his brother’s seed. Moments later, his own body betrayed him, and without uttering a sound, he climaxed against the mattress. But once the pleasure waves pulsating through his body subsided, a switch flicked on in his mind, jolting him back to consciousness. Inhaling a sharp breath, his eyes flew open, his panicked gaze darting frantically around the room. Little by little, full awareness dawned, and stifling a sob, he screwed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the throbbing in his anus. He’d allowed ‘it’ to happen again, leaving him feeling ashamed and worthless. He was nothing more than a whore, and for the thousandth time in his short life, he wished he’d never been born.
“Thank you, Tom-Tom,” Will sighed against the sweaty nape of Tom’s neck, and withdrawing his softening penis, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
Tom lay beside his brother, too numb to move, to breathe, to show any signs of life. But eventually, the switch in his mind turned off, and once again, he sank back into the welcome oblivion of his memories, the soft material of Booker’s sweats still grasped in his hand.
- 10
- 11
- 12
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Cries of a Shadow