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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
- 12
- 13
- 14
Sunday October 15^th 1989 (10.08 a.m.)
Booker sat on the bed, gently dabbing at the bloody wound on the back of his head with the end of the crumpled bed sheet. He had woken up on the floor, the feeling of disorientation making his stomach lurch and it had taken several minutes until he felt steady enough to get to his feet. As he surveyed the empty room, he had tried to piece together what had happened and it did not take long for him to realize that Tom had knocked him out before fleeing. It was a painful insight into his own naïveté but now that the truth had been laid bare, he had no choice but to accept it. Every word out of Hanson’s mouth had been a lie, every gesture an act to gain sympathy and as much as it hurt, he had to be honest with himself; Tom was a master manipulator and he had played him big time.
However, an hour after waking up, he still had no idea what he should do. He could not erase the love in his heart with one cleansing swipe. What he felt for Tom was too deep, too ingrained to let go in one fell swoop. He needed time to grieve his loss before he could move on with his life. But even then, he knew there would be a piece of his soul forever devoted to the beautiful man who had stolen his heart.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was facing a moral conundrum, should he protect Tom or chase him down and arrest him? It was the sixty-four thousand dollar question that had his throbbing head whirring in confusion and his heart aching with indecision. He was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.
A loud crash pulled him from his thoughts and with a start, his eyes flew open to see Harry and two uniformed officers storming into the room. “Ioki?” he muttered in bewilderment. “How did you find me?”
Striding across the floor, Harry sat on the bed and surveyed the damage to the back of Booker’s head. “You need to go to the hospital,” he stated in a no nonsense voice.
As Harry’s fingers probed his aching skull, Booker winced in pain and pulled away. “I’m okay,” he muttered irritably, “it’s just a little knock to the head.”
Ioki’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “He seems to be making a habit of that.”
Unable to follow the gist of the conversation, Booker tried desperately to clear his muddled mind. “Who’s doing what now?” he mumbled.
“Hanson,” Harry replied grimly. “He knocks me out, kidnaps you for God knows what reason, then realizing he’s in too deep, he pistol whips you on the back of the head and runs. We’re lucky he slipped up, otherwise we’d have more victims on our hands. He’s getting dangerous.”
“Slipped up?” Booker queried in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
A smug smile played over Harry’s lips. “He tried to rob a convenience store, but he was sloppy and the local cops caught him red handed. Once he realized the game was up, he spilled the beans about who he was and the San Diego police called us. I caught the next plane here and he told me where to find you. Now we get to take him back to L.A. and watch the D.A. prosecute him for negligent homicide, drug dealing, assault and kidnapping. It’s gonna be like Christmas.”
As the meaning of Ioki’s words penetrated his addled brain, all of Booker’s reservations about helping Tom flew out the window. His eyes widened in horror and as he slowly shook his aching head from side to side, he struggled to voice a cohesive argument. “No… you’ve got it wrong… he didn’t… is he okay?”
Ioki snorted in amusement. “The sonofabitch is going through withdrawal. He’s in a pretty bad way… not that anyone cares.”
Booker reached out a hand and grabbed at Ioki’s sleeve. “You have to help him,” he pleaded in a desperate voice. “He’s suffering Harry, he needs a doctor.”
A deep frown creased Ioki’s brow and he gave Booker a quizzical look. “After everything he did to you, you’re still protecting him,” he stated quietly. “I think you’re the one who needs to see a doctor, that knock to your head has made you delusional.”
Booker’s dark eyes filled with pain and ashamed by his show of emotion, he quickly lowered his gaze. “He used to be your friend,” he murmured softly. “Why do you hate him so much?”
Ioki’s fingers instinctively stroked the scar hidden beneath his shirt. “He used to be a lot of things,” he replied in a flat voice. “But now he’s just a criminal and the last time I checked, my job description was pretty clear; get the bad guys off the street.”
Booker opened his mouth to protest but he was too exhausted to argue and so he closed it again. The harsh reality of the situation was slowly sinking in and he felt impotent and worthless. Tom was facing multiple charges and despite his recent actions, Booker knew he could not sit back and watch the man he loved take the fall; he had no choice, he had to help him.
Lifting his gaze, he gave his partner a resolute look. “I want to see him.”
****
Sunday October 15^th 1989 (11.19 a.m.)
A crippling stomach cramp had Tom doubled over in pain and crawling on his hands and knees to the stainless steel toilet in his cell, he threw up. His muscles continued to spasm as the cramps racked his weakened body and clutching the bowl for support, he emitted a low groan. Never had he experienced such an unrelenting sickness and he honestly did not know how much more he could take.
From the corner of the police cell, a low laugh penetrated through his pain and lifting his head, he glared at his cellmate. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
The man’s laughter froze on his lips and his ice blue eyes flashed dangerously. “What did you say, you little punk?” he growled.
Tom spat into the bowl and glowered back boldly. “You heard me… asshole.”
For a large man, Leroy ‘Tank’ Manning was extremely agile and within seconds, he was on his feet and had a beefy hand around Tom’s throat. “I dare you to say that again,” he muttered in a low, threatening voice and pushing Tom onto the floor, he slowly squeezed at the long column of his neck.
“Fu…ck you ass…hole,” Tom spluttered defiantly.
Manning let out a yell of anger and picking Tom up, he threw him onto the narrow bunk. With a loud crack, Tiom's head ricocheted off the wall, knocking him into a daze. As he struggled to sit up, a pair of huge callused hands flipped him onto his stomach and held him in a vice-like grip. “Oh you’re in for a world of pain pretty boy,” Manning snarled and before Tom could react, his jeans and boxers were around his ankles.
“NO!” he yelled in terror and as his flight response kicked in, he began to violently struggle against Leroy’s iron grip. “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! DON’T! DON’T!”
“Lie still,” Leroy growled, and yanking down his zipper, he freed his enormous cock. He had been watching Tom for the past half hour, stroking himself to hardness in readiness and the time had come to claim his prize. Grabbing a handful of Hanson’s hair, he pushed the smaller man’s face forcefully into the mattress, immediately muffling his cries.
“GEROFFME!” Tom screamed hysterically into the foul-smelling bedding but his words quickly transformed into a high-pitched shriek of pain when Leroy rammed his cock deep inside his unprepared anus.
A loud rasping wheeze sounded throughout the tiny cell as Leroy pounded his huge erection in and out of Tom’s rectum. Without the use of lubrication, his frantic thrusting tore through Tom’s muscles, slicking his cock with his victim’s blood but the sight only served to stimulate the big man’s sexual appetite and letting out an excited chuckle, he leaned in close, his rancid breath assaulting Tom’s nostrils. “That’s it pretty boy,” he whispered against Hanson’s cheek, “bleed for papa… I wanna hear you moan.”
With Leroy’s meaty hand pressing his face into the mattress, Tom fought to draw breath. A raw pain ripped through the lower half of his body and his insides blazed as the invasive cock ignited an unseen flame that continuously burned with every vicious thrust. His breath hitched in his throat and panic crippled his weakened body. He was going to die on a filthy mattress, smothered to death by the man who was violating him in the most degrading way imaginable… and no one would care because it was what he deserved.
Blinding tears spilled from his terrified eyes but he was too frail to defend himself from the depravation of the rape and as his lungs screamed for life-giving oxygen, a vision of Booker flashed into his mind and he let out a strangled moan. “Denn-isss.”
A guttural yell sounded from the heavens and warm semen flooded his body, infecting him with a part of his abuser’s essence. Seconds later, Leroy’s hulking frame collapsed on top of him, pushing his face further into the mattress and with a final desperate gasp for air, the hand of darkness pulled him into a welcomed oblivion.
****
Sunday October 15^th 1989 (1.36 p.m.)
Harry had insisted Booker go to the hospital and after an anxious wait, the dark haired officer was finally given the all clear on the proviso he take it easy for a couple of days. But for Booker, rest was not an option. He needed answers to the barrage of questions swirling in his mind and only one person could give them to him… Tom.
Arriving at the police station, a grim-faced officer gave them the news. “He’s in the hospital.”
Believing that Tom was getting medical treatment for his drug withdrawal, Booker let out a relieved sigh, but when he registered the man’s tense expression, his heart began to hammer in his chest. “Why?” he asked in a strained voice.
Unable to meet Booker’s questioning gaze, the officer shuffled some paperwork on his desk. “He was sexually assaulted,” he mumbled awkwardly.
Shaking his head slightly, Booker gave the man a disbelieving look. “He was what?”
A sense of foreboding settled over Ioki and he gently grasped his friend’s arm. “Dennis…” he murmured softly.
Flinching away from the contact, Booker pointed a finger at the frightened officer behind the counter and when he spoke, the pitch of his voice rose in agitation. “No! I want him to repeat what he said!”
The young police officer’s eyes widened in fear. “Um… there was an incident in the cells and… well… prisoner Hanson was raped.”
Booker’s eyes burned like hot coals and throwing himself forward, he screamed into the startled cop’s face. “RAPED? HOW THE FUCK COULD HE GET RAPED?”
Ioki laid a warning hand on Dennis’ shoulder. “Booker you need to calm down.”
“CALM DOWN? CALM DOWN?” Booker shrieked hysterically at Harry. “TOMMY WAS RAPED! HE WAS FUCKING RAPED! JESUS CHRIST I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! HOW THE FUCK COULD THIS HAPPEN?”
A nervous tic twitched at the corner of the duty officer’s right eye. “The cells were full, he was doubling up with another prisoner and I guess we didn’t hear him yelling for help.”
“YOU GUESS?” Booker yelled in disbelief and with blazing eyes, he spun around and slammed his fist into the wall. “FUUUCK!”
A dramatic silence followed his outburst, the deafening quietude eerily out of place in the busy precinct. But as the regular hustle and bustle returned to the station, Booker placed his bloody hand on the counter and with a self-restraint he did not know he possessed, he addressed the startled officer through clenched teeth. “What hospital?”
****
Sunday October 15^th 1989 (1.48 p.m.)
When an ER doctor inserted a finger deep into his rectum, Tom stared blankly out in front of him, his expression an emotionless mask. He did not utter a sound as the digit probed his damaged body because he was dead inside and dead men did not speak. The young doctor reassured him in a kind, gentle voice, but his mind did not register the words because dead men did not hear and when a nurse stepped forward and punctured his skin with a needle, drawing his blood into a glass syringe, he did not flinch because dead men did not feel. Leroy Manning was his executioner, he had skillfully removed the last shred of his dignity, slicing it away as effectively as a guillotine’s blade and all that was left was a corpse, a lifeless effigy of his former self. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he was, for all intents and purposes, deceased.
So when a gentle hand brushed his sweaty hair from his pale face and a trembling voice spoke soft, comforting words, he remained locked in a physical and emotional vacuum, completely oblivious to the tears streaming down Booker’s face.
- 12
- 13
- 14
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Chasing a Butterfly