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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?
- 1
- 2
A light wave of chatter undulated throughout the bar, the cheerful voices creating a welcoming ambiance without intruding on Tom and Dennis’ conversation. It was a relaxing environment, open and friendly, yet affording them the intimacy Booker craved. He wanted to get to know Hanson better, and not just in a sexual way. Despite working together, he knew very little about the young officer’s past, and he longed to fill in the blanks so he could understand what made him tick. Curiosity was his curse, and he felt an insatiable desire to know everything about a person. Many accused him of narcissism, but he was, in fact, the exact opposite. People stirred inside him an almost voyeuristic interest; their complexity of mind a constant source of fascination. He could while away countless hours people watching, silently observing their interactions, his active imagination keeping him amused as he psychoanalyzed their various behaviors. Since meeting Tom, he had spent many a lonely night creating visual stories in his mind, while his talented fingers stroked his cock to hardness. He even fabricated fantasies involving the officer’s sexual preferences, which usually contained visions of bondage and whipped cream. He had become so proficient in believing his make-believe world, he almost felt as though he and Tom were in an intimate relationship. Except it was all a lie. He knew nothing about the beautiful man sitting across from him, but all that was about to change. They were alone, free from the prying eyes of their fellow Jump Street officers, and he would finally get his answers, satisfying his fantasies once and for all.
“So,” he murmured, a lazy plume of smoke exhaling from his nostrils. “What are you into, Hanson?”
Picking up his beer, Tom raised it to his lips. “Into?”
A cheeky smile twitched at the corners of Booker’s mouth. While he did want to know about Tom’s past, he couldn’t resist having a little fun along the way. “You know, what makes you horny? Kink, toys, bondage, threesomes? Or are you more of a Barry White and candles kinda guy?”
Shocked by the question, Tom choked on his beer, the amber liquid spraying from between his lips. “Wh-what?” he spluttered, his eyes bulging in surprise. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Booker butted out his cigarette. “Were you ever a boy scout?”
The odd change of subject had Tom’s brow furrowing in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Relaxing back in his chair, Booker smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, like a boy scout, I’m all about being prepared.”
Unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered, Tom stared open-mouthed at his date, his blank expression resembling that of the animated character Cletus Spuckler. But he eventually found his voice, and rather than rising to the bait, he mustered all his inner calm and threw Booker an engaging smile. “Then I guess you’re in for a few surprises.”
It was Booker’s turn to express astonishment, his eyes widening in shock. But the look was fleeting, and his face soon relaxed into a grin. “I can’t wait,” he replied with an impish wink.
Caught in the enchantment of the moment, Tom’s eyelashes fluttered in a flirtatious, come-hither manner. He wasn’t sure why Booker’s mischievous smile left him aching in all the right places, all he did know for certain was he liked it. It had been a long time since someone had taken the time to seduce him, and it made a pleasant change from the usual wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, detachment of casual sex. Not that he was a sure thing, he wasn’t, especially now he was interested in batting for the other team. But he could feel Booker drawing him in with his dark, inviting gaze, and despite his cautious nature, he wasn’t resisting. His curiosity was evolving, and he was willing to take it up a notch, if and when the opportunity arose.
When a hand reached across the table and grasped his fingers in a tender hold, he jumped involuntarily, surprise raising his eyebrows. Smiling, Booker rubbed his thumb over the back of the young officer’s hand, his amusement evident by the sparkle in his eyes. “I really do make you nervous, don’t I, Hanson.”
It was a statement, not a question, so Tom didn’t reply. Instead, he relaxed his muscles and took pleasure from the gentle caress. A pleasant tingle started low in his belly, working its way down before igniting a spark of arousal that sent a flare of heat through his groin. But the moment was spoiled when another hand came out of nowhere, the meaty fist slamming down on the table, the force of the blow spilling their drinks.
“Get a fuckin’ room, faggots,” the owner of the hand growled, his unfocused eyes staring drunkenly into Tom’s startled face. “I don’t wanna see no butt pirates making kissy faces at each other.”
The delightful tingle in Tom’s gut lurched into a swirling cesspool of shame, the churning sickness rising into his throat. It was his first time on the receiving end of a homophobic taunt, and he snatched his hand away, embarrassment squeezing at his heart, sending it into an arrhythmic flutter. With their curiosity piqued, dozens of pairs of eyes watched on in interest, but no one came to the young officers’ aid. Jimmy ‘The Jab’ Fitzpatrick was a thug, a fearless fighter, a man whose savage right hook could have seen him rise through the ranks of the NABF if his love of alcohol hadn’t taken control over his life. That, and his Irish temper. He once hospitalized a man for three months for daring to take his parking space at a local 7-Eleven, the aggravated assault earning him a twelve-month stint in county jail. His reputation preceded him; he was to be avoided at all costs, even to the detriment of others.
As Fitzpatrick teetered unsteadily on his feet, Booker rose from his chair, his mocking smile disguising the anger brewing inside him. “Aww, whatsamatta, big fella? Are you jealous? Did your right hand finally say no?”
Someone snickered, but the rest of the crowd remained silent, a collective fear rippling through the room in tangible waves. Something was about to go down, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Sensing Booker’s smart mouth was about to get him in a boatload of trouble, Tom stood up, his hands held palms outward in a show of appeasement. “Hey, man, we don’t want any troub—”
“No one’s talkin’ to you, Nancy,” Fitzpatrick sneered, his gnarled finger jabbing Tom in the chest. “Men like you make me—”
“Hey, asswipe,” Booker called out in a cheerful voice.
Fitzpatrick spun around, an angry growl resonating in the back of his throat. But before he could raise a hand, Booker’s fist slammed into his nose, shattering the nasal bones. Blood poured from his nostrils, the grim sight adding to the drama of the scene, but through it all Booker remained smiling. “Oops,” the dark-haired officer goaded, his wide-mouthed grin provocative and taunting. “Sorry.”
Fumbling in his pocket, Tom pulled out his badge. Several underage drinkers stepped back from the bar, guilt draining the color from their faces. No one spoke, the only sound Fitzpatrick’s snuffled breathing, the palpable tension threatening to erupt in a bloody brawl.
Eventually, Tom stepped forward and addressed the furious hoodlum. “You have two choices, motherfucker. You can leave now, or I can arrest you for assaulting a police officer.”
“I didn’t do nuffin’,” Fitzpatrick snarled through bloodied lips. “I have witnesses who’ll back me up. That sonofabitch hit me.”
As if on cue, everyone in the bar turned away, sending a not too subtle message to the boxer. For the first time in his life, he was unable to intimidate those around him, and the sense of loss had a profound effect. Uncertainty twitched at the corner of his left eye, and mustering up a false bravado, he gave a derisive snort, the nasal grunt sending tiny droplets of blood into the air. “You fags ain’t even worth it,” he muttered, and turning away, he lurched across the floor and out the door.
A slow clap sounded from the back of the room, the applause building to a rowdy crescendo as more customers joined in. Soon, the whole bar was expressing their gratitude with cheers and whistles, the deafening noise thundering through the small building. With an amused grin, Booker turned and faced Tom, his shoulders shrugging in a ‘don’t ask me, I have no idea why they’re clapping’ gesture. But all he received in return was a fractious pout, Tom’s obvious displeasure melting the smile from his face. “What?” he griped, his face mirroring his friend’s moody expression. “He deserved it.”
Tom returned his badge to the pocket of his jeans. “Maybe, but if he’d pressed charges, Fuller would’ve busted your balls.”
Touched that Tom cared enough to give him a lecture, Booker waggled his eyebrows in a humorous display of affection. “I’d rather have you busting my balls. No… correction, I’d rather have you licking my balls.”
Past the point of embarrassment, Tom rolled his eyes, a teasing smile playing over his lips. “Dream on, Book. I’m not that easy.”
“Is that right?” Booker murmured, his eyes roving over Tom’s body. “Hmm, looks like I’m gonna have to use all my powers of persuasion.”
Chuckling softly, Tom picked up his glass and swallowed the remaining dregs of beer. “Shall we go?” he asked, pushing his empty glass across the table.
With high levels of testosterone coursing through his body, Booker’s cock twitched at the thought of spending time alone with the man who dominated his thoughts day and night.
But as was his nature, he played it cool, and picking up his jacket, he slung it casually over his shoulder. “Sure thing, Tommy.”
Tom studied Booker’s face for several moments, but the dark-haired officer’s expression was unreadable, and with a frustrated sigh, he turned and walked toward the exit.
Booker remained where he was, his eyes locked on Tom’s round, firm buttocks. While he knew he needed to tone it down and not come on too strong, he couldn’t wait to get the young officer in his bed so he could prove to him that despite having to face the occasional homophobic remark, love triumphed over hatred every day of the week.

To be continued…
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- 2
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Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained