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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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
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The following afternoon
The tree-lined country road narrowed into a winding track, and decelerating slightly, Booker carefully navigated the bumpy dirt trail. Horshack’s directions were vague at best, hurriedly whispered down the phone in a panicked voice, and Booker could not help but wonder what horrors the young freshman had experienced at the hands of his elders to leave him so terrified. But now was not the time to reflect on the abhorrent behavior of parental bullying; his focus was on Tom and giving him the peace of mind he so desperately sought. If he could achieve that one goal, his mission would be classified a success, and then he could concentrate on building a friendship with the man he adored.
As the Cadillac rounded a sharp bend, an imposing Spanish Mission style house loomed in the distance; its white roof parapets starkly outlined against the brilliant blue of the cloudless fall sky. Impressed by the elegance of the structure, Booker stopped the car, and lowering his Ray-Bans, he peered up at the stately home.
Ingram Holland had done extremely well for himself. According to Horshack, the Californian country home was only one of dozens of properties he owned, including several villas in Europe. He was—by all accounts—a ruthless tycoon, and those who knew him, affectionately thought of him as Los Angeles’ answer to Donald Trump, but with better hair. After graduating top of his business class, he had amassed his fortune in real estate development, taking down several of his rivals during his illustrious forty-year career. However, despite Holland’s obvious power, Booker felt no anxiety confronting him about the tape. The Pi Taus had videoed a violent rape, and that immediately put Holland on the wrong side of the law. Possession of such material was a crime, and Booker was not afraid to play the cop card. He was confident his well thought out scare tactics would be enough to have the sixty-two-year-old quivering in his slippers, but if not, he was prepared to step it up a notch and physically intimidate the mogul. More than anything he wanted to slap on a pair of handcuffs and haul Holland to the Chapel, but that was not even an option. He had made a promise to Tom not to divulge the details of the rape, and, therefore, his hands remained tied. But once he had the tape in his custody, he hoped to change his friend’s mind because nothing would give him greater satisfaction than seeing the seven guilty Pi Taus quivering in the dock, knowing they were facing years in prison for their crime.
With his face set in a stony mask, Booker pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, and slamming his Caddy into gear, he drove the short distance up the driveway; the crunch of tires on gravel announcing his arrival. As he switched off the car’s ignition, he stared at the imposing building, half expecting someone to throw open the arched, iron-adorned double door and accuse him of trespassing. But the house remained eerily quiet, its freshly painted white stucco walls catching the sun’s brilliant rays. Even with the protection of his dark glasses, Booker found himself squinting, and climbing out of the Cadillac, he stepped out into the warm air and slammed the door purposely behind him. He strode up the steps to the arcaded entry porch and without hesitation, grasped hold of the door knocker and rapped several times, the sound reverberating loudly as the iron struck the ornate wood.
Several minutes passed and disappointment weighed heavily in his chest. It appeared Harold’s intel was wrong, and Holland was not spending the fall in California. But just as he turned to walk back down the curved granite steps, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing a silver-haired gentleman dressed in khaki chinos, a white shirt, and expensive loafers. A stylish straw hat finished off the outfit, its brim casting a flattering shadow over the man’s attractive face. The effect added an air of chic to the casual attire, and although not his style, Booker found himself suitably impressed.
“Well, hello,” the man smiled, his emerald green eyes twinkling with amusement as he ran an appreciative eye over Booker’s muscular frame. “I had a feeling you’d show up on my doorstep. It’s Officer Booker, isn’t it?”
A look of shock registered on Booker’s face before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you know I’m a cop?”
Holland tilted back his head and laughed, the beguiling chuckle rolling smoothly over his tongue. “Oh, Dennis, you do amuse me,” he teased. “I have friends in high places; there’s nothing I don’t know about you and your dear friend, Officer Hanson. Speaking of which, how is dear Tom? Feeling better, I hope.”
Blind anger flared in Booker’s dark eyes, and with no regard for his safety, he stepped forward and jammed a finger into Holland’s solar plexus. “You sonofabitch,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “I want that fucking tape, and I want it now.”
Seemingly unperturbed by Booker’s threatening stance, Holland smiled sweetly. “Of course you do,” he crooned softly. “Why else would you be here? But I’m a man of breeding, Dennis, and I don’t conduct business on the doorstep of my home. So please, won’t you join me on the patio? It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve been enjoying a few pre-dinner Mojito’s while watching young Jorge clean the pool.”
There was no mistaking the underlying tone of lasciviousness in Holland’s voice when he spoke the pool boy’s name, and a shudder of revulsion ran over Booker’s body. But it was not because Holland had an eye for young men—that would have made him a hypocrite of the highest order—it was the inflection of entitlement in the mogul’s voice that set his teeth on edge. Holland flaunted his wealth and privilege through every fluid movement, every articulately spoken word, and it was obvious he believed he could have whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, including any attractive man or woman who caught his eye. He was a man who would not take no for an answer, and to Booker, that was a frightening realization. If Ingram Holland wanted something badly enough, he would take it, either by clever manipulation or by force. He was a man who wielded his power just to prove a point, and the prospect of having to deal with such an egocentric bully had Booker rethinking his strategy. After only a few minutes in Holland’s company, he now realized he had grossly miscalculated his youthfulness, intelligence, and tenacity. The man standing before him was not your average sixty-two-year-old, and retrieving the tape might not be as easy as he had originally thought. Therefore, if he were to achieve his goal, he would need to think on his feet, or become just another statistic of Holland’s shrewd battle of dominance.
With that in mind, Booker decided to play it cool, and shrugging his shoulders apathetically, he took off his sunglasses and looked Holland square in the eye. “Sure, I could use a drink.”
A triumphant smirk twitched at Holland’s lips, and stepping back from the door, he allowed the young officer entrance into his home. Inside the house, the ambient temperature dropped several degrees, and as Booker sauntered down the wide foyer toward the open patio doors, his eyes flitted from left to right, soaking up the numerous spacious rooms on each side of the passageway, all adorned with elegant, yet rustic furnishings. But his expression remained unimpressed. Hell would freeze over before he would show any sign of veneration toward Holland. One of Booker's major character flaws was his arrogance, and he honestly believed he could outwit Holland and walk out of the multi-million-dollar house triumphant. He would play the game, whatever it may be, and he would show Ingram Holland once and for all that those with money did not always prevail.
Little did he know...
As he stepped out onto the mosaic tiled patio, a warm hand rested on his backside, and he flinched instinctively. A throaty laugh sounded behind him, and spinning around, he glared angrily at his molester. “Keep your hands off me,” he snarled, his eyes glinting angrily. “I'm not a piece of fucking meat.”
Holland’s emerald eyes sparkled brightly, and flicking the tip of his tongue salaciously over his lips, his gaze roved hungrily over Booker’s taut body. “Indeed,” he murmured, and regaining his composure, he smiled warmly. “Please, take a seat. I’ll get Lupita to bring you a drink. What’s your poison?”
Booker could hear the rhythmic swish of a hand-held skimmer dipping through water, and turning his head, he watched as Jorge methodically scooped insects and leaves from the lagoon-style inground pool. The crystal-clear water shimmered under the intense California sun, the rippling surface sparkling invitingly. Jorge’s bare torso glistened with perspiration, and when his muscles flexed, Booker was reminded of a perfectly chiseled Adonis. With his sculpted abs and low-slung board shorts, the young man was a vision of masculine eroticism, and the sight sent a tremor of arousal through Booker's body. It had been a long time since he'd had sex, and he found himself drawn in by the young man's beguiling beauty.
Suddenly aware he had been staring alluringly at the young Mexican for a little too long, Booker cleared his throat in embarrassment and quickly returned his gaze to his host. A wistful look twinkled in the older man’s eyes, relaxing his features into an expression akin to that of a proud father. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Holland murmured softly.
Not about to admit his attraction to the dark-haired man, Booker turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Enough bullshit, Holland. How ‘bout you give me the tape, and then you can go back to ogling the pool boy.”
A calculating coldness replaced the reflective expression in Holland’s eyes. “I’m a businessman, Officer Booker,” the older man stressed in a low, teasing voice. “Surely you didn’t expect me to hand over such a delightful video without receiving something in return?”
Confused by the statement, Booker found himself faltering. He had expected the tycoon to flat-out refuse to hand over the tape, and he had prepared himself for a fight. But now it appeared Holland wanted to strike a deal for its return. “I-I don’t understand. Are you asking me for money?” he questioned.
“Hardly,” Holland chuckled, his broad smile revealing his perfect white teeth. “I have enough money to last me a hundred lifetimes. Tsk, tsk, Officer Booker, I had hoped you were smarter than that. Given the Pi Taus propensity for gay sex, I thought you would have figured it out. I want you, Officer Booker, or more accurately, I want to take advantage of your beautiful body.”
The color drained from Booker’s face, and for a fraction of a second, the world tilted sideways. When his vision cleared, his gaze settled on Jorge’s back, and it was then he noticed the faint crisscross of scars adorning the bronzed flesh. The sinister reality hit him hard, and cold tendrils of truth wrapped around his heart. Holland had inflicted those injuries, he used and abused Jorge for his own sexual gratification, knowing full well the young man would never tell. He probably paid the pool cleaner a good wage, effectively buying his silence and giving himself carte blanche to treat him as he pleased. The realization sickened Booker to the pit of his stomach, and shifting his gaze, he stared at Holland with narrowed eyes.
“You twisted bastard,” he growled. “I’m not one of your rent boys. Why the fuck would I agree to be your whore?”
Stalling for effect, Holland picked up the crystal tumbler from the patio table and took a sip of his drink. Several seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice smooth with confidence. “It’s really very simple, Dennis. You’re in love with Tom Hanson, and I’m willing to bet you’d trade three days of your life to give him the one thing he so desperately craves… the tape.”
Booker rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. If he prostituted himself to Holland for seventy-two hours, he could give Tom his life back. It wasn’t the most abhorrent idea the mogul could have come up with as a bargaining chip. Holland was physically attractive, and Booker often enjoyed sex with older, more experienced men, in fact, it was the only time he willingly bottomed. But there was still the underlying unease when he looked at Jorge. If Holland got his thrills inflicting pain, then he could easily be walking into a world of trouble. But when he envisioned the tortured look in Tom’s beautiful brown eyes, his heart fluttered with pain. A little discomfort and loss of self-respect were nothing compared to what Tom had endured at the hands of the Pi Taus, and it was then he realized how deep his love for the young officer ran. With that thought in mind, he knew he would selflessly give himself to Holland in return for Tom’s peace of mind because to not take up the offer would mean dealing with the regret for the rest of his life.
Therefore, he squared his shoulders and stared unflinchingly into Holland’s expectant eyes. “So, if I agree to stay for three days, you’ll give me the edited and unedited tape, right?” he clarified in a bold voice.
Sensing victory, Holland softened his features into an honorable smile. “Correct.”
“And you’ll give me your word there are no other copies?” Booker added.
Holland paused for a moment, before replying. “I will.”
A feeling of unease ran through Booker’s body, but he quickly shook it off. In his mind, he had no choice but to agree, and without further hesitation, he nodded his head. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Unable to hide his delight, Holland wrapped a companionable arm around Booker’s shoulders. “Come on,” he beckoned cheerfully. “Let’s get you that drink.”
Booker’s heart skipped a beat, and with one final glance at Jorge, he followed Holland into the house.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness