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Ask Me No Questions and I'll Tell You No Lies	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2448 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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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Tom stared vacantly out of the window as the Greyhound coach sped along the highway. It had taken him three days of arguing with Penhall before he had finally convinced his friend that going to find Booker would help him with his recovery. Doug had flatly refused to allow Tom to drive to Nevada; instead, he had given him a substantial amount of money and told him to purchase a bus ticket. Tom had not argued the point, as he knew he was not physically capable of driving on his own. Since leaving prison, he had taken himself off his antidepressants without consulting a doctor and he now suffered extreme restlessness, dizziness, fatigue, and various other symptoms. He was also prone to uncontrollable crying spells and although he was terrified of breaking down on the bus in front of dozens of strangers, he knew that traveling by coach was the safest option. He was still rational enough to know that he was riding an emotional roller coaster and that if he had a mind snap, it would be too easy to turn the wheel of his Mustang and slam the car into a tree just to end all the pain and misery that continuously plagued him.
Shifting slightly in his seat, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep but unwanted images floated around in his mind; Bentley tying him to the table, his evil face grinning manically… Martínez standing in front of him, his large erection waiting to be sucked… Talbot lying on top of him, a cruel smile playing over his full lips… Booker on all fours, barking loudly as tears streamed down his beautiful face…
With a start, Tom’s eyes flew open and he struggled to draw breath. Fear immediately consumed his mind and he started to hyperventilate. Balling his hands into fists, he fought against the panic attack but he could not control it. Several passengers turned their heads and stared at him as he began to cry. A dark skinned woman sitting several seats in front of him, stood up and walking to the front of the bus, she spoke to the driver. As the coach pulled onto the shoulder of the road, the woman walked back up the aisle and squatting down she smiled kindly at Tom. “Are you okay sweetheart?” she asked in a soft voice.
Struggling to breathe, Tom shook his head violently from side to side as tears coursed down his cheeks. Being careful not to add to Tom’s distress, the woman refrained from touching him. Instead, she used soft, comforting words to try to calm him down. “What can I do to help?” she asked quietly. When she received no answer, she slowly stood up and sat down in the vacant seat next to him. “Would you like me to hold your hand?” she persisted in a placating tone. Tom managed a small nod of his head and the woman reached out, took his trembling fingers in her own and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Slow, deep breaths,” she instructed softly. “Just listen to the sound of my voice and concentrate on your breathing.”
Tom tried to do as the woman directed but he was aware of dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him curiously and his anxiety increased. He was nothing more than a freak show, the half time entertainment to break up the boredom of the long journey. Humiliation swelled within him and his sobbing increased whilst his body trembled uncontrollably. However, through all the panic and shame, he could feel the sensation of the woman’s gentle caress and gradually, his breathing slowed and the tightness in his chest subsided. Looking up, he saw compassionate green eyes gazing at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he wiped the tears from his face. “I’m—”
The woman shook her head. “No need to explain honey,” she replied with a smile. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
Hearing footsteps, she turned her head and watched as the coach driver approached. “Is everything okay back here?” the overweight driver asked in a voice tinged with irritation. “I’ve got a schedule to keep you know.”
Glancing back at Tom, the woman squeezed his hand. “Are you feeling better sweetheart?” she asked gently.
Blowing his nose, Tom nodded his head. The coach driver exhaled noisily and made his way back down the aisle. “Okay folks, it looks like we’re good to go,” he called out in a loud voice. “Sorry for the delay.”
Tom blushed in embarrassment and he ducked his head so he could avoid the accusatory stares from the annoyed passengers. He was surprised when the woman remained seated next to him whilst continuing to hold his hand. Lifting his head, he smiled gratefully. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly.
Squeezing his fingers, the woman smiled serenely. “Baby,” she replied softly. “Don’t thank me, just get well, okay?”
Leaning back against the headrest, Tom closed his eyes. “I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’m really trying.”
Eventually, the hum of the road and the comforting sensation of the woman’s hand grasping his fingers lulled him into a light sleep. He did not suffer any more nightmares; instead, visions of Booker’s beautiful face consumed his dreams.
**
Alighting from the coach, Tom hugged the woman who had remained by his side throughout the rest of the journey. Placing a palm against his pale face, the woman gazed deep into his troubled eyes. “The offer still stands Tom,” she said in a tender voice. “If you need a place to stay, you have my address.”
Tears filled Tom’s eyes but he quickly blinked them away. “You’ve done enough Lily,” he replied with a grateful smile. “I’ll never forget you.”
Kissing Tom lightly on the forehead, the woman picked up her bag and disappeared into the crowded terminus. Checking his watch, Tom decided to find his motel and get some sleep. He had no idea what hours Dennis worked but he had made the decision to turn up at his apartment in the early evening. Although he had a phone number, he could not bring himself to dial it. The thought of Booker slamming the phone down when he heard his voice was too much for him to bear. At least if they were face to face, he had a chance of pleading his case.
Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, he wandered out of the bus station and hailed a cab. He gave the name of the motel that Penhall had recommended and stared out of the window as the car wound its way through the afternoon traffic. Pulling up outside a pleasant looking establishment, he paid the driver and climbed out of the car. Having booked in at reception, he unlocked his room and threw his bag onto the floor. The weather was warm and he longed to take a shower and freshen up. Closing the curtains, he stripped off his clothes and padded into the bathroom. He paused for a moment and studied himself in the large mirror that hung on the back of the door. Scars crisscrossed his chest and torso, a daily reminder of the torture that Talbot had inflicted upon him. Dark shadows framed his haunted eyes, his pallid skin looked haggard and staring at his reflection, the joke was not lost on him. He had spent the majority of his working life passing as a teenager and now he looked older than his twenty-four years.
Reaching into the shower, he turned on the faucets and stepped under the tepid water. Lowering his head, he allowed the harsh spray from the shower head to beat down upon his aching shoulders. As the tension in his muscles slowly eased, his fingers fondled his cock and he silently pleaded with his body to feel something. Since leaving prison, he had been unable to gain an erection and he did not know if his body was finally reacting to the yearlong abuse or if it was a side effect of stopping his antidepressants. When his cock remained flaccid, tears of frustration filled his eyes and slamming his palm angrily against the tiled wall, he covered his face in his hands and wept. He longed to feel something other than pain, fear and misery; he just wanted to be Tom.
**
Awakening from a nightmare, Tom’s naked body dripped with perspiration. Sitting up in bed, he struggled to catch his breath as his heart hammered painfully in his chest. Self-pity overwhelmed him and unwelcome tears spilled from his eyes. Collapsing back onto the mattress, he curled into a ball and sobbed into his pillow. He was just so tired, so emotionally exhausted that he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and never wake up. He no longer knew how to exist in a world that had stripped him of everything he held dear, his job, his home and most importantly, his friends.
Sitting back up, he wiped his eyes and walked into the bathroom. Avoiding his reflection, he turned on the shower and quickly washed the stale sweat from his body. Turning off the faucets, he stepped out of the cubicle and quickly toweled himself dry. He walked back into the bedroom and reaching into his backpack, he grabbed out a clean pair of boxers and a white t-shirt and pulled on his jeans. As he laced up his Doc Martens, he glanced at the luminous dial of the digital radio and he felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. It was only a short walk to Booker’s apartment complex and now that the time was almost near, he felt apprehensive at seeing his friend after so long apart. They had not spoken since their conversation in Martínez’s cell prior to their preliminary hearing. Booker had been so high on heroin that Tom doubted if he even remembered their exchange of words. However, he remembered them verbatim and the derision in Booker’s voice as he had slurred, “What’s the matter Hanson, are you jealous?” haunted him in his nightmares. He had been jealous and the thought of Booker gaining pleasure from Martínez had made him feel physically sick. Now, his greatest fear was hearing Dennis use the same mocking tones when he saw the apparition of the man who had once been Tom Hanson, standing before him.
Holding out his hands, Tom stared at his trembling fingers. He considered finding a bar and downing a couple of quick whiskeys to steady his nerves but he quickly pushed the thought aside. Alcohol was not the answer and it would be too easy to use it as a crutch in the same way Booker had used heroin to block out the pain inside. If Booker rejected him, he needed to accept it and move on. If he did not start trying to pick up the pieces of his shattered life, he was destined to remain a broken man.
Strapping his watch to his wrist, he shrugged on his jacket and pocketing the motel key, he picked up the piece of paper with the directions to Booker’s apartment and exited the room.
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Ask Me No Questions and I'll Tell You No Lies