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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4707 -:- 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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When Booker arrived back at Tom’s apartment, he was surprised to find him still dressed in a pair of boxers, the only addition to his attire, a pale blue blanket draped over his shoulders. The soft woolen rug conveniently hid the scars on the young officer’s arms, but it somehow added to the helplessness of his already forlorn persona, and upon closer scrutiny, Booker noticed how incredibly tired his friend looked. The overhead light accentuated the black smudges under his eyes, and stress lines creased his forehead, marring his usually smooth complexion. He was a shadow of his former, vibrant self, and a shiver of guilt ran down the dark-haired officer’s spine. No matter how he tried to rationalize it to himself, he had abandoned Tom in his hour of need. However, he also felt somewhat justified in doing so. But whether Tom would see it that way remained to be seen, and all he could do was try to explain his actions and hope for the best.
Taking a seat beside his friend on the sofa, he opened his mouth to speak, but Tom beat him to the punch. “Is he okay?”
Taken aback by the question, Booker scratched nervously at the back of his head before answering. “Outwardly, yeah, he is. He’s had some blood tests, so we’ll know more in a few days. Plus, the doctor wants him—”
“You had a blood test too,” Tom interrupted when he noticed the Band-Aid covering a wad of cotton in the crook of Booker’s arm. “Is that because you had unprotected sex with him?”
Booker’s face flushed red, and getting to his feet, he began to pace the floor. “Geez, Hanson,” he muttered, his fingers raking through his hair. “What is this? Twenty questions?”
Unconcerned by his friend’s pronounced state of embarrassment, Tom continued to probe. “So, are you going to tell me who he is?”
Pausing mid-step, Booker turned around and focused his gaze on Tom, his brow knitting into a dark, angry scowl. “He’s a victim of abuse, just like you. Happy?”
Tom’s eyes lowered to the floor. “Why would that make me happy?” he mumbled, his fingernails anxiously scratching at the raised scabs on his arm, the unconscious movement revealing the level of his unease. “My life’s ruined. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Shame fluttered Booker’s heart, and taking a seat back on the sofa, he exhaled a weary sigh. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
When Tom made no effort to reply, the two men sat in uncomfortable silence for several long minutes. But the sound of fingernails scraping over skin began to grate on Booker’s nerves, and he laid a gentle hand on Tom’s arm, preventing the young officer from causing further harm to his already damaged flesh. “You’ve got to stop doing that, you’re hurting yourself.”
The tenderness of the touch sent a charge of electricity flowing through Tom’s body, and ashamed by his arousal, he jerked away, silently cursing his body’s betrayal. “What does it matter?” he snapped, all the while hoping his anger would mask the lustful heat flaming his cheeks. “A few cuts are nothing compared to what I’ve been through.”
A sultry, passion-fueled radiance reflected from the very depths of Booker’s soul, and leaning forward, he placed his palm against his friend’s flushed cheek. His gaze locked on the sweet, kissable pout forming on Tom’s full lips, and he longed to savor the taste of the young officer’s intoxicating honeyed juices. But rather than acting on his amorous yearnings, he let his words express the immeasurable depth of the feelings resonating in his heart. “It matters because I love you.”
The luminous glow shining from Booker’s eyes ignited a fire in the pit of Tom’s stomach. A lot had changed since Dennis had first professed his love, and this time, the revelation had him swooning like an infatuated schoolgirl. His breath hitched in his throat, and rubbing a nervous hand over his mouth, a faltering rush of air exhaled from between his lips. “Do you really?”
A bolt of pure love exploded from within Booker’s heart, the surge of emotion releasing a flood of hormones into his system. “Of course I do. Jesus, Tom, after everything we’ve been through, why won’t you believe it?”
Tom’s pulse skittered erratically. Although still confused by his growing feelings for the man sitting next to him, he wanted it to be true, but there was one obstacle preventing him from fully accepting the heartfelt vow. “What about Jorge?” he queried softly. “Do you love him too?”
It was the question Booker knew he could no longer avoid answering, and flopping back against the couch cushions, he raked his fingers through his tousled hair. “It’s complicated, Tom.”
Disappointment extinguished the hopeful sparkle in Tom’s eyes. But he knew if he and Booker were to continue their friendship, he needed to push aside his disillusionment and confront the elephant in the room. He wanted answers; answers about the tapes, and answers about Jorge. Therefore, he drew in a deep, calming breath and channeling the confidence of the man he had once been, he faced his inner demons. “Explain it to me.”
**
“So, there it is,” Booker concluded quietly. “That’s how I got the tapes, and that’s how I met Jorge.”
Tom’s lower lip pushed into a thoughtful pout. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut that Booker had not revealed the whole truth, and he wondered if his friend had omitted certain pieces of information to protect himself. Immediately, his analytical skills kicked in, and he carefully began to deconstruct the story as told to him. According to the dark-haired officer, he had coerced Harold into finding out the Keymaster’s identity, and he had paid the man (Ingram Holland) a surprise visit. The real estate tycoon had promised him the tapes in return for his company. Apparently, he had led Booker to believe he was lonely, and in need of some companionship. However, once settled inside the secluded mansion, Booker soon realized the man was sexually abusing his young pool boy. It was then he had formed an emotional attachment to the young man, and when he had offered him comfort, their innocent friendship had manifested into a sexual relationship. Therefore, once he had fulfilled his contract with Holland, he had little choice but to offer Jorge refuge, and the rest (as was so often quoted) was history.
But for Tom, the story didn’t add up. He knew Booker too well—or at least he thought he did—and there was no way in hell the impulsive, cocksure officer would have stood idly by and allowed a sexual predator to abuse a teenage boy. He would have wrung the bastard’s neck there and then, not watched passively from the sidelines. So, it didn’t take him long to deduce his friend was spinning him a pack of lies, and the realization had him seething with resentment. If Booker really did love him as much as he claimed he did, he would trust him enough to tell him the truth and not blatantly lie just to save face.
The irrefutable knowledge brought forth feelings of hurt and disappointment, the unsettling turbulence throwing his thoughts into disarray. He had seriously considered entering into a sexual relationship with Dennis, but now he wasn’t so sure. The one virtue he valued above all others was honesty; it was a trait his father had instilled in him from a very young age, and it was part of the reason he had become a police officer. Publilius Syrus’ quote: He who has lost honor can lose nothing more was one of his favorites, and he held the sentiment close to his heart. Therefore, to know Booker had the capacity to distort the truth without batting an eye unnerved him, and he could not help but wonder if his first impression of the young officer had actually been correct. Perhaps he had been right all along; perhaps Booker really was an untrustworthy sonofabitch.
But there was only one way to find out, and with Booker’s expectant gaze boring into him, he ran a shaky hand over his mouth before speaking his mind. “I don't believe you.”
Dennis’ eyes grew wide with surprise. “What?”
“I said, I don't believe you,” Tom reiterated coldly. “I told you not to fuck with me, Booker, and here you are, spinning me some bullshit tale. If you don't trust me enough to open up to me, that’s fine, but you can get the hell out of my apartment because I can't deal with the idea of you deceiving me. Not now; not after what I've been through.”
It was then Booker realized he had made a monumental mistake in misjudging Tom’s ability to see through the bullshit. The young officer was like a human lie detector, he had a sixth sense, and he could sniff out a liar as effectively as a bloodhound latched onto a human scent. By protecting his ego, he had insulted the intelligence of the man he loved, and now he was paying the price. His friend was furious, and it was all because he refused to acknowledge the pain ripping him apart.
With his epiphany came memories of his abuse, the violent images once again clawing their way back under his stoic mask of indifference, infecting his mind with a vivid account of his suffering. Undulating waves of emotion swamped his being, dislodging his false shield of bravado, smashing it to pieces, leaving him defenseless and vulnerable. A torrent of pain welled up inside him, filling his throat with silent screams. He suddenly found himself drowning in the tide of an emotional tsunami, unable to think, speak, breathe. His grief bore down on him, compressing his lungs, suffocating him with the weight of its truth. No matter what lies he told, the facts would always haunt him. He was a whore, a worthless piece of meat who had prostituted himself in the name of love. But true love was inherently free; it could not be bought, commanded or demanded by the actions of another. It was a magnificent force of nature, not a commodity, and his promiscuity had sullied the purity of his devotion. It was then that it hit him. He was not worthy of Tom’s love, not any more. He was an impostor and a cheat, and he deserved to live a lonely existence, trapped in the web of his deceit. Holland had stripped away more than just his dignity, he had destroyed his confidence, and he wondered if anyone could look past his emotional scars and love him for himself, despite the darkness tainting his soul.
Overcome with the distress of his reckless behavior, he staggered to his feet and stumbled blindly across the room, his eyes blurring with hot, salty tears. But before he reached the door, Tom’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Too emotionally exhausted to fight off the unwelcome intrusion into his personal grief, he collapsed to the floor, pulling Tom down with him.
“Shhh,” Tom crooned against the damp strands of hair plastered to Booker’s temple.
Ashamed by his breakdown, Booker attempted to pull away, but Tom refused to release his hold. “Talk to me,” he commanded softly. “You helped me, now let me help you. Tell me what happened.”
More than anything, Booker longed to release the burden he carried within his heart, but he feared rejection once he revealed the horrific details of his abuse. After all, he hadn’t been overpowered like Tom, he had been a willing partner in the countless sexual encounters he had participated in, and that made him complicit in his own self-degradation. There was no one to blame but himself, and in all likelihood, Tom would never want to associate with him again.
After finally managing to break free from Tom's tight embrace, he wiped a hand over his tear-stained face. “I can’t,” he muttered, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s worried gaze. “You’ll hate me.”
The pitiful rise in Booker’s voice echoed that of a small boy terrified of losing a classmate’s friendship, and an amused grin tilted Tom’s lips. “How ‘bout I pinky swear I won’t,” he teased softly, the little finger of his right hand extending in a symbolic gesture of solidarity.
The lame joke cleared some of the tension hanging heavily in the room, and Booker managed a watery smile. “You may regret that decision.”
Pulling the blue blanket back around his shoulders, Tom sat cross-legged on the floor, and leaning forward, he scrutinized Booker’s pale face. “Try me.”
And so began the most difficult conversation of Booker’s life.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness