Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 34
- 35
- 36
Tom sat on the sofa, his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes staring listlessly into space. In his hands, a forgotten cup of coffee trembled violently, the tepid liquid spilling over his fingers. He hadn’t uttered a single word since his impassioned attempt to justify Booker’s assault, and as the minutes ticked by, his silence only added to Doug’s concerns. Although not an expert, as a cop, Penhall understood about trauma, and fearing his friend was going into shock, he made the decision to call 911. With an ambulance on its way, he dialed a second number, and after a brief conversation, he hung up. Turning his attention back to Tom, he wondered how to proceed. While he wanted to offer comfort, he honestly did not know what to say. How did you console the victim of a sexual assault when the perpetrator was a trusted colleague you worked side by side with day in day out? He was out of his depth and terrified of making matters worse. But he knew he needed to do something other than making a cup of coffee, and approaching the sofa, he squatted down and laid a hand on his friend’s knee. “How ya doin’, buddy?”
If Tom heard, he made no acknowledgment. His eyes remained dull, his expression vacant. Somewhere, in the midst of the chaos that was the harshness of his reality, he had managed to build a protective wall, a refuge in his mind where he was no longer a victim, no longer a weak, pathetic excuse for a man. He was Tom Hanson the cop, the loving son, the loyal friend, a man free from emotional pain. It was the comforting existence he craved, and surrendering his peripheral senses, he withdrew inside his fantasy. Immediately, his father’s laugh echoed inside his head, and closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to travel back in time. He was a small boy, sitting on his dad’s knee, sheltered from harm by the muscular arms holding him in a loving embrace. The scent of Old Spice filled the air, and he inhaled deeply, the memory now more powerful than the reality of the destruction surrounding him. Locked inside his imagination, a smile touched his lips, and he clung to another memory. He was twelve-years-old and playing catch with his dad in the yard of their home. At this precise moment in time he still had his whole life ahead of him; dreams of college, dreams of following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a cop. There was no stress, just a carefree existence, an endless world of possibilities stretching out before him. Love was all around him; he was safe, happy, and oblivious to the evil that lurked behind the masks of seemingly human faces. He was still an innocent, and impervious to the cruelties of the world.
A single tear leaked from the corner of his eye, the translucent droplet sliding slowly down his pale cheek. But there was no sadness, it was a tear of pure contentment, and he continued to smile, his mind happily trapped inside the visions from his past. Life was once again peaceful, and rather than face the cold reality of his abuse, he planned to stay hidden within the walls of his blissful nirvana forever, free from the pain of his existence.
Shocked by the tranquil expression on Tom's face, Penhall started to panic. He feared his friend was slipping into a state of catatonia, and grabbing him by the shoulders, he shook him violently. “Hey, Tommy! Open your eyes! Look at me, Tommy! Look at me!”
But Tom remained oblivious to the present, and Doug’s frantic pleas floated unheard through the apartment, the love and concern absorbed into the atmosphere along with the futility of the words. His mind had burrowed deeper into his memories, the actuality of his being now secondary to the hallucinations of his past. Twenty-three-year-old Tom was now a figment of his imagination, and twelve-year-old Tom was the living, breathing, reality.
The hurried sound of footsteps caught Doug’s attention, and rising to his feet, he stared expectantly at the open door. When Judy Hoffs’ appeared, her pretty face etched with worry, he rushed forward and gathered her into his arms. “Thank God you’re here.”
Judy’s distraught eyes filled with tears. “I just can’t believe it,” she sobbed against Doug’s chest. “I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare.”
Doug’s expression hardened, and gently disengaging himself from Judy’s hold, he held her at arm’s-length. “It’s not a nightmare for Booker, it’s his fucking dream come true. I bet he’s been planning this since he first laid eyes on Tom.”
Shock widened Judy’s eyes. “You can’t be serious! You think Booker willingly sexually assaulted Tom because he’s in love with him? C’mon, Penhall, Booker may be a lot of things, but he’s not a rapist. Maybe this has something to do with that fraternity. I mean, Fuller’s been trying to figure out what went on ever since—”
“I know what I saw,” Penhall snapped, his gaze focusing back on Tom. “Hanson was terrified, and Booker… Booker looked like he was having the time of his life. He was getting off on it, Jude, that bastard was assaulting Tom, and he was getting off on it.”
Hot bile rose in Judy’s throat, but she quickly pulled herself together and rather than debating whether or not Booker really was a lascivious sonofabitch, she walked over to the sofa. Without crowding Tom, she sat down, her hand trembling slightly as she brushed a stray strand of hair from her friend’s eyes. “Hey, Hanson,” she whispered, her fingers lightly toying with Tom’s soft tresses. “You’re going to be fine. We’re all here for you.”
“I think he’s in shock,” Penhall advised quietly. “I’ve called the paramedics, but I need you to stay with him and make sure he’s okay.”
Judy's hand stilled, and she gazed up at Penhall, her expression one of surprise. “Why? Where are you going?”
A dangerous gleam flashed in Penhall’s eyes, and reaching down, he ejected the video from the VCR. “I’m gonna pay Booker a visit,” he growled, the offending tape held firmly in his meaty hand.
When the meaning behind Doug’s words became apparent, Judy jumped to her feet. “Penhall, wait! Don’t do anything—”
But Doug was already gone, leaving the remainder of her warning hanging suspended in the air, the unspoken words a chilling portent into the violence that was about to rip several friendships apart.
**
The seventies sitcom with its annoyingly fake laugh track grated heavily on Booker’s nerves, and picking up the remote control, he changed channels. He stared blankly at the television, his brain barely registering the devastating news coverage of the Loma Prieta earthquake filling the small screen. Swamped by feelings of guilt and regret, his fingers unconsciously stroked the ring of bruises around his throat, the necklace of abuse a painful reminder of what he had sacrificed for the man he loved. But his remorse had nothing to do with Tom. After experiencing prolonged maltreatment at the hands of Ingram Holland, he better understood the depths of his attachment to the young officer. To lay down his life for love was no longer just a silly, romantic notion; he had willingly endured indescribable pain and suffering to protect Tom, which proved he really was prepared to die for him. However, his noble sacrifice had come at a price, resulting in collateral damage. Jorge was the innocent bystander, a civilian casualty caught in the crossfire of a cruel game of outwit, outlast, outplay. While his intentions were pure, Booker realized he had inadvertently misled his young friend into believing they had a future together, and he was now dealing with the fallout. After their fight, Jorge had taken himself off to bed, the wounded look in his eyes adding to Booker’s torment. The officer felt like a complete asshole, but he knew in his heart honesty was the best policy. Jorge was hurting now, but once he was safely ensconced in his family’s loving arms, he would gain some perspective, and realize there was more to life than just sex. Through love and nurture, he would find the inner strength to restore his lost identity, giving him the confidence to break free from the shackles of his abuse. It would take time, but Booker was confident he would one day, accomplish his dreams.
The young officer’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud banging, the sudden disturbance causing his heart to thump erratically in his chest. Certain it was Tom, he bounded to his feet and sprinting across the room, he yanked open the door. “Tom—”
A fist came out of nowhere, the bare knuckles connecting with the young officer’s chin. The force of the blow sent his head whipping to the right, the sudden movement wrenching his neck muscles. Pain flared in his jaw, and staggering backward, he struggled to remain upright. But a second punch to the face knocked him off his feet, and with a grunt, he hit the floor, his head reeling. Confusion addled his brain, and he shielded himself as best he could from the savage blows raining down on his head and torso. The weight of his assailant’s body bearing down on his legs rendered him immobile, and all he could do was cross his arms over his face, giving him some measure of protection. However, the inadequacy of the action left his upper body exposed, allowing his assailant free access to batter him with such savage force, he could hear his ribs cracking. “STOP!” he cried, his body writhing in pain. “PLEASE STOP!”
“WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I?” Penhall yelled, his fists pummeling Booker’s defenseless body. “YOU DIDN’T STOP WHEN TOM BEGGED YOU TO; YOU JUST KEPT ON ASSAULTING HIM!”
Recognizing Penhall’s voice, Booker lowered his arms and desperately tried to reason with his friend. “I DIDN’T!” he screamed, tears of pain streaming from his panicked eyes. “OH GOD, DOUG, YOU’VE GOTTA BELIEVE ME! I DIDN’T WANNA HURT HIM… I WAS TRYING TO PROTECT HIM!”
The relentless reign of terror abruptly ceased, and sitting back on his heels, Penhall glared down at Booker with hate-filled eyes. “You were protecting him?” he spat through snarling lips. “You sick, twisted, motherfucker. You weren’t protecting him; you were orally raping him!”
Booker’s head snapped rapidly from side to side, his wild eyes pleading with Penhall to believe him. “No! No! No! It’s not what you think! There was a gun, and they had it pointed at Tom’s head! If I hadn’t done what they asked, they would have shot him!”
Unconvinced by the lame explanation, Penhall drew back his fist. “Bullshit! You’re a fucking liar and a rapist, and I’m gonna—”
Pain exploded in the back of the officer’s head, and without finishing his sentence, he pitched forward and collapsed on top of Booker, a soft moan escaping from between his lips.
Startled by the dramatic turn of events, Booker lay still for several seconds, his breath heaving painfully in his chest. But the weight of Penhall’s body crushing his damaged ribs soon became unbearable, and groaning in pain, he shoved at the larger officer’s shoulders until he rolled onto the floor. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but he suddenly became aware of Jorge standing at his feet, the base of a table lamp clenched tightly in his right hand. “Oh God,” he moaned, pain flaring in his damaged ribs. “What did you do?”
Jorge grinned maniacally. “I hit him. Nobody hurts my Dennis.”
Pushing himself to a sitting position, Booker attempted to stabilize his ribs by wrapping a protective arm around his chest. “Shit,” he muttered, his gaze focusing on Penhall, and though wary of provoking another attack, he leaned forward and poked the semi-conscious officer in the side. “Doug, are you okay?”
Penhall’s eyes remained closed. “Fuuuck,” he groaned by way of answer. “What happened?”
After placing the lamp back on the table, Jorge crouched down beside the injured officer. “Open your eyes,” he instructed.
Still feeling the effects of the unexpected attack, Penhall struggled to comply. He forced his eyelids open, squinting against the harshness of the overhead light until his vision cleared. But when his gaze settled on a naked man squatting before him, his eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open in surprise. “Who the hell are you?”
Ignoring the question, Jorge held up his hand. “How many fingers?”
For some inexplicable reason, the theme song from The Twilight Zone started playing inside Penhall’s head, and his confusion intensified. “Huh?”
“Fingers,” Jorge repeated, his hand gesturing erratically in front of the officer's bewildered face. “How many?”
Waves of nausea rolled in Penhall’s stomach, and sitting up, he pushed the offending hand away. “Three,” he muttered.
Satisfied with the answer, Jorge turned his attention to Booker, his expression softening when he witnessed the pain etched on his friend’s face. “Are you okay?”
Booker struggled slowly to his feet, the pain radiating throughout his body making it difficult for him to stand up straight. “I will be,” he growled, his arms wrapping protectively around his torso. “Once I get some answers.”
“Ditto,” Penhall mumbled, his eyes glaring angrily up at Booker. “So why don’t you begin by telling me exactly what happened to you and Tom.”
The moment of truth had arrived, and realizing he could no longer protect Tom’s dignity, Booker nodded his head. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “But you’ve gotta promise to stay calm.”
With a grunt, Penhall hauled himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for several moments, his fingers gently probing the golf ball sized lump on the back of his head. Once satisfied there was no permanent damage, he gave his assent. “Deal.”
Motioning toward a chair, Booker lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. Jorge sat beside him, ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble. Although naked, the Latino felt no embarrassment. He was there to protect Dennis, and he would not leave his side until the loud, rude man had gone. After all, by validating his presence, he stood a better chance of winning Booker over, and there was no better way than showing his unwavering loyalty. Come hell or high water, he would prove he was worthy of the dark-haired officer’s love, and in time, Tom Hanson would become nothing more than a distant memory.
Penhall glared warily at Jorge before taking a seat. He had no idea who the young man was, but he guessed he was one of Booker's boyfriends. Having a naked man sitting in front of him was rather disconcerting, so he focused his attention on Booker. “Okay, I’m ready,” he muttered. “Let's hear what you have to say.”
A shiver of regret ran down the length of Booker’s spine, the unexpected movement vibrating through his cracked ribs. His breath caught in his throat, and closing his eyes, he struggled to fight through the pain.
“Dennis?” Jorge queried softly, his hand resting lightly on his friend’s shoulder.
The memory of Tom suffering through the same injury popped into Booker’s mind, and drawing strength from the experience, he opened his eyes and smiled through his pain. “I’m all right,” he assured the younger man before addressing Penhall. “You’re gonna hear things you’re not gonna wanna hear. Are you prepared for that?”
Unease prickled Penhall’s skin, but his expression remained unchanged. “How ‘bout you quit stalling and tell me the truth.”
And so began the second most difficult conversation of Booker’s life.
- 34
- 35
- 36
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Beneath a Heart of Darkness