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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Five weeks later - Saturday October 7th 1989 (9.17 p.m.)
The rusty antique bed frame bit into the flesh of Tom’s palms and shifting his position slightly, he pushed backwards so the middle-aged man’s cock penetrated deeper into his anus, stimulating his prostate. The bed rocked on its thin iron legs, its weakened joints squealing in angry protest at the load it was forced to bear. Tom could feel the hardness of the metal frame digging into his knees through the worn mattress, but the discomfort in no way diminished the gratification he derived from the feel of the man’s thick cock pounding into him. Drexl had him flying high on a variety of pills that increased his libido and heightened his sexual pleasure, making him a valuable plaything for those who were prepared to pay top dollar. He had the boyish looks and supple body that men desired but they were fussy too. Track marks were a turn off and so the drug dealer had instructed him to shoot up sparingly. Heroin dulled the sexual appetite and therefore, it was strictly off limits during working hours. But the brightly colored pills and a snort of cocaine was all he needed and the combination had his mind and body screaming for stimulation. His enthusiasm for sex made him a favorite amongst Drexl’s clients. He had all the attributes horny middle-aged men craved, beauty, charm, passion and an eagerness to please; nothing was off limits.
He was the model whore.
The man’s thrusting became more frenetic and Tom’s sweat slicked body quivered with anticipation. His fully erect cock jutted out in front of him, the force of the man’s thrusts causing it to bounce against his belly and he longed to reach down and touch himself, to run his fingers over his aching shaft, but it was against the rules. Each client had their own special requests and Daddy Carl (as the man fucking him liked to be called) always wanted him to climax through the pleasure of his love making alone. However, that sometimes caused problems for Tom because many of the drugs in his system caused delayed ejaculation. He had suffered quite a few beatings at the hands of the more aggressive men because in their eyes, his inability to reach orgasm reflected on their performance. But in a bizarre twist, the pain of a beating was all he needed to push him over the edge and as his client’s fists slammed into him, he would achieve some of his most explosive orgasm. However, for Drexl, the beatings were a double-edged sword. He wanted to keep his customer’s happy but a bruised and bloody whore lowered the asking price, and therefore, during the downtime Tom needed for his contusions to fade, he had found another use for him. Surprisingly, Tom was extremely adept at his new line of work and he continued to earn his keep when he was unable to turn tricks. His drug habit had become an expensive outlay for Drexl but for the dealer, it was well worth the expenditure. However, he carefully monitored Hanson’s drug intake, making certain he remained a functioning junkie and not a useless piece of shit that was incapable of making money. It was vital that Tom remained in good shape because he was proving to be a living goldmine and as long as he remained addicted, he was putty in Drexl’s hands.
A stubbled chin rasped against the skin on the back of Tom’s neck as Daddy Carl leaned in close. “Who’s been a naughty boy?” he puffed against Tom’s ear. “Who needs to be punished?”
Tom knew the part he had to play and lowering his head in submission, he let out a soft whimper. “I do sir, I’ve been a very bad boy.” However, his words were not just role-play, they had a tremor of truth behind them because he had been bad and he did deserve to be punished. But those were not thoughts he admitted to himself because to do so, would have him crying out in anguished pain.
Daddy Carl let out an excited growl. “Do you like me fucking you?”
Again, Tom’s answer had a genuine ring of truth to it. “Yes,” he moaned, as precum leaked heavily from his cockhead. “I like it Daddy Carl… I like it.”
Grabbing hold of Tom’s wrists, Daddy Carl rammed his cock deep inside Tom’s abused body. “Then come for me you little whore!”
When the man’s cock slammed against his prostate, Tom felt an explosion of pleasure and with a strangled cry, he ejaculated forcefully, splattering his torso with his semen. Seconds later, Daddy Carl screamed out his delight and digging his fingernails into the tender flesh of Tom’s wrists, he shuddered out his release. Heavy breathing echoed throughout the small room and withdrawing his softening cock, Daddy Carl collapsed on top of Tom, and pulling him into his arms, he rained soft kisses over his face. “You’re such a beautiful boy,” he murmured softly, “Daddy Carl loves you very much.”
It was the moment Tom hated and his body stiffened against the undesired affection. Any display of true loving intimacy awakened his humanity and the veil in his mind would slip, revealing the unwanted memories he had managed to keep suppressed for the past seven months. The detachment he felt over Amy’s death would be the first unwelcome thought to filter slowly through and his indifference niggled at his conscience. But it was the excruciating pain of Doug’s shooting that had him reaching for a needle and it was only when the heroin entered his system that he was able to pull the veil back over his emotions and bury them deep in the recesses of his mind… until the next time.
****
Tuesday October 10th 1989 (2.28 p.m.)
Entering the bustling vice squad operations room, Booker wound his way through the rows of wooden desks, each piled high with folders and paperwork that reflected Los Angeles ongoing struggle against prostitution, illegal firearms and drugs. Stopping at Harry’s desk, he dragged up a chair and straddling it backwards, he rested his arms on the wooden back and leaned forward. “So what’s so important you had to drag me down here on my day off,” he admonished in a teasing voice. “Now I’m gonna miss Santa Barbara and you know Eden’s about to remember that she killed Raoul and—”
Harry did not find Booker’s attempt at humor the slightest bit amusing and with a scowl, he pushed a manila file across the desk. “We have a new player in town,” he advised in a flat voice. “He’s working for Drexl Marks and word on the street is he’s good at what he does. He’s moved more drugs in the last few months than any other dealer we know and I’m talking the good shit, not schoolyard stuff. He’s dangerous.”
A moody pout quickly replaced Booker’s teasing smile. “I was on stakeout for seventy-two hours straight and when I finally get a day off to, oh I dunno, relax, you call me in to tell me there’s another drug dealer in town? Jesus Ioki, we work in vice, there are always gonna be drug dealers in town and I don’t think—”
“Look at the file,” Harry interrupted in a quiet voice, “then tell me I was wrong to call you in.”
Sighing heavily, Booker picked up the folder and pulling out the paperwork, he began to read. The brief contained several key pieces of information. Drexl’s new right-hand man had the nickname Prettyboy. He was young, attractive and good at what he did. Since coming on the scene, he had expanded Drexl’s operation into several adjacent neighborhoods, effectively taking money away from the well-known Latino gang Todas las Sangres and there were rumors of an imminent drug war between the deadly rivals.
Tossing the folder onto Harry’s desk, Booker’s expression sobered. “Okay, I get it. If this war erupts, things are gonna get bad. Do we know what this Prettyboy looks like? Maybe we can bust him and prevent a bloodbath.”
Harry’s expression remained grim and pulling out an 8x10 photograph, he slowly slid it across his desk towards Booker.
As Dennis gazed down at the familiar face, the room suddenly became too hot and a wave of nausea washed over him, blurring his vision.
Prettyboy was Tom.
When the photo finally came back into focus, he gazed at it with wide eyes as he ran a trembling hand over his mouth. “Are you sure?” he whispered, desperate for it to be a joke but knowing in his heart that it was not, and as he continued to gaze into Tom’s beautiful face, a little part of his soul died.
Picking up the photo, Harry slipped it into the folder and gave Booker a gloomy look. “Geoff and Nate took dozens of incriminating photos during a stakeout, there’s no mistake, Hanson’s Drexl’s protégé.” When Booker remained silent, he dropped the final bombshell. “There’s something else you should know, he’s a hardcore junkie and he makes money for Drexl by prostituting himself.”
Once again, the room closed in on Booker and staggering to his feet, he turned and stumbled towards the restroom. So blinded by grief, he careened into several desks, eliciting angry cries of “Watch it Booker!” and “What the fuck’s your problem?”
He finally made it to the bathroom and pushing open the door, he staggered inside, only just making it to the basin before he threw up his lunch. Clutching hold of the cold porcelain, his stomach lurched again and he continued to heave until he had nothing left to expel. The smell of the vomit assaulted his nostrils and turning on the faucet, he flushed the offending liquid down the drain before rinsing out his mouth.
Lifting his head, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror and tears filled his eyes. The man he had fallen in love with was gone, swallowed up by his addiction and the chances of him ever turning his life around were slim to nothing. He was a criminal, a junkie and a whore and when they busted him, he would go to prison for a very long time.
The squeak of the door opening made him jump and he hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes. Harry’s reflection joined his in the mirror and a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder. “It’s kind of shocking huh?”
Spinning around, Booker dark eyes filled with anguish. “He’s in pain,” he muttered in an attempt to justify Tom’s actions. “He lost his best friend and instead of being there, everyone turned against him. “
Ioki instinctively traced a finger over the area of shirt covering his scar. “Except you,” he replied in a cool voice. “You stood by him. Why is that?”
A hot flush colored Booker’s cheeks and he turned his head so the tenderness flaming in his eyes would not give him away. “He was innocent,” he mumbled.
Lowering his hand, Harry gave his partner a stony look. “Innocent men don’t run,” he stated coldly, “and even if they did, Tom sure as hell isn’t innocent now. He’s a drug dealer and we need to get him off the streets. Agreed?”
A crippling pain stabbed at Booker’s heart but he knew what he had to do. He was a cop and Tom was a criminal. Any genius could do the math.
Lifting his head, he gave his reply, “Agreed.”
It was one small, insignificant word but it was powerful enough to destroy another piece of his soul.
****
Tuesday October 10th 1989 (11.49 p.m.)
A cool fall breeze fluttered in through Tom’s open window and hunching closer to the candle's naked flame, he used the end of a syringe to stir the brown liquid heating on a spoon. Once satisfied the heroin had dissolved, he placed a small cotton ball into the solution and inserting the syringe, he slowly pulled back the plunger, drawing up the drug into the plastic cylinder. Discarding the spoon, he placed the syringe between his teeth and tying a rubber tourniquet around his arm, he tightened it until a usable vein popped into sight. Taking hold of the syringe, he carefully inserted the needle into the bluish line and pressed down on the plunger. Instant gratification flooded through his body as the drug hit his system and with a contented sigh, he withdrew the needle and leaning back against the bed, he closed his eyes.
He was finally free.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Chasing a Butterfly