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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Dawn broke to an explosion of bird songs, the cacophony startling Booker awake with a disgruntled groan. Unimpressed by the early morning alarm clock, he angrily pulled his pillow over his head and attempted to drown out the noise. But after several minutes, the humorous fact that the sound easily penetrated through the downy feathers brought a good-natured smile to his lips, and with a resigned sigh, he threw the pillow to the floor and sat up.
From across the room, Tom yawned loudly, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. “Fucking birds. Do you think Fuller would mind if we used our guns under the guise of keeping the peace?”
The statement amused Booker and running his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair, he grinned back. “Probably.”
With a soft groan, Tom pushed himself to a sitting position and unconsciously mirroring Booker, he raked a hand over his head. The action left soft tufts of hair sticking out in every direction, creating the illusion of childlike innocence, and Booker had to swallow down the moan of arousal that rose from deep within his chest. Tom looked so damn adorable, and he felt an almost uncontrollable desire to leap from his bed and smother him with hot, passionate kisses. His cock instantly hardened at the thought and worried his sexual awakening could reach a point of no return, he quickly pushed the wishful thought from his mind.
“So, whaddya think they’re gonna make us do today?” he asked in a strained voice, his mind desperately willing his cock to behave. “Do you think it’s gonna be as brutal as yesterday?”
Mistaking the tension in Booker’s voice as a lack of confidence in his ability to endure another physical challenge, Tom immediately went on the defensive. “Whatever it is, I can handle it,” he replied stiffly, the smile on his lips transforming into a thin, hard line. “I don’t need you looking out for me.”
Surprised by the coolness of Tom’s tone and the willful glare in his eyes, it took Booker a moment to realize the young officer had completely misunderstood the intent behind his question. His expression immediately softened, and he offered an apologetic smile. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Save it,” Tom replied crossly, his lower lip pushing into a sullen pout. “I know what you meant. You think you’re stronger than me.”
Annoyed at Tom’s constantly changing temperament, Booker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he scoffed with a snort. “Face it, Hanson, I am stronger than you, and the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can quit whining about it.”
Not about to let the pain in his damaged ribs prevent him from defending his pride, Tom shot out of bed and assuming a fighting stance, he raised his fists in readiness for battle. “COME ON!” he yelled, his eyes blazing fiercely. “I’ll take you down right now, you sonofabitch! Let’s Go!”
A lascivious grin split Booker’s mouth, and his dark eyes flashed with a hungry desire. With slow precision, his tongue traced a salacious trail over his full lips as his eyes devoured Tom’s slender, naked body. For the longest of moments, his gaze lingered over Hanson’s cock. The impressive appendage lay nestled in a thatch of dark pubic hair, and a low moan exhaled unchecked from between his lips. He longed to take the smooth, plum-shaped head into his mouth and taste its sweetness, to coax the long, thick shaft to hardness with his skilled tongue. His excitement quickly escalated and unashamed, his eyes moved slowly downwards. Tom’s testicles swung freely between his open legs, the sight drawing in his gaze and he marveled at their perfection. A delightful shiver of longing ran down his spine, further lengthening his cock before his erection had even had a chance to abate. The erotic sight standing before him rendered him mute and immobile, and he continued to stare with greedy, licentious eyes at the reality of what was once his secret fantasy.
If he died tomorrow, he knew he would die a happy man.
Disconcerted by Booker’s expression, Tom’s brow drew into a confused frown before realization dawned and with a yelp, he cupped both hands over his exposed genitals. Embarrassment heated his face, flaming his cheeks a bright shade of amber, and he cursed his misfortune. Once again, he had made a fool of himself in front of Booker and once again, his pride lay in tatters. It was becoming an unwelcome habit, and he ruefully wondered why the universe had decided to make him the butt of its jokes.
Inching backward, he grabbed his comforter off the bed and quickly draped it around his naked body, covering his nakedness. Still feeling vulnerable, he sat down on the mattress and wrapped his arms protectively around him, securing the duvet in place. His ribs ached from the sudden burst of activity and his eyes settled on the packet of Advil on his bedside table. But he was too afraid to move in case he accidentally exposed himself again. Therefore, he sat with his eyes downcast and waited for the pain in his side to ease… or for Booker to leave, whichever came first.
Mentally cursing himself for his wanton behavior, Booker climbed from his bed and moving across the room, he squatted down and placed a hand on Tom’s knee. “Sorry.”
Tom lifted his head and gazed into Booker’s coal-black eyes. “The universe hates me,” he lamented with a sigh.
Booker managed to suppress a smile, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Maybe not. Maybe the universe is just rewarding me.”
It was not the response Tom had expected, and his lips twitched into a grin. “Asshole,” he chuckled lightly. “I hope you enjoyed the show ‘cause it’s the last one you’ll ever get to see.”
“Spoilsport,” Booker pouted, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
Now his embarrassment was starting to ease, Tom could see the funny side of the situation and his grin widened. “Penhall’s gonna get such a kick out of this.”
Getting to his feet, Booker grabbed his toiletries and threw his towel over his shoulder. “Maybe it can be our little secret,” he replied softly, a hopeful glimmer brightening his soft brown eyes.
Tom had the uncomfortable feeling Booker wanted the embarrassing scenario kept under wraps because he yearned to have an anecdote that was theirs and theirs alone. It was obvious Dennis was jealous of his relationship with Penhall; he and Doug shared a unique bond that many envied. Theirs was a brotherly love that extended much further than friendship; it was a lay down your life devotion rarely seen between two colleagues. They adored each other and Tom knew he would never have another friendship like the one he shared with Doug. It was a once in a lifetime bond, and he felt immensely grateful he had been lucky enough to find what many would describe as his soul mate.
But then there was Booker. While their relationship was slowly developing into something resembling a friendship, the dark-haired officer’s obvious infatuation with him made their bond an awkward one. He had no qualms about hugging Doug or offering him a tender caress when he was feeling down. Whereas with Dennis, he was self-conscious about showing any affection because he did not want to lead him on any more than he already had. He vividly recalled the startled look on Booker's face when he had inadvertently flirted with him, and he did not want to make the same mistake again. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the strange, unexplained emotions he felt when Booker touched him. The flip-flopping sensation in his stomach and the tightening of his testicles were all signs of sexual arousal, but he was too confused and embarrassed to admit it to himself and therefore, he tried not to think about it. Although Booker still made him nervous, he felt inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame and he could not help but ask himself if, like the insect, the attraction would ultimately lead to his demise.
The intensity of Booker's gaze pulled him back to the present, and pushing aside all the unsettling thoughts swirling in his mind, he offered a tentative smile. “Deal.”
But when Booker grinned back, a shiver of foreboding tingled his spine, and he began to wonder if he was making a huge mistake.
**
Three hours later
The mood in the Pi Tau house was a mixture of eager anticipation and uncertainty. The seven pledges stood patiently in line in the basement waiting for Michael McCarter to give them their directive. Hanson's demeanor was guarded; he felt less than ready to face whatever barbaric ritual the pledge master had in mind. Although he had taken a couple of Advil before leaving the dorm, the dull throbbing in his ribs was a testament to the extent of his injury. But he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it, especially after the fiasco of his nude battle dance. The physical symptoms of his humiliation were still very much evident; the bilious churning in the pit of his stomach coupled with flashes of heat when he imagined how ridiculous he must have looked with his genitalia swinging freely in the breeze. The embarrassing memory made him cringe, and his heart fell out of rhythm and fluttered against his chest. It was a humbling lesson, and he vowed never to lose his temper with Booker again without first making sure he was fully dressed.
McCarter’s loud, imposing voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned his attention to the pledge master.
“Today’s activity requires physical strength,” the Pi Tau instructed, his cruel gaze blatantly eyeing Harold Horshack up and down, causing the smaller man to cower visibly under the scrutiny. “Each pledge will complete one hundred push-ups. If you don’t complete the task, you move on to the next phase.”
Booker cast a furtive glance at Tom. Under normal circumstances, he would not have entertained the idea of interfering. But it was obvious his friend was suffering in silence, and he felt it was his duty to say something, even if it meant being on the receiving end of a bucket-load of wrath. There was no way Tom could complete the challenge, and he could not face the idea of him competing in what was likely to be an even more sadistic trial. Therefore, he pushed aside the nagging thought that he was somehow betraying his friend and clearing his throat, he spoke up. “Er, Harris has an injury.”
Tom’s head whipped to the side and clenching his hands into tight fists, he glared angrily at Booker. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I told you, I’m fine.”
The muscles in McCarter’s jaw jumped, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, before his expression became chillingly neutral. “Is this true, Harris?” he asked in a flat, emotionless voice.
With eyes blazing, Tom glared back defiantly. “It’s just a couple of bruised ribs. I’m okay.”
Arching his eyebrows skeptically, McCarter studied Tom’s insolent expression. “Lift your shirt,” he commanded softly.
Humiliation flamed Tom’s cheeks, but he stubbornly stood his ground, his gaze unfaltering. “I... said… I’m... o-kay,” he reiterated in a slow, precise voice, laying heavy emphasis on the final word.
For several long moments, McCarter rubbed his chin in contemplation. Then, without warning, he jabbed his fingers into Hanson’s ribs.
An anguished cry sounded from between Tom’s lips and he doubled over in pain, hot tears filling his eyes. “Sonofabitch!” he spat angrily. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Amusement sparkled in McCarter’s eyes. “Because I can,” and ignoring Tom’s furious look, he turned away and strode pretentiously up and down the line of pledges. “Harris will sit this one out, the rest of you, drop to the floor. You’ll start on my count.”
All six pledges voiced groans of displeasure, but they followed the command without argument and got themselves into position. McCarter smirked annoyingly at Tom—who stood silently with an arm wrapped protectively around his aching ribs—and proceeded to count in a loud, clear voice. “One… two… three…”
Booker and four of the pledges had no trouble falling into a steady rhythm, and they easily kept up with McCarter’s rapidly barked tally. But Horshack floundered from the start, his puny arms incapable of holding the weight of his slender frame. After only five push-ups, rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead, slipping behind his thick glasses and stinging his eyes. His breath wheezed from his lungs with each painfully labored pant, the rasping hiss filling the room. A minute passed, and he was already dozens of push-ups behind the other pledges. He tried valiantly to catch up, but pain constricted his chest, further inhibiting his breathing, and it was then he knew he was, in the words of the Beatnik poets, royally screwed.
A hand suddenly came out of nowhere and plucked his glasses from his face, instantly rendering him blind. “Hey!” he gasped, his sightless eyes squinting up at McCarter’s shadowy form. “Give ‘em back! I can’t see!”
McCarter’s loud, cruel laugh cut through the grunts of exertion echoing through the room. “Your specs were steaming up, Horseshit. I was doin’ you a favor.”
But as he turned to walk away, a cold hand grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip, painfully grinding the bones.
“Give him back his glasses.”
Whipping around, McCarter glared into Tom’s furious face. “And who’s gonna make me, Harris? You?” the pledge master snorted.
A small, knowing smile played over Tom’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. “That’s right, asshole,” he murmured softly, his grasp tightening. “You might think you’re the big man on campus, but I’m telling you now, you really don’t wanna mess with me. Got it?”
A look of uncertainty flashed briefly across McCarter’s face, and his left eye twitched nervously. But he quickly regained his composure and snatching his arm free, he laughed, albeit a little too loudly. “Did you and your buddy Brody go to the same school of wannabe heroes, Harris?” he mocked, his lips drawn back in a predatory grin.
“Nope,” Tom replied pleasantly. “We just don’t take shit from small-dicked motherfuckers like you.”
All six pledges had paused to watch the scene unfold, and a collective gasp cut through the air at the audacity of Tom's insult. Booker started to rise, but McCarter stamped a foot into the small of his back, forcing him back to the floor. The minor assault was enough for Tom to react and with no regard for his own physical safety, he drew back his fist and took a swing, his knuckles connecting with McCarter’s jaw with a satisfying crack.
The pledge master’s head whipped forcibly to the right, a rush of air expelling from between his lips with a loud oomph. The impact of the blow sent him reeling backward, and he collided with the workbench, his flailing arms knocking over the utensil holder. Knives, forks, and spoons flew across the wooden bench with such force, several clattered to the cement floor. The stainless steel tableware lay glinting under the harsh fluorescent lighting, their ability to cause discomfort now just a distant memory. Several pledges sat up, ready to take flight if an all-out brawl ensued. But Horshack remained paralyzed, his body quivering in fear. He had no idea what had happened, but he was astute enough to pick up the vibe and the vibe told him that a whole load of shit was about to hit the fan.
Shocked by the sudden turn of events, Booker was on his feet in seconds, ready to back Tom up. The four other pledges remained motionless, the push-ups forgotten, their wide eyes filled with a mixture of fear and curious fascination. The drama unfolding before their eyes was much more interesting than the hazing ritual, and they all waited with bated breath to see what would happen.
Determined to hold on to the last thread of his dignity, McCarter stood tall, his shoulders squared in defiance, his expression stoic. “I’ll see you all here at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning,” he stated flatly, and without meeting any of the pledges puzzled gazes, he strode purposely up the stairs and into the main house.
**
Flames lapped greedily at the neatly stacked kindling in the hearth of the fraternity's common room, the burning wood crackling and spitting as the fire took hold. Tongues of orange flame licked at the wood, radiating warmth across the dimly lit room, the hypnotic flickering casting abstract shadows over the wood-paneled walls lined with photos of Pi Tau alumni. Todd Stevenson stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He silently studied the bruise on McCarter’s chin, his lips pressed in a contemplative pucker. Long, drawn out seconds turned into minutes before he finally spoke, his voice cool and emotionless. “You’re telling me Harris did this to you?”
Shame flushed McCarter’s cheeks and rubbing a tentative hand over his swollen jaw, he struggled to control the animosity that writhed deep within his gut. “Sonofabitch caught me off guard,” he growled. “It won’t happen again… trust me.”
A slight nod of the head was the only sign Stevenson gave that he had heard McCarter’s vow. But the pledge master was not about to let the matter drop. He’d had enough of Brody and Harris interfering with the hazing ritual, and he was determined to get his revenge. But to do so, he needed his Pi Tau brother’s approval and stepping forward, he stared intensely at his friend, an evil glint in his ice-blue eyes. “I wanna nominate Harris and Brody for the final test. Any objections?”
Todd’s gaze turned to the largest portrait in the room; that of Pi Tau’s founding father, Alexander Powell. “You still have another two days to put them through their paces,” he remarked softly. “Initiation isn’t until Friday; are you sure you want to make such an important decision now?”
“I’m sure,” McCarter stated through clenched teeth. “Those bitches are gonna wish they’d kept their fat mouths shut.”
A sadistic smile briefly crinkled the corners of Todd’s eyes. “I’ll inform the brothers.”
McCarter’s lips pulled back into an evil grin. Brody and Harris may have thought they had the upper hand, but ultimately, he would have the last laugh.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness