The back of my neck goes hot. We’re on a public street, for chrissakes. Clarice from Southwest Knickknacks is locking up her shop. Her dismayed expression at what she’s witnessing fills me with hot shame. Now everyone’s going to think I’m a drunk.
I quickly perform the task, then look at his stupid, smirking face.
“Now, I want you to stand on one leg, touch your nose, and recite the alphabet backwards.”
“All at the same time?” I snap.
“If you’re as sober as you say, this should be a cakewalk.”
“I’m clearly sober. Just let me take a breathalyzer, and we’ll be on our way.”
He shakes his head, smirking. The tourist group has given up trying to watch me coyly. Now two of them point their phones at me, filming my humiliation outright.
“If you think this harassment will make me change the trust, you’re insane,” I say in a low voice.
His smirk disappears. “Do the test right now, or I will arrest you for refusing to follow an order.”
Sierra hops out of the truck. “Marshal Dawson, please.” She wrings her hands. “Canwe—”
“You’re right, this has gone on long enough,” he says sympathetically. “Logan, last chance. Nothing will make you change the trust?”
“Please consider it, Logan,” Sierra says.
I blink, confused. “Why do you care about his funding, Sierra?”
“I…” She looks at a loss for words. “Just tell him you’ll think about it.”
“I need a stronger promise than that,” Dawson says.
I shake my head and then answer Dawson. “No, Dawson. You’ll never get your hands on it, not in a million years.”
Dawson clenches his jaw. “Fine. This was a long shot anyway.” Dawson pulls out his phone and holds his thumb over a play button.
“No!” Sierra cries. “No, please don’t.”
He smiles, then presses a button on his phone, and a recording begins to play.
Even though the voice sounds stilted and young, I instantly recognize it as Sierra’s.
“The first day was a Tuesday. John Hillerman invited me over. Around 3 p.m. He invited me over every day that week, around that time, because his wife would still be at work and his daughter at softball practice. John Hillerman invited me over via text. He told me to take off my clothes. I don’t remember who initiated touching. I sucked his, uh, penis.”
I freeze. What. The. Fuck.
In front of me, Sierra’s eyes close, her face twisted in pain. She drops her face into her hands. All the while, this asshole holds the phone out toward me, smiling.
“Yes, I swallowed. It was in his…room. We had sex in other places, not just his bed.”The short pauses and the intonation of herwords sounded too high at times. As if she were responding to questions, even though her voice is the only one on the recording. “I think it was Thursday, he…John Hillerman bent me over the kitchen table.”
“Please turn it off,” Sierra begged Dawson. My girlfriend, having to beg this monster not to air her private indiscretion on a public street, finally snaps me out of it.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask Dawson.
Sierra cringes, tears sparkling at the corner of her eyes. Her voice is barely audible over the recording that continues to play. “It’s my statement. About what happened with John Hillerman.”
The group of rubberneckers moves closer, curious about what we’re listening to.
“Shut that off,” I snap.
Dawson ignores me, smiling slightly as young Sierra’s voice describes how John Hillerman prefers his blow jobs.
