by Edith DuBois
“Well that’s something you never have to worry about,” Benji said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know exactly who you are, and I will tell you every single day if I have to. I’ll tell you every five minutes if you need me to. You are Sherri Winston Blacker. You are my wife, and you are my brother’s wife. You are an extraordinarily brave and beautiful woman. You love generously, and you are fiercely loved.” Benji paused for second as if thinking. “Did I miss anything, bro?”
“You forgot to mention that she has a remarkably gorgeous pussy.”
“Oh, great,” Sherri said, but she was giggling. “Way to ruin a romantic moment.”
“What are you talking about, baby? I thought that was romantic as hell. I love your pussy. It is truly a work of art. If I could, I’d have my face buried in it twenty-four seven.”
Giggling even harder, Sherri shoved his shoulder. “Under all this big, bad sheriff business, you are nothing but a doofus, Ethan Blacker.”
“Never claimed otherwise. But all doofus-talk aside, I wasn’t kidding. I want to see your pussy. Right now.”
The giggling instantly ceased, and Ethan heard a slight hitch in her breathing.
“Pull your pants down,” he said, knowing his firm demands would turn her on faster than anything else. When she had done what he asked, he said, “Touch that beautiful pussy.”
Benji leaned forward from the backseat for a closer look as she obeyed Ethan’s commands. Her fingers sunk into her glistening folds, and she emitted a small, pleasure-filled whimper. Ethan’s cock hardened. This probably wasn’t the best idea, to get themselves all three turned on right in the middle of the town square, but they needed it. Sherri needed it. She needed the deep-down safety and comfort and rightness that only came from the three of them together this way, exploring and pleasuring and releasing.
Sherri swirled her fingers. He saw her thumb rubbing back and forth across her clit. “That’s it,” he said. “Go nice and deep for me. Make sure your fingers are completely covered in that thick, delicious cream.”
“Ethan,” she said, panting. Her fingers began working faster.
“Spread your legs wider. I want to see everything.”
Benji slid his hand over her shoulders and then down to her breasts. He made slow and teasing circles around her nipples with his thumbs, and Ethan could clearly see the hunger in his brother’s eyes as he watched their wife handling her perfect little cunt.
Small moans broke free from Sherri’s throat with increasing frequency. Her eyes were squeezed tight, and he knew she was close to coming.
“Stop,” he said.
She let out a frustrated growl but did what he asked. Her eyes flew open and met his. There was frustration and longing in their depths, but there was also playfulness. He knew she wanted this even if it meant a few minutes of torture.
“Now put your fingers in my mouth.”
With a tight exhalation, Sherri pulled her two fingers out and placed them against his lips. First he kissed just her fingertips, only allowing himself the tiniest of tastes. His cock twitched at the heavenly flavor, making him wish he could sink himself into her right this instant. He had to control himself, however, given their location and purpose for being there.
Instead, he slowly sucked the full length of her fingers into his mouth. He twirled his tongue around them, lapping up every bit of moistness that she’d delivered from her pussy. He sucked and sucked, losing himself in the tangy sweetness.
“What the hell was that?” Benji asked, snapping Ethan out of his moment with Sherri and her fingers.
“What the hell was what?”
Ethan followed Benji’s gaze through the windshield and out across the well-kept lawn of the courthouse. At first he didn’t see anything, but then there was a metallic glint under one of the lampposts.
“A bicycle!” he exclaimed when he recognized a handlebar and some spokes. Whoever it was had pulled over under the light to rummage around in a backpack. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the suspect was wearing a dark hoodie with the hood pulled up and dark pants, perfect attire for a few random acts of vandalism.
“I’m going to investigate. Sherri, stay here. Benji, I may need backup.”
He started to get out of the truck when Sherri said, “Oh hell no.”
Quickly she yanked up her pants and shot out of the passenger side door. He rolled his eyes, wondering why he ever thought she would stay in the truck at a moment like this.
When they were about halfway across the courthouse lawns, Ethan called out, “Good evening. I’m Sheriff Ethan Blacker. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
As soon as he spoke, though, the hooded figure’s head snapped up. Then before he or Sherri took another step, the slender person was on their bike and pedaling like mad in the opposite direction.
“Freeze!” Ethan called out. The person didn’t stop, of course, and Ethan began running after him. “Benji! Get around! Cut him off!” The truck rumbled to life as Ethan sprinted the rest of the distance across the lawn. Sherri wasn’t far behind him.
The biker executed quick glances over his shoulder as he pedaled down the sidewalk. Ethan could tell he was putting significant distance between them. A second later, though, Benji whipped the truck in front of him, cutting him off. Instead of hitting the truck or slamming on his brakes, the biker used his brakes to skid into a left turn. Then he pedaled anew, jumping away from the truck at an odd angle so that Benji would have a hard time maneuvering to follow.
Benji’s interference with the truck had allowed Ethan three or four seconds to gain some ground on the suspect, but the rider launched his bike over the curb and jolted his way down some cement steps.
Ethan propelled himself over the cement, gripping the ledge and swinging his legs over. He landed on the stairs and reached for the biker. His fingertips grazed the hood, pulling it off the rider’s head. He was shocked to see a headful of silky black hair. It looked familiar. That hair looked familiar. He didn’t get a look at his face. It was too dark.
“Stop, damn it,” Ethan called out, still running, but the biker had already made it off the steps, pulled to the right, and was almost to the street.
“For goodness’ sake, stop!” Sherri called from a little ways to the right of him. He saw her lean over and scoop something off the ground. Then she launched it at the biker. It looked like possibly a rock. Great. His wife had just launched a stone at someone. He prayed it didn’t hit the biker in the head. He really didn’t want to deal with a lawsuit. A moment later, though, the back wheel slid out from under the rider, and he went down.
“Holy shit,” Ethan squeaked out. “You actually hit him.” They raced over. The biker was obviously stunned, but he tried to crawl out from under the bike and scramble away from them.
“Not a chance,” Ethan said, grabbing the tiny person by the hoodie and jerking him up to a standing position. “Just what the hell did you think—”
“Gabby?” Sherri said with a gasp next to him. “Is that you?”
Ethan pulled the tiny figure to the light of a lamppost so he could get a better look. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re not a boy.”
Gabby huffed and rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.
“Not only are you not a boy,” Sherri said, “you’re Emilie and the twins’ babysitter. Weren’t you working for them tonight? Emilie said you got spooked by the graffiti.”
Keeping her eyes downcast and a sullen look on her features, Gabby didn’t open her mouth to say one word.
“Are you the one that’s been spray-painting all the houses in the neighborhood?” All the evidence suggested she was—the hoodie, the evasive action, her proximity to the crime—but he had to ask just in case she wanted to deny it. Again, though, they were met with angry, rebellious silence.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Sherri muttered.
Ethan still had a hand on her neck to keep her from bolting, so to Sherri
, he said, “Check her backpack.”
Sherri skipped around behind Gabby and unzipped the bag. Gabby didn’t jerk away or try to maneuver away from Sherri. Instead, she glared at Ethan with open hostility. “Gabby,” Sherri said in an admonishing tone. She pulled out a can of black spray paint and gave it a shake. It was empty.
“Were you working alone?” Ethan asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Did you have any accomplices?”
Nothing.
“Are you going to answer any of my questions?”
Gabby only glared at him. “If you have friends out there who are still tagging people’s houses we need to know.”
More glaring.
“Are you aware that in Texas any form of graffiti, no matter the size or scope, is a Class B misdemeanor. Right off the bat, we’re starting with up to 180 days in jail or a two-thousand-dollar fine. Do you have two thousand dollars lying around, Gabby? What about your mom? Do you think she has that kind of money?”
At the mention of her mother, Gabby stiffened and ground her teeth. Sherri stood a little behind the girl, and at her reaction, she met Ethan’s eyes. His wife had her master’s in psychology and was an expert at reading body language. Ethan had a hunch the signals she gave off were blazing like emergency flares to Sherri.
Ethan continued with his scare tactics, trying to get Gabby to talk. “And if the damages you, and possibly your friends”—he paused, giving her a chance to confirm or deny. She did neither—“exceeds five hundred dollars’ worth, then we’re looking at a Class A misdemeanor.” He put a hand on her shoulder, startling her and making her eyes jump up to his. He held her gaze. “Up to a year in jail. Four-thousand-dollar fine.” Her eyes widened.
He could see the information sinking in, see how it worked its way into the fresh, unbroken lines of her young and tender face. He saw her acknowledge it. He saw her accept it. He saw her face harden once more and her mouth set into its firm stubborn line.
Ethan sighed. “Okay. Let’s load her and the bike up in the truck. We’ll have to take her down to the station. I’ll call in Smith, let him know we have a lead suspect we’re bringing in for questioning.” Usually he wouldn’t be so explanatory of his goings-on, but he hoped to scare Gabby on the truck ride a little bit. From what he’d seen though, she was a tough nut to crack. He had to give her a little begrudging respect. She was holding up well. Most teens her age would have caved at the sight of the six-foot-two sheriff running after them and ordering them to stop.
As they walked her over to the truck, which Benji had parked as close as possible without actually pulling onto the courthouse lawns, Ethan noticed Sherri fidgeting. She had a very worried expression on her face. Finally she said, “Emilie, Grayson, and Gavin are going to be so disappointed in you, Gabby.” She didn’t sound accusatory or angry, only worried and a little bit sad. “They trusted you with their children. They love you. That’s what I don’t understand in all this. I mean, they absolutely adore you, and you did this to them. I just don’t get it.”
They loaded Gabby in the backseat of the truck, and Sherri walked around to get in on the other side. As he shut the door, though, he noticed Gabby wipe the sleeve of her dark hoodie across her face. He thought she maybe had some hair in her face. But then he also thought maybe she was trying to hide watery eyes.
A thought struck him. So blatantly obvious that it seemed almost silly in its simplicity. He knew what would solve this problem, what would lead to the bottom of everything, and hopefully help them all figure out what was best for Gabby, whether that be community service or counseling or some other form of making up for the crimes she’d committed. He knew exactly what would help her. It was something every teenage girl needed, and he had a preternatural certainty this was something Gabby wasn’t getting at the moment.
This girl needed someone to talk to.
Chapter Four
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Sherri would have laughed at the look of consternation on Ethan’s face when he and Smith stormed out of the interrogation room for the third time. Gabby wasn’t telling them a thing. They’d tried everything, he’d assured her, and they’d been bombarding her with questions and conversation tactics for over an hour.
Ethan came over to where she and Benji stood, shaking his head. Emilie and the twins had arrived about forty-five minutes ago. They were all three very upset, but given their relationship with Gabby and the hurt they felt at her actions, they’d agreed they would hold off talking to her for the moment. They wanted her to feel safe and not intimidated. They needed her to talk, to communicate, to let them know exactly what was going on.
If she admitted she was sorry and that it wasn’t done out of malicious motives—which Sherri just knew it wasn’t, it couldn’t be, not with how much she cared for Gaston Henri and Penny—then they could help her. They could find a better solution than pressing charges and having her and her mother go through the damage, mental, emotional, and financial, that would cause.
Benji had been calling all the families that were hit, which included Gavin and Grayson’s parents’ house where Gabby had been babysitting the kids earlier. They’d each said they would hold off pressing charges as long as Gabby helped to clean up the mess she’d made. They also wanted her to go to six months of youth counseling through Male Order’s family counseling offices.
Before any of that could happen, though, they needed a statement from Gabby.
“She won’t open her mouth,” Ethan said. “She will not say a word. I honestly don’t know what to do. We’ve tried firm. We’ve tried gentle. We’ve tried good cop bad cop. Hell, we even offered to leave a tape recorder running and exit the room if she was nervous about talking to two men. She just keeps glaring at us.”
Sherri peeked through the crack in the door. Gabby sat at the table, head down and twiddling the drawstrings of her hood together. A few moments later, Emilie came over with her phone.
“I’ve tried getting a hold of her mother. I’ve called a dozen times. No one is answering.” Emilie threw her hand up and made what Sherri referred to as her “French cluck.” It could signify all sorts of emotions. She’d heard Emilie use it to show bemusement, disapproval, or admiration. This one had a bit of frustration in it, but also worry and exasperation.
Through the crack in the door, Sherri saw Gabby look up. They locked eyes with each other. To her surprise, Sherri didn’t see anger or stubbornness or angst on the girl’s face. In Gabby’s deep brown eyes the only thing she saw was a plea. She saw help me, help me, help me. Her heart wrenched, and before she knew what she was doing, she said, “Let me talk to her.”
“You?” Benji asked.
“Why do you sound surprised? I do practice psychiatry every day.”
Benji’s eyebrows shot up, and he nodded. “You’re right.” He glanced around at Gabby for a moment.
“Ethan, what do you think?” Sherri asked.
“Just make sure the recorder’s on.”
“Are you guys okay with it?” She looked at Emilie, Grayson, and Gavin. After three murmurs of assent, she nodded, took a breath, and marched into the interrogation room. After closing the door behind herself, she took a seat across the table from Gabby.
The girl tucked some of her black silky hair behind her ear and peered up at Sherri through a curtain of bangs. She was worrying her bottom lip, and Sherri noticed she sat on the edge of her seat.
“Hi, Gabby,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have to turn the voice recorder on.” She waited for Gabby to meet her eyes for a second, and then she flipped the recorder on. She let it run for a few seconds, trying to decide the best approach.
From what she’d seen so far on this night and from what she’d heard from Emilie, Gabby wouldn’t be coerced or canoodled into talking. She was guarding herself, keeping every secret and insecurity and passion and vulnerability locked deep inside.
She thought maybe the girl needed to feel like she wasn’t under the magnifying glas
s. Sherri shouldn’t pry, she realized. If Gabby was going to trust her, she needed to understand. She needed to start off right at the heart of this and then work her way through everything with unrelenting, uncompromising positive regard. She had to let Gabby know that this would be okay. Whatever was happening, it would be manageable.
“Gabby,” she said, “do you know where your mom is?”
Just as she had earlier, Gabby stiffened at the mention of her mother. The glaring, which had started to loosen up a little bit, came back full force.
Not yet. She’d have to work her way around to that, but there was definitely something going on between Gabby and her mom, something Gabby was not happy about. Positive regard, positive regard, positive regard, Sherri repeated to herself. “You know,” she said, smiling just a little and leaning back in her chair, “Emilie said you got the idea for the spray paint from a French play. That’s pretty clever. Love is hell. That’s good.”
Gabby looked up at her, glaring. Yet it wasn’t glaring glaring. It was more like “should I believe you” glaring. This is good, Sherri thought. She could work with “should I believe you” glaring.
“What made you choose that phrase? It doesn’t seem like a random choice, you know.”
She waited. She gave Gabby space. She let her have time.
“It wasn’t random.”
Sherri smiled. It was the first thing Gabby had said all night, and she felt a hopeful lightening in her chest.
“Emilie told me it came from a French play and that you like French films. Is that why you chose it? Because you like the play?”
“Kind of.”
“Was it that line in particular?”
Gabby shrugged.
“I don’t remember the actual line from the play. What was the original again?”
“Hell is other people.”
“Sounds heavy.”
Gabby nodded.
Sherri thought about it, about what it could mean, and how a teenage girl would interpret such a line. It was a very intense line to be ripping off and spray-painting onto people’s houses. Most girls would settle for scribbling angry phrases in their diaries. This had to be more than that. Something had cut deep. Sherri could see that Gabby wanted to tell. “Gabby, did someone do something to you?”
