When Bruce Met Cyn (6 page)

Bruce straightened and crossed his arms, pretending to survey her when in fact his gaze had devoured her the second she appeared. “Very nice. Very professional. I expect you'll get hired on the spot.”

“Right. Don't overdo it, okay?” Her words were teasing, but couldn't hide her discomfort.

It broke his heart and made him desperate to reassure her. “Definitely.”

She held out the hem of the cardigan and looked up at him with hopeful eyes. “It's…
blah
enough?”

A surprised laugh escaped him. Miss Cynthia Potter couldn't be blah, even when so obviously trying. “No, not blah at all. I'd say…classy. Sedate.”

“I don't look like a tramp?”

His breath caught.
“No.”
Anger at her, and at himself, rippled through him. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I usually do, no matter what I wear. At least that's what I've been told.” She pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “Dressing down isn't what I'm used to. I had a hell of a time picking out these clothes.”

They needed to explore her awful declaration, but Bruce couldn't help but be grateful for the change of topic. “When did you shop?”

“Before hitching here. I had to toss out a bunch of my old clothes.” Her nose wrinkled. “I figured anything spandex, animal print, or fake leather had to go.”

He sat opposite her, forked pancakes onto both their plates, and did what he knew he should do. He encouraged her to talk. “What kind of job are you hoping to get?”

She picked at the edge of one pancake, her gaze averted. “I don't care, as long as it's a real job.” Her eyes lifted to lock with his. “A legitimate job.”

Before Bruce even knew what he was going to say, the words were out. “I'd like to help.”

Her soft mouth formed a crooked smile. “Now, why doesn't that surprise me?”

Derision masked a lot of hurt, he knew. He warmed to the idea. “I could give you a job helping here at the church.”

She stared at him, a little stunned, then gave a burst of surprised laughter. “Me, in a church? Now, wouldn't
that
set the good people on their ears.”

“You're a good person, Cyn.”

“You don't even know me.”

“I'm a good judge of character.”

As if he were simple, she said succinctly, “I was a
hooker.”

“You did what you had to do—you said so yourself.” Bruce leaned forward in his chair. “But no one knows what you did before coming here. No one has to know. Your business is your own.”

“Right.” She drowned her pancakes in syrup.

“Reverend Thorne would disagree with you.”

Bruce could feel himself tightening, but he kept his tone calm. “Who?”

“Reverend Thorne, this creepy, cleric guy I was taken to see, sort of like intervention.”

“When was this?”

“Long time ago, when I was a kid. You don't think I'd have gone on my own, do you?” She snorted over the absurdity of that. “He said I look like a whore. Always have and always would. Something about my harlot's soul manifesting itself in my appearance.”

Bruce wasn't a violent man under normal circumstances, but this wasn't normal. If the reverend were here right now, Bruce would have happily beat him to a pulp.

How dare a man, especially a man pretending to do God's work, tell her such a cruel thing? How dare he emotionally abuse a young girl?

Bruce's hands curled into fists, but there was no anger in his voice when he spoke. “Thorne sounds like an idiot.”

“Yeah, I know. Stupid and mean. I'm not really sure what faith he was supposed to be, but he and Palmer got along great.”

“Palmer?”

Her lip curled. “Palmer Oaks. The guy my mother shacked with. Talk about colorful characters. Those two'd take the cake.”

Emotion tightened his throat, and Bruce reached across the table to take her hand. “I haven't known you long, but I already know without a single doubt that you're a very intelligent young lady.”

“Damn right—and thanks for noticing.”

She was in a talkative mood this morning. Bruce hoped that meant she was beginning to feel at ease with him. “Modest, too.”

That had her laughing. “Modest, smart,
and
strong. I don't need any handouts. I can make it on my own. That's the whole point.”

“I understand that, and I commend you.” It was a typical response to proffered help, one he'd expected, especially from Cyn. “But that wasn't what I meant.”

“No?”

He hesitated, weighing his words. “As I said, you're smart. You have to know that Thorne and Palmer were sick men. They're not the norm. The world is filled with good people.”

As if placating him, she said, “Like you?”

“And you.” He laced his fingers with hers. He'd often made a point of offering physical contact, hand-holding, shoulder-rubbing, to help give comfort to the distraught.

With Cyn, his motives were murky at best. He had a feeling that the physical contact was more for his benefit than for hers.

“You're smart enough to know that the biggest step toward changing your life is talking to someone. Sharing the things that hurt you, that helped mold you. In order to move forward, you need to let the past go, and the best way to do that is to purge yourself of the memories.”

“Right.” Her expression soured into cynicism.

“You wanna hear all the gruesome details, is that it?”

Want
to hear them? No. But he believed she needed to talk, and he wanted to be the one she talked to. “If you're comfortable with me, I'm a very good listener.”

“They teach you listening skills in preacher school?”

She had a biting wit that would have been more amusing under less tragic circumstances. “Yes, and I aced my classes.”

“Why would you want to listen to people whine and complain? I got my fill of that with the johns who paid me. Pathetic bozos, all of them.”

“But I'm not a pathetic bozo, right?” He didn't give her a chance to answer, just in case her answer wasn't what he wanted to hear. “I just want to help, that's all.”

“You'd have been a helluva lot more help when I was a kid.” She slipped her hand away.

“I wish I'd been there.” He wished that more than anything.

Her disbelief was plain, and fired by anger. “It wouldn't have mattered. Problems like that are a hell of a lot easier to ignore. Neighbors don't want to get involved. Relatives look the other way. What makes you think you'd have been any different?”

A heavy weight settled around his heart. “It's unforgivable not to intervene if you know someone is hurt.”

“Yep.
Un
forgivable.” She pinned him with her shrewd gaze. “You got that much right.”

“They don't deserve your forgiveness, Cyn, that's true. But
you
deserve to forgive and move on. To let it go from your life so it can't bother you anymore.”

She eyed him, then shook her head with a rusty laugh. “You're not going to let this drop, are you?”

He didn't want to. He stared into her mocking eyes, searching for the right words, when suddenly she pushed to her feet.

“I'm going to show you something.”

The abrupt change took him by surprise. “All right.”

She turned and headed back upstairs. Bruce watched her exit, saw she was still limping a bit, but also saw the anticipation in her body language. She wanted to share—she was ready to take that next step.

He was grateful to be the man she confided in.

Cyn returned moments later with a stack of books. Out of all the things Bruce had expected, books hadn't figured in.

She plunked the pile on the table. “You wanna know about me? Well, here I am.” She indicated the books with a wave of her hand. “This is why I don't need you or your sympathy or your help.”

Dumbfounded, at a complete loss, Bruce watched her pick up one slim volume.

“After I ran off,” she said, her eyes still narrowed and her attitude aggressive, “I didn't trust anyone. I couldn't. It would have been dumb.”

Bruce took the book from her. His heart twisted at the title:
The Roots of Child Abuse and Neglect.
He looked at Cyn. “The books helped?”

As if she clenched her teeth, her jaw worked. “Friendships were out. Can't be friends with people you can't trust, and most everyone on the street would steal you blind with a smile. Public places like the movies or malls were too iffy. So I read.”

He remembered her telling him that her reading interests varied. Apparently, she educated herself on whatever she thought she needed to know.

“There were two independent bookstores near my corner. One was run by foreigners. They didn't care who bought a book, as long as you had cash. They'd even order titles for me.”

Bruce felt such admiration, he couldn't bring himself to look away from her. “This is some heavy reading.”

“I guess.” She opened the cover on the book, flipped idly through the pages. “Remember I said I watched the other hookers, and knew I didn't want to end up that way? Well, I watched my mother and Palmer, too, and God knows, I sure didn't want to be like them. They disgusted me. So I figured I had to learn as much about them as I could. That way I'd know what to expect, what to avoid.”

Bruce was so humbled, so astonished at her resourcefulness, that the urge to hold her nearly overwhelmed him. He needed the contact as much, if not more, than she did.

But he didn't want to scare her off, to interrupt what he hoped would be a cathartic retelling of her past.

He picked up the next book.
The Road to Recovery: After Child Abuse.
Red-hot rage mixed with drowning compassion. His voice rough with emotion, he said, “You're pretty amazing, you know that?”

Sarcasm had her rolling her eyes. “There's nothing amazing about a homeless ex-hooker with a shady past.” And before he could protest that, she shook her head. “Every ten seconds, a kid gets abused.
Every ten seconds,
Bruce. You said you would have helped, but even if you did, it wouldn't be enough.” A shudder of revulsion shook her slender frame, and her voice went hollow and pained. “I always thought I was the only one.”

Bruce watched her shoulders firm, watched her straighten her spine in iron resolve. How many times had she been forced to do that throughout her young life?

“After I found out how many kids are hurt, I wished I
was
the only one. I get ill thinking of it.”

She fell silent, then said in a rush, “Did you know most abusers were abused? They grow up and follow some sick pattern.” Her words came in a rush, as if a dam had burst. Her hand curled into a tight fist. “I'd sooner be dead than ever hurt someone, especially a child.”

Talk of death always alarmed Bruce, but not this time. Cyn was a survivor. He had a feeling she'd been making plans to change her life from the day she left home, whether she realized it or not.

She'd looked ahead to what she eventually wanted by avoiding some of the pitfalls so many desperate people fell into, like drugs and alcohol. She'd educated herself and taken steps to be a better person than those around her.

Despite the prostitution issue, which broke his heart, she hadn't given up, hadn't accepted her fate or grown comfortable with it. Her anger was over the past, not the present. Her views weren't despondent, but determined.

She wanted change, for herself and others, and Bruce had a feeling she'd get it.

It was odd, how comfortable he felt speaking with her. Unlike the other women he'd counseled, his conversations with Cyn were shared, not sermonized. He wasn't trying to alter her views—he was learning more about her. And what he learned intrigued him.

“People either follow a familiar path, or they forge a new one. You're aware of the problem and you'll be able to help others with your understanding.” He visually caressed her face, noting the stubborn chin, the soft lips, the intelligent and compelling gaze. “That's why you read literature on the subject.”

She toyed with her hair, a sign he now saw as nervousness. “I know it's far-fetched, but you're right. Someday, if I can save enough money, I want to go back to school, maybe even college. I want to work with kids, to help them…” She suddenly shut down, as if embarrassed by what she'd admitted. “I can't imagine too many people wanting an ex-hooker around their kids, though.”

“I think you'd be a wonderful inspiration to many.”

She ducked her head. “Yeah, well, it's mostly just a pipe dream. Besides, I'd probably screw it up somehow.”

Bruce shook his head. She could grapple with a bulky truck driver without pause, but compliments made her uneasy. Never in his life had he known anyone like her. “Tell me about Palmer. Was he your stepfather?”

“Hardly. Marriage is for normal people, Bruce, not my family. No, Palmer was just Mom's latest shack-up, but he stuck around longer than the others. She was totally impressed with him. He strutted around our dirty little house like a ragtag king.” More to herself than Bruce, she muttered, “Stupid fool.”

“He abused your mother, too?”

She shrugged as if she really didn't care, about any of it, when Bruce knew she cared too much. “He slapped her around a little. Whenever that happened, she'd blame me.”

A mother should protect her child, but instead Cyn's had abandoned her. Very softly, he asked, “How old were you?”

Cyn stared at the far wall. “I'd just turned fifteen when he moved in.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a sheepish grin, putting dimples in her cheeks. “Back then, I was still suffering adolescence. You know, baby fat and bad complexion and all that.”

Bruce smiled, imagining her as a young, round-faced girl. “I'll bet you were cute.”