The microwave dinged, and Cyn nearly jumped out of her chair.
Bruce reached for her hand. “You haven’t met him, but you’ve seen him?”
She avoided his gaze. “This’ll clinch it. You’ll definitely think I’m nuts.”
“I know Jamie, who fades in and out, and I don’t think he’s nuts. Trust me, nothing you can say will shock me after meeting him.”
“All right, you asked for it.” She gave him a crooked smile. “It’s this strange dream that I keep having. Remember I said Visitation pulled at me? Well, I didn’t know it was Visitation, I just knew what it looked like and how it felt. I’d see this big, clean lake and so many trees that sometimes you couldn’t see the sky and I saw…Jamie Creed. I didn’t know his name, I just saw him. But unlike the other things, like the lake and the trees, he was always vague. There, but not real defined.”
Beyond fascinated, Bruce rose from his seat to get her plate, giving himself a moment to think. Was it possible that she knew Jamie from somewhere? Maybe Jamie’s mysterious past was somehow tied in with hers. “What did he say to you in this dream?”
“Nothing. He was just there. Quiet and not really frowning, but not smiling, either.”
“No, Jamie doesn’t smile much.” Too many times to count, Bruce had pondered Jamie and his too serious, too sober outlook on life. Jamie seemed to feel responsible for everyone, even though it was plain he wanted to keep himself separate from others.
But now Cyn had some sort of connection to him.
“Will I get to meet Jamie, do you think?”
He set her plate in front of her and watched her inhale the scent of roast chicken with great anticipation. “That’s up to Jamie. If he wants to meet you, he’ll show up.”
She accepted that with a nod. Before Bruce realized what she was doing, she’d dug a small pill bottle out of her purse and had two round tablets ready to toss in her mouth.
He caught her wrist. “What are you taking?”
She stared at his restraining hand, and slowly, her gaze moved up to his face. They had a visual standoff, but Bruce didn’t relent, so finally she said, “It’s aspirin. For my ankle.”
“Let me see.”
She stiffened and her chin tucked in. “You’re calling me a liar?”
Her wrist felt slender, almost fragile, with his fingers wrapped around it. “I don’t like drugs.”
She jerked away from him. “And I don’t like pain.”
“What pain?”
Her foot got thrust in his face. “You saw me limping. You even kept harping about it. Remember?”
Bruce wrapped his fingers around the arch of her small foot. He lowered it to his lap so he could inspect her ankle. It was swollen and bruised and she sucked in her breath when he touched it. “I don’t think you broke anything or you wouldn’t have been able to walk at all, but it’s probably sprained.”
“So do I have Your Majesty’s permission to pop some aspirin?”
Leaving her foot balanced on his thigh, Bruce again caught her wrist and pried her fingers open. Two small, chalky-white pills were on her palm. He recognized them as brand-name aspirin.
She started to jerk her foot away, but Bruce held her still. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t soften one bit. “I’m not a drug head.”
He’d already apologized, and by her comment, he knew she understood his concern. “I’m glad.”
His simple but sincere sentiment took the heat from her eyes. She licked her lips. “I know a lot of the other girls took drugs, but I never did.”
“Other girls?” She made sarcastic comments, but hadn’t outright admitted to being a prostitute yet.
She met his gaze without flinching. “From the time I was seventeen, until now, I was a hooker. But you already knew that.”
“I thought it was possible.” It took all his resolve to keep his expression impassive, when inside his emotions churned. Seventeen. It hurt him to even consider it. “Why?”
“The usual reason—I needed money.”
“Why prostitution? Why not some other job?”
“Whoring is easier?”
He chastised her with a frown. “No, it’s not.”
She laughed. “You’re right, it isn’t.” She turned her head, giving him a long look, then shrugged.
“I tried to get other jobs, but I was young, dumb as dirt when it came to skills, and even the most basic job wanted some sort of ID.”
It was a typical story for runaways, one he’d heard many times. “You couldn’t give any ID?”
“Nope.”
“Because you didn’t want to be taken back?”
“That’s about it.”
He closed his eyes, pained for her. “And so you sold yourself.”
“I didn’t have much else to sell. And it wasn’t like I wanted to do it.” She half laughed, showing no signs of real humor. “But I got hungry, ya know?”
“Yes. I know.”
“I’d watched some girls turning tricks. I saw what they were doing and how they dressed and the stuff they said. Guys are notoriously easy. You stand there, smile, show a little leg or cleavage…”
“I understand.” But he couldn’t bear to visualize it.
“Anyway, I watched them, what the drugs and the flesh peddling did to them, and I knew I never wanted to be like that. So I was more careful and I stayed away from the pushers.”
Her idea of caution would make most people faint in fright. Still, he understood her—and he admired her. “Good for you.”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that drugs mess up your head. And like you said, being a small woman puts you at a disadvantage from jump. I didn’t need to be loopy on top of it. Besides, I wanted to save all my money, not waste it on getting high.” After saying that, she popped the aspirin in her mouth and washed them down with tea, the topic dead by her decree.
Bruce accepted that. He patted her hand. “I’ll get you some ice for your ankle. Use my chair to keep it elevated while you eat.”
“Yes, oh-mighty-one.”
The variety of names she called him weren’t exactly complimentary, but they weren’t outright insults, either, and Bruce was too relieved to have her good humor restored to say anything about it.
The rain started not two minutes later. The sky opened up and the storm hit as an angry torrent, accompanied by wailing winds and a spattering of hail. The lights in the kitchen flickered, but didn’t go out.
He was glad. Never before had he felt so entertained watching a woman eat. Cyn was small, but she had a hearty appetite. He’d realized while watching her that her manners were surprisingly refined. In his past experience, hookers were deliberately crass and uncouth. If Cyn tempered what she said, no one would ever suspect her of being anything other than an exceptionally appealing young lady with a middle-class background.
She ate every bite on her plate, but refused seconds when Bruce offered them. “Any more and my jeans will pop a snap. But thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pushed her plate back and slouched in her seat