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 with her hands laced over her flat belly. “There’s nothing in this world like home-cooked food.”
Bruce was good at picking up on clues to a person’s background, but as clues went, that one was pretty in-your-face. “You normally eat at restaurants?”
“I’ve never had a kitchen, so yeah.”
“Never?”
She met his surprise with an expression of negligence. “Not since I was a kid, and my mother sure as hell wasn’t Suzy-homemaker, you know?” She stood up and stretched, flexed her ankle experimentally, and frowned. “I’d better be on my way. I don’t want to abuse your hospitality.”
It was three in the morning, it was storming, and she looked exhausted as well as hurt.
After giving her a long, thoughtful look, Bruce came to a sudden decision. Only moments ago, he’d had his intentions all planned out. He’d told himself it’d be for the best for her to go the motel. He’d told himself it wouldn’t look right, for her, if she stayed with him. He’d check in on her, offer her assistance, and keep in touch. A good plan. A solid, typical plan.
But suddenly, things felt different.
He didn’t want her to go.
He stood in front of her, hating the way she abruptly turned defensive and watchful. “I’ll drive you to the motel,” he told her, holding her gaze with his own. “But if you’d prefer, you can sleep here for the night.”
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