When Bruce Met Cyn (16 page)

Cyn waited in an agony of frozen suspense—and Bruce licked her, darting his tongue around his buried fingers, prodding, then up and over her engorged clitoris.

She cried out, wilting back on the bed, her hands still tight in his hair.

Gently, determined to have her climax, he teased her most sensitive flesh, drew her into his mouth, sucked softly, insistently, rubbing with the roughness of his tongue, rolling, nipping—and minutes later, a tearing moan escaped her as an orgasm raged through her body.

Bruce pressed himself hard against the mattress and fought his own release, but it was useless. He'd been celibate too long, wanted Cyn too much.

With a muffled groan, he gave up.

As the tension drained from his body, he held Cyn still with the weight of his shoulders, staying with her, pushing her, making her pleasure go on and on until she subsided in near soundless whimpers, her body limp, damp with sweat.

Bruce rested his cheek on her slender thigh, his fingers still pressed deep inside her, absorbing the little aftershocks and tremors. He didn't want to leave her yet. Truthfully, he didn't want to leave her ever.

She gulped air. Little by little, her fingers loosened in his hair, began caressing, smoothing. Finally, after several minutes had passed, she whispered, “Holy cow, Bruce.”

With a contented smile, he said, “You're wonderful.”

He didn't want to move, but he had to clean up and they really did need to get some sleep. With a tender kiss to the inside of her knee, he pushed up to his elbows. “I'll be right back.”

Idly, she flapped a limp hand at him. She sighed, sighed again, longer and deeper, and finally said, “Yeah. Whatever. I'm not going anywhere.”

Bruce made fast work of it, took the time to don fresh boxers, and crawled back into bed beside her. Without making him ask, she curled into his side and put her arms around him. He knew she wanted to say something, and he just waited.

“What you did…”

He hugged her. “Gave me more pleasure than I've had in years.”

She shook her head. “But you didn't…”

“Yeah. I did. I didn't mean to, but you're very special to me and I lost control.”

He could actually feel her confusion before she laughed. “I will never understand you.”

“Yes, you will. I'll see that you do.” He settled into the mattress. “Now sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow.”

That reminder made her shudder in regret. Bruce hugged her closer; he wanted her to remember that she was no longer alone. She'd never be alone again.

Seconds later, her breathing deepened and Bruce knew she was asleep.

Cyn fell silent as Bruce pulled the compact rental car to the curb in front of her mother's home. It was a blustery, overcast day and Cyn pulled her sweater closer around her.

After a brief meeting at the airport, Detective Darby Orsen requested they join her at the house to talk.

Bruce had wanted Cyn to eat first, but her stomach was too jumpy for that. He'd wanted her to nap too, as if she hadn't slept through the entire flight. She couldn't remember ever being so exhausted—or so uneasy.

It wasn't just the imminent stroll down memory lane, either. It was Bruce.

What did last night mean to him?

She had no idea, and it was driving her nuts. What he'd done…tending to her needs while ignoring his own, left her floundering in uncertainty. She knew of
no
man who gave so unselfishly. Especially where sex was concerned.

In general, men were pigs in bed. She saw it in the movies, heard it on the streets. As a hooker, she'd expected no less. With Bruce…she hadn't known what to expect. Certainly, she hadn't expected what he'd done.

“Ready?”

Damn. She realized she'd just been sitting there, staring at the yellow tape around the ramshackle house. Weeds were high in the yard, filling up cracks in the concrete walk. Beer cans, cigarette packs, and various other debris were scattered everywhere.

Cyn nodded—but it was a lie. She was far from ready.

The detective had parked behind them and now she opened Cyn's door. She was a woman in her early fifties, tall and stout, a woman who looked very capable.

“I'm sorry,” she said to Cyn. “I know this must be difficult for you.”

“No, it's all right.” Cyn took two steps toward the house, and then Bruce's hand slipped into hers. Strangely enough, that simple touch gave her the added strength she needed to get through the ordeal of visiting her own personal hell.

The detective wore plain clothes: gray slacks, a black cotton shirt. Her short brown hair was cut in a mannish style, but didn't detract from the understanding in her faded green eyes. She lifted the police tape and both Cyn and Bruce stepped under it.

“We've had it closed off, but I doubt it's kept everyone out. This neighborhood is rife with looters and every crime scene has to deal with the curious. Not that we expect to find much more here, but I wanted to give you the chance to take a look, to tell us if anything seemed different.”

The detective opened the front door and stood back to let them enter.

The house was trashed, but Cyn had expected no less. Even if her personal situation hadn't been too ugly to involve friends, she'd always been too ashamed of how they lived to invite anyone over. Cigarette smoke and the sweet, sickening smell of old alcohol permeated the air.

“Where was she killed?”

At her dispassionate question, Orsen looked at her curiously. “The kitchen.”

In silence, Cyn headed that way, aware of Bruce at her side, tall and unwavering in his support. Incredible, caring Bruce.

Stopping in the kitchen doorway, she watched as roaches scurried from the sink to disappear into the walls. Drawers had been emptied, leaving the floor filled with odds and ends. A chair was toppled, a cabinet door open.

The detective said, “The forged note from you was on the table.”

“Wasn't that a dumb move?” Bruce wanted to know. “Any handwriting expert would be able to tell the writing apart.”

Orsen shrugged. “The school still had records on Cyn, and her last papers before she went missing. We used those to compare the handwriting and yeah, it was clear right off that it was different. But I don't think it mattered in the scheme of things.”

Cyn didn't care what it meant, but Bruce did. “What are you saying?”

“Someone wanted us to talk to her. That was the objective. And so we are, and Cynthia, we're hopeful you can tell us something.”

Cyn shook her head. She felt as if a great void had opened up inside her, expanding, leaving her cold and empty.

The detective considered Cyn. “According to her neighbors, Arlene had no less than six boyfriends in the last year. But for a few months now, she was living alone.”

“She must have hated that,” Cyn said with a harsh laugh.

“We're checking into the men, but so far they all have alibis.”

So, Palmer wasn't still in her life. Cyn wasn't surprised to hear that he'd moved on. Even as a kid, she'd known that he'd lost interest in Arlene, and with Cyn gone, he had no reason to stay. Odds were, he'd been so pissed after his recovery, he'd probably wanted nothing to do with either of them.

Bruce asked, “Are you all right?”

Shrugging, Cyn said, “Except for the drawers being dumped, it looks about the same as it always did. We lived like swine and the house always stank.” She turned to Detective Orsen. “What'd you expect me to say?”

Orsen leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't know, Cynthia. I was hoping you'd see something different.”

Cyn shook her head. “Nope. All I see is that nothing changed after I left.”

“Do you know of anyone who'd want your mother dead?”

“I used to wish her dead when I was a kid.” She didn't care what they made of that. “But other than me, no.”

Orsen pulled out a chair and sat. “I know you ran off five years ago. Some of the older neighbors told me that much.”

“Yeah, well, did they tell you that Arlene Potter lacked any kind of maternal inclinations?” A simmering rage began to build inside her, but it wasn't as strong as the hurt. She couldn't breathe deep enough to remove the squeezing pain in her chest.

“She was a drunk,” Cyn said, “and a slut, and to be honest, I don't know why you care that she's dead.”

Bruce's hand landed on her shoulder. “You care.”

Her bottom lip began to quiver, and she shook her head. “No, I don't.” She didn't.

Darby Orsen's eyes filled with sympathy. “I've worked through a lot of shitty cases, Cynthia. The stuff of nightmares. One thing I see time and again is that even the lousiest mother is still someone's mom. And losing her hurts.”

“She was never a mother, not to me.”

“And now you've lost your chance to find out why, to tell her how you feel, maybe even to give her hell and tell her that you hate her. And that probably makes it hurt worst of all.”

Cyn couldn't breathe. She gulped air but it didn't help. Whirling away from Bruce and the detective, she dashed out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and burst onto the porch. Her knees wanted to give out, so she quickly plopped down on the top step.

Damn Arlene. Damn her. Tears clouded her vision, made her throat tight.

Bruce sat down silently beside her. He didn't say anything, he was just there.

“Why?”
The word tore from Cyn's throat and she swiped angrily at the stupid tears rolling down her cheeks. Gasping, hating herself, she wailed, “Why didn't she love me?”

Ignoring a few nosy neighbors and Detective Orsen's quiet presence on the porch, Bruce pulled her into his lap. His voice sounded strained; his hold was tight. “She was blinded by drink and stupidity, or she'd have known what she was missing.” He kissed her forehead, his touch lingering, healing. “It's her loss, baby.
Her
loss.”

Cyn stared blindly at the scraggly bushes on the other side of the steps, wishing she were stronger, wishing it didn't hurt. Arlene deserved nothing from her, but the detective was right. You only had one mother, and now hers was gone forever.

She tried to focus on other things, blindly staring at the broken bricks beneath the porch, the split rails, the cracked, overturned clay pot that, to her memory, had never sported a flower.

The detective spoke quietly behind them. “There has to be a connection to your mother's death and you, some reason you're being drawn in. Someone knew you both. Maybe before you left?”

A harsh laugh bubbled up. “Arlene never bothered herself with my school, so she didn't know anyone there. I didn't have friends, and she only had guys around, no females.”

“An old boyfriend then?”

“Oh sure, we both knew her boyfriend at the time, but you said she's switched up a lot in the last year, so he was long gone before this happened.”

Then something clicked. Cyn slowly sat up, her eyes not leaving that flowerpot. She wiped away the tears, forgetting her own embarrassment for the moment. “He had a key.”

The detective moved down to the step beside Cyn. Her anticipation was a live thing, pulsing in the air. “Either that,” she said in encouragement, “or your mother left the door unlocked. There was no forced entry.”

“No one leaves their doors unlocked around here. It'd be suicide, and even at her drunkest, Arlene took care of herself.”

“So how do you think he got in?”

Cyn pointed to the pot. “There was a key hidden under there. For emergencies.” She looked from Bruce up to Orsen. “No one ever touched it, and if you did, you damn sure put it back.”

There was a pause, then the detective was off the step, hovering over the pot. “Damn. The rest of the yard is so trashed, no one noticed. But look, the weeds are grown up everywhere except where the pot had been sitting. That means it was tipped over recently.” She leaned closer. “I can even see an impression of the key in the dirt.”

With throbbing expectancy, Darby Orsen returned and crouched down next to Cyn. “Who hid the key there?”

Cyn swallowed down her own apprehension, took Bruce's hand, and stared directly at the detective. “Palmer Oaks.”

 

Sweat beaded on his upper lip, slid down the middle of his back, and his breath came fast and low. With one hand, he held back the threadbare curtain from the grimy window.

With the other, he stroked himself, imagining, planning.

Jesus, she was sexier than ever, a woman made to be fucked hard and long. By him. Her tits were big and round, her legs so long they'd wrap around him and squeeze him tight.

The abandoned house across the street and two doors down from her mother's place afforded him the perfect position to see without being seen. Rats scratched and scuttled behind him. Bugs ran up the walls.

He didn't care about any of that.

He should have taken the little slut when he'd had the chance, but Arlene wouldn't have liked that. She was the lousiest excuse for a mother he'd ever seen, but she was also a jealous bitch, especially where her daughter was concerned.

So he'd waited, biding his time, making plans—and she'd escaped him. But not before almost destroying him.

Now things were falling into place again. He watched them on the porch, checking the stupid pot, doing just as he expected. He might have laughed if his need wasn't so great.

Oh, she'd get hers, he'd see to it. First he'd take what he wanted, what he'd wanted for far too long. And then he'd make her pay. She'd been away for five years.

Finally, her time had come.

 

Bruce answered the knock from room service and accepted the tray of sandwiches and drinks. Cyn had to eat, whether she wanted to or not. Glancing at her, how she slouched in a chair staring at the television, he knew she'd try to refuse.

She'd been so distant, so withdrawn, since they'd left her mother's house. It was her house now, handed down from her grandparents to her mother, and now to her. But it was apparent that no one had done anything to it in a decade. Without upkeep, the house had fallen into disrepair that reflected the failed suburb.

Detective Orsen had offered to let her take any personal photographs or items of sentimental value, but Cyn had turned away as if repulsed by the idea. “The state can have it. Let them use it to bury her.”

After that, she'd gone silent, but she couldn't close herself off from him. Bruce wouldn't allow it.

He understood her turmoil. Seeing the hellhole where she'd grown up filled him with disgust and rage, too. He saw it as a young girl might have, as a small, dank prison with no joy and no love. Without the simplest things that all children needed.

They'd gone through the rest of the house, including Cyn's room, just to see if anything clicked or offered additional clues. Cyn was surprised that her bedroom hadn't changed much. There were aged stains on the wall and floor that, judging by her expression, could have been dried blood from where she'd attacked Palmer. Even shards of dusty, broken glass still littered the floor, with the base of an old lamp resting on its side.

Knowing Cyn as he did, seeing her small, cramped room had pained him most of all. She was a bright, witty person, quick with a comeback and always ready to smile. She was cheerful when given the opportunity, and meticulous in the extreme. Mary had commented on how immaculate Cyn kept the horse stalls, how diligent she was in tending to the animals' needs.

Her loft was bright and cheery, dust-and clutter-free. When she worked at the church, she exuded boundless energy and attention to detail. She always did the best she could; Cyn would be able to do no less.

The Cyn Potter he knew was a direct contrast to what her childhood bedroom depicted, and Bruce knew that hadn't been her choice, but rather her lack of choices.

Tattered gray blankets were strewn across her bed, with faded sheets tacked up as makeshift curtains on her window. Peeling paint hung from the ceiling. Her furniture was no more than a metal bed frame and mattress, and a shabby dresser with one drawer missing.

Where other young girls were treated to ruffles and pink print wallpaper, Cyn had dealt with cockroaches and assault.

And she was still a caring, giving person.

Bruce put the tray on the dresser and sat down beside her. “Cyn?”

“Hmm?”

“Come to the table and let's eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I don't care.”