Innocent 6: Cynthia: The League of Worldly Wise Innocents, #6

By L. A. Zoe

As a child, Cynthia had to hide in a closet from a murderer.

Now graduated from college, she wants to hide inside a bureaucratic government job, burying herself beneath a pile of forms. 

However, Social Security expects her to interview many kinds of people -- some loud and obnoxious.

Some, like Antoyne, downright dangerous.

Fortunately for Cynthia, Tywon the security guard stands ready to protect -- and love -- her.

She doesn't care he's black and she's white.

She doesn't care he doesn't have a professional job.

He has a heart even larger than his muscles.

And he's ready to meet the right woman, though he tries to deny it to himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Jan 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386756354

Book preview

Chapter One

An Unruly Claimant

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Of course Cynthia’s first claimant during her first On the Job Training interview attacked her.

You all ask a lot of personal questions! the woman shouted at Cynthia.

She was a heavy-set, middle-aged African-American wearing a worn-out yellow house dress and a ragged blue scarf despite the late-June hot weather. She alleged being disabled due to diabetes, arthritis, and high blood pressure.

Cynthia suspected the woman also had other medical conditions. The above the neck type.

Her face looked not only too large to match her body size, but swollen and puffy, like balls of lumpy bread dough. The skin beneath her eyes was black. A big mole with a hair sprouting out of it squatted on one cheek.

I’m sorry, Cynthia said. But SSI is income based on need, so we have to ask a lot of questions about your financial situation.

Well I need it, the woman said.

Close behind Cynthia, the printer squealed like an out of tune violin. Around her, other Social Security representatives interviewed other people, creating a low volume of buzz and murmurs. But, plainly, only her lady was making trouble.

The air reeked of the Lysol disinfectant sprayed around after a homeless man left. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, and his stench lingered behind him. The fumigant could not completely neutralize or cover it up.

Cynthia hoped he didn’t also leave any little critters behind.

At least her lady didn’t smell like a zoo of bacterial cultures.

But that might be better.

The bright afternoon summer sunlight streaming through the wide, bulletproof windows along the interviewing area walls mixed with the weak-purplish glow from the overhead fluorescent bulbs. The mixture gave a slightly off-kilter, hallucinogenic haze to reality.

Cynthia’s mentor, Samantha Kyle, sat in a chair beside Cynthia, half in the aisle, observing, taking her notes to evaluate Cynthia’s performance. 

Okay, Cynthia said. Do you have any checking or savings accounts?

I don’t have anything, the woman said.

Cynthia entered her answer into the computer Modernized Supplemental Security Income Claims System (MSSICS), the version for a deferred development application, equivalent to the paper form SSA 8001-BK.

How about any stocks or bonds? Cynthia asked.

I don’t have nothing.

Do you own any life insurance policies? Cynthia asked.

I said, ‘I don’t have anything!’ How many times I have to answer the same question?

Ma’am, they’re all about different kinds of resources. You might own one thing even if you don’t own the others.

I don’t own anything! the woman shouted.

Other claimants looked around at Cynthia’s interview. Across the aisle, a toddler began crying. He wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs.

Great. Cynthia’s first OJT interview, and she was disturbing the entire office.

Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I have to ask all these questions, and at the end of the application, you have to attest to your answers.

Come on, I’ll take your test! I don’t have anything.

How about a car?

Where would I get a car from?

So, you’re saying no. Cynthia entered that into the form. About how much cash do you have?

Why for you keep asking the same question over and over? I said I ain’t got nothing! Cash money! I ain’t worked in years. You going to give me some?

Cynthia nearly walked away. She wanted to stand up, tell Sharon the District Manager thanks but no thanks, get her purse out of her desk drawer, and just leave.

She didn’t work so hard for her Math degree just to get abused by a woman who probably couldn’t remember two times two.

Become an accountant. An insurance actuary. A computer programmer. A statistician. Any job where she could hide inside a cubicle and bury herself in spreadsheets.

But those kinds of jobs required specialized training she didn’t receive at the Cromwell School of Fine Arts.

She had student loans to start repaying.

Her grandfather seemed to be becoming less stable.

She didn’t know if she could get hired by a government agency for those other positions. As a Social Security Claims Representative in training, she already had a foothold on civil service employment.

And that’s what she wanted—a job where she wouldn’t have to worry about competing with co-workers or her employer getting bought out, layoffs during economically slow times, or a other thousand other dangers that frightened her.

Government workers had a bad reputation for being lazy. That wasn’t Cynthia. She worked hard. She was smart. She could learn.

She figured that would be enough to keep any job she qualified for.

Just give her a station, and plenty of work she understood how to accomplish, and for eight hours a day she’d churn it out.

She’d already learned the Social Security Agency expected far more production out of its employees than the common wisdom acknowledged. From what she could see, everybody at that office worked hard, yet still complained of being behind, and of management’s unreasonable demands.

And they put up with an often ungrateful public.

And women such as her current claimant.

Cynthia said, Ma’am, I’m taking your claim for benefits, and there are a lot of questions, but I have to ask them to process this.

The woman stood up, and leaned over the desk, right hand a fist she swung back and forth like a pendulum. You process whatever you want. Just put down ‘no’ for all them questions, because I ain’t got nothing, and you’re making me awful to God nervous, and when I get nervous like, bad things happen.

Clutching her notebook close to her chest, Samantha stood up, back straight as a drill sergeant, face stern as a stone statue. I’ll be right back, she said in a serious tone of voice.

Abandoned by the claims representative who was supposed to help her. Great, just great. Thanks, Samantha. So much.

Cynthia forced herself to remain seated, and tried not to let her fear show on her face. She took a deep breath.

She smiled. Have a seat, ma’am. Do you have any income?

The woman refused to sit down, kept moving her clenched fist backward and forward. Her eyes opened wide as her mouth stiffened into a grimace. I told you I ain’t worked in near ten years!

Ma’am—

And if you don’t stop making me so terrible nervous, I’m afraid of what I’ll do next.

Cynthia’s heart tried to jump to the ceiling. What could she do to stop the woman? Nothing. Her brain froze.

Blood pounded nonstop against the walls of her veins. Adrenaline and other panic hormones sent frantic signals to run run run away like in her nightmares, where she sprinted blindly, chased by the monster man.

It took all Cynthia’s awareness of being on a job, in a Social Security office, surrounded by other people, including coworkers and management, in the middle of the day, to keep her from rushing out the front door.

To keep her hands from trembling, she gripped the keyboard tightly.

She remembered.

She forced the image details out of her brain, but the unthinking animal instinct to preserve her life at all costs remained. She breathed heavily, panting noisily.

She tried to think of something intelligent to say, some way to calm the woman down, to save the interview, to keep from looking like a total jerk in front of everyone, to keep this job, but the walls of the universe collapsed, narrowing down to one small point, the angry face and big hostile eyes of the woman right in front of her.

The woman she was supposed to be helping.

Cynthia’s face flushed. Her skin bristled. Her fast pulse rocked her body.

Behind the claimant’s shoulder, a deep male voice said in a quiet, almost-amused, tone, Now, now, what do we have here?

Shock and surprise twisted the woman’s features, and she said nothing, just stared to Cynthia’s side.

One of the security guards positioned himself to stand right beside Cynthia’s claimant. Ma’am, we have to ask you to keep your voice down. You’re disturbing all the other interviews.

The guard wore a clean, crisp security guard shirt and long black pants also well dry cleaned and pressed. A shiny silver badge was pinned to the front upper left of his shirt. His wide leather belt creaked and thickly rustled. It held a walkie-talkie, a nightstick, handcuffs, and a mean-looking gun inside a black holster.

Over the badge, a name tag read: TYWON THOMPSON.

Beneath his navy blue security guard cap with a wide, black shiny plastic bill, his hair was cut close to his scalp.

Cynthia’s claimant raised her hands in the air. Don’t shoot, officer! she shouted. I give up. Don’t shoot me! Oh God, I’m not ready to die yet.

Other people being interviewed cracked up.

The corners of the guard’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. He leaned forward, and by sheer force of personality, got the woman to sit back down in her chair, though she kept her hands up.

Then let this lady do her job, Mr. Thompson said, nodding toward Cynthia.

He projected a powerful, silent power that calmed Cynthia as much as it did the crazy woman in front of her.

She lowered her hands, sitting back in her chair as though relaxed and ready to answer Cynthia’s questions.

Samantha returned to her seat.

Mr. Thompson grabbed an empty chair from another interviewing desk, pulled it over, and sat just behind the crazy woman.

Where was she? Cynthia glanced at the screen. Do you have any type of income at all? she asked.

As long as Tywon sat nearby in his chair, keeping his eyes on her with a calm, benevolent, but vigilant gaze, the woman remained cowed.

Nervous or not, she answered the questions with only minimal argument and delay. Sooner than she expected, Cynthia was getting the claimant’s attestation to form SSA-827 Authorization to Disclose Information to the Social Security Administration (SSA) so the state disability agency could send off for her medical records.

She appeared to understand and listen to Cynthia’s final little speech about her reporting responsibilities and the importance of attending any consultative exams, nodding at all the right places.

Did Cynthia forget anything? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. Better to just get the woman out of the office. Hopefully she’d have a lot better luck during her next interview.

Without another word, the woman stood up, and walked out.

Cynthia held her breath until she saw the woman walk outside, past the one guard still posted at the front door.

Whew! she gasped, slumping down in her seat, finally letting herself feel safe enough to relax.

Samantha smiled with her thin, stiff lips, and stood up. Sometimes these things happen. You did pretty well. Write up your observations, and then I’ll look it over. Now I’ve got to set up the back room for this afternoon’s training.

Tywon returned his seat to the other desk. He moved with the firm grace of someone at ease inside his body.

Such people made Cynthia jealous, because she felt so awkward and self-conscious. She stumbled into furniture and tripped over her own shadow.

Tywon’s white, starched uniform shirt rippled smoothly over wide shoulders. The cloth covered up, but still hinted at, powerful muscles rippling beneath.

Unlike so many large, strong muscular men Cynthia had met, Tywon’s sides tapered down to a narrow waist. Most male police, security guards, and soldiers had hefty bellies.

Her grandfather’s stuck out past his chest, but of course he hadn’t worn a uniform for many years.

As Tywon’s legs moved forward, the upper legs of his slacks displayed a bulge of thick thigh.

Heat again suffused Cynthia’s face, and she gasped for air. Must be an after-effect of the fear.

She took a deep breath, and kept a tight grip on the edge of her desk. Thank you... She stared at his name badge. Should I call you Mr. Thompson?

He smiled with Buddha-serenity. Just Tywon is fine. He paused, seemed to be searching for a nameplate on her desk or in his memory."

Cynthia Desperes, she said. Just Cynthia. I’m new. I’m in the CRT class.

He put his hand out with solemn energy. Glad to meet you.

Thank you very much for coming to my rescue, Cynthia said.

Just doing my job. To her surprise, he sat down in front of her, in the chair just vacated by the woman. Are you all right?

With his face turned directly toward her for the first time, he looked a lot younger than Cynthia had expected or assumed, based on the maturity he projected. Round with the smooth, unlined flesh of a man close to her own age.

How did he become so self-confident? What was his secret?

Sure. Why?

You look kind of...I don’t know, I shouldn’t say anything. Just peaked.

I don’t like confrontation, Cynthia said.

Tywon smiled. You sure picked the wrong job, he said, then seemed to want to take that back. I mean, it’s better to talk to the people nicely. Some of the workers here push them, make them angry.

You know what the Japanese say? The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hammered down. I wish I had a quieter job.

Me, I don’t worry about it, Tywon said. What happens, happens, you know. Just ride it and enjoy it.

Cynthia had to laugh. Is that your philosophy? When somebody wants to fight you, just enjoy it?

Tywon smiled back, and it was like somebody turned up the room’s bright lighting. Oh, I’ll defend myself. I’ll enjoy smacking them upside their head if I have to. But mostly I just don’t take things too serious. Doesn’t solve your problems, so it’s just not worth it.

I wish I could afford to feel the same, Cynthia said, then shocked herself by saying—without even thinking about it—I bet you’re just as nonchalant with women.

Tywon’s amused expression didn’t change. He took just as much delight in speaking with Cynthia as he did when quieting down the crazy woman.

No less, but no more, making Cynthia feel irrationally slighted.

One thing you got going for you, Tywon said. Guys cause most of the problems in here, and most of them don’t want to attack women, especially nice looking ones.

Well, thank you.

Most women don’t cause any problems, Tywon said. But the ones that do...can be nasty, especially to other women, because they know the guys are stronger than them, but you’re not.

Well, thank you, Cynthia said. I hope I don’t ever need you again.

Tywon stood up with a lazy stretch, like a cat. No, a lion. I better get back. My partner’s squirming like he drank too much coffee.

Cynthia returned to the Claims Representative observations section of the online Electronic Disability Collect System EDCS version of the 3368 form.

As she wrote about how hostile and confrontational the claimant was until a security guard quieted her down, Cynthia had a hard time concentrating on the woman.

Maybe she just hated to remember how the woman nearly sent her into a panic state.

But Cynthia kept remembering Tywon.

How he moved with the unconcerned naturalness of a tiger strolling through the jungle.

The quiet power he projected, as though he had nothing to prove because nobody could defeat him. It sure worked on Cynthia’s claimant.

How safe he made her feel, as though nobody could hurt her while he guarded her.

The faint musky scent of his aftershave lotion.

The deep resonance of his voice, low and intense as the distant vibration of a bulldozer.

The way he made some deep part of her abdomen quiver with warm wet flutterings.

Such nonsense. Cynthia checked her watch. Almost time for class to start up. She put her fingers on the keyboard. She had to finish writing up her observations.

Even though the fear the crazy woman created in Cynthia now seemed long ago and far away, superseded by her impressions of the security guard who rescued her.

Chapter Two

In the Classroom

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Tywon slid into Room 408 of Cromwell Junior College’s Building Three with ten minutes to spare.

Though he felt conspicuous, he grabbed an empty desk in the front row. He couldn’t afford to miss anything the teacher, Dr. Schultze, said.

Besides, he didn’t want to sit anywhere near Amy, and she hung out in the back row. Like he did in high school.

He still hated how CJC seemed just a new version of high school, except nobody cared whether you showed up to class on time, or not. Or if you left never to come back. You had to pay the tuition and class fees upfront, nonrefundable. If you blew off your classes, nobody noticed or cared. The teachers still got paid.

You still sat in ridiculously small desks with thirty other students in a classroom with blackboards, only they were green.

But this time, Tywon chose to attend.

Though, during this Anatomy class, he often wondered why.

Unlike high school, where most teachers went through the motions and passed you as long as you attended most of the classes, the junior college teachers actually expected him study, understand, and remember a huge quantity of tough material.

He placed his used copy of HUMAN ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY by Elaine Nicpon Marieb and Katja Hoehn onto the plastic, fake wood desktop, where it landed with a thud. And swung his rear around to sit down.

He opened the thick book.

What seemed like thousands of technical terms for parts of the body. In Latin. And how the parts worked together.

For the past two weeks Tywon stayed up late at night, reading and re-reading just the few chapters they’d already covered, almost crying with frustration.

Could he really pass this course? And more just as tough?

He aimed for an Associate’s degree in Exercise Science with Emphasis in Personal Training.

Then, if he got good enough grades and had the money, he planned to transfer to the University of Kiowa and get a four-year Bachelor of Science degree in Exercise Science.

He could also pick up a good personal training certification along the way—lots of gyms wanted the National Academy of Sports Medicine (NASM).

Security guard was a good gig, but gave him no place to go up except law enforcement or management, and Tywon didn’t want either one.

He wasn’t cut out to be a cop, and for sure not a suit.

He could have settled for becoming a personal trainer through one of the ‘weekend certifications.’ He wouldn’t make as much money as the college grads, not even as much as a security guard, but he’d have his feet on the first rung of the latter.

When it came to women, Tywon took what he could get, and if he couldn’t get one, shrugged it off. Women weren’t worth any fuss and worry. There were too many of them in the world.

They came, they went.

Easy or hard, no matter.

He took work and money seriously, however. And in May, when he paid his tuition for this summer school class, he felt plenty confident.

If they’d only shown him the textbook first, he might have given up.

He was studying a diagram of the circulatory system when the heat radiating from her body slammed into his, and the scent of her floral perfume tickled his nostrils.

The interruption in his concentration annoyed him, but he didn’t look up. "I’m studying,