FLOWERS and CAGES Read Online Free Page A

police officers held him down and another cuffed his hands behind his back. Only Midas had that particular distinction.
    Shaking the image off, Dalton adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Half a dozen steps and his black boots were coated with dust, dulling the shine of the expensive leather. The sight didn't help to raise his spirits. The sound of a bell ringing was a welcome distraction. A short, solidly built young man—Dalton would have guessed him to be in his late teens—exited the office, a can of Coke in one hand, a set of keys in the other.
    "Excuse me," Dalton called out. "Is there a mechanic on duty?"
    Without breaking stride, the kid jerked his head toward the right. "You'll find Mac in there."
    It wasn't the rudeness that surprised Dalton. It was the utter lack of curiosity. Midas was a small town. How often did a stranger in an expensive sports car engage this guy in conversation? There was money in the area. But that was on the north side of Midas. Those families didn't frequent places like Dole's Auto Repair .
    Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Dalton's stride ate up the few feet between him, the open garage door, and a merciful patch of shade. Music was the first thing that greeted his entrance, a song he recognized immediately. Wild Jasmine . After all the years of success, it still gave a Dalton a thrill when he heard his band on the radio. It wasn't that long ago when it happened for the first time. The four of them swore they would never take it for granted. And they never had. An extra jolt came from the fact that the song was one of his. A rare solo effort. His words. His music. Ryder's voice. Dalton grinned. It was a good thing. If it had been left up to him to sing lead, the band would have died a quick, painful death.
    No, Dalton was happy to play his drums, harmonize, and on occasion—find writing gold.
    The heat wasn't much better inside the garage. But without the sun pounding down on him, Dalton felt a bit of relief. Looking around, he wasn't impressed—or encouraged about the fate of his car. To call the place a mess would have been kind. The floor looked like a graveyard for broken parts. And they hadn't been buried with dignity. Tossed in every direction, it was chaos layered in dirt and grease. The work bench was a bit better. He could see where someone had tried to organize the tools, but it was haphazard at best. Shiny, well-maintained wrenches, and screwdrivers warred with the rusty and dented—and it appeared to be a losing battle.
    Shaking his head, Dalton's gaze stopped on a pair of scuffed work boots that peeked out from under a dark gray SUV. The rest of the person's body was hidden from view, but Dalton assumed he had found the mechanic. Bending down, Dalton raised his voice to be heard over the music.
    "Are you Mac?"
    The thunk of metal hitting flesh was followed by a string of curse words that had Dalton raising his eyebrows. Not for the severity, or impressive variety, but because it was obvious the mechanic with the foul mouth was a woman.
    "What is wrong with you?" The dolly shot out from under the vehicle. Before it came to a stop, she was on her feet and in Dalton's face. "Never—as in do not ever—yell at someone who is working on heavy machinery. I could have been seriously injured."
    Fascinated, Dalton watched as the redheaded fury began pacing. She came to about his shoulders. Slender, though it was hard to tell. The baggy coveralls hid her shape from his view. Green eyes flashed his way. He thought she was pretty. Maybe beautiful. The grease smudged on her chin and forehead didn't enhance—or detract. But it did highlight the fact that her skin was a lovely pale shade of cream.
    "Look at that," she shoved her thumb at Dalton. "Ouch! I could have broken the bone. What good is a mechanic with a broken thumb? I need this job, mister. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know. Food. Rent. A basic quality of life. They all take the green