Pink Neon Dreams Read Online Free Page A

she needed now
were a few customers.
    Out
on the Strip traffic remained light.   Cecily
stood by the cash register and gazed out the single window.   She counted pickup trucks hauling utility
trailers behind and family vans and sports cars.   A few delivery trucks rumbled past with their
loads of bread or milk or cupcakes.   Time
slowed and seemed to stop.   Her nerves
twisted into pretzel knots and when she swore a half hour must’ve passed, she
peeked at the clock.   It wasn’t even
eight o’clock yet.   With a sigh, she
drank the dregs of her now cold coffee.
    A
black Ford sedan slowed and then turned into her lot.   Everything between her tummy and throat
seized up tight.   Breathe, girl, just breathe.   Cecily
cleared her throat and pasted a fake smile on her lips.   She expected a woman to emerge from the car,
a matron, maybe, with a big purse draped over one arm or a stylish young
woman.   Maybe two or three women, buddies,
would be together.   If Pink Neon had any
shot at success, Cecily believed the first customer would buy something.   And if not, she figured her chances of
running a profitable business ranked somewhere below fair.
    When
he emerged, she stared.   His body
unfolded to a height of at least six feet and after he shut the door with a
graceful motion, she watched as he padded toward the front door with the
beautiful, lethal stride of a panther.   His dark jeans fit his legs like gloves and his black t-shirt failed to
conceal his lean but muscular build.   Before he entered the shop, he pulled off his sunglasses and hung them
on the neck of his shirt.   Sweet baby Jesus, my first customer is
smoking hot. I think I just died and he’s my dream angel come to carry me to
heaven.   Or he might be a demon to drag me down to hell.   Either way, I’m willing.
    “ Hi,” Cecily said as he stepped
onto the soft carpeting. “Welcome to Pink Neon. We’ve just opened and you’ll
find an eclectic blend of beautiful things here.   Is there anything in particular I can help
you find?”
    Her
pat greeting sounded lame now, but she rattled it off anyway as she drank in
his face with her eyes.   His copper hued
skin, weathered and darkened by the sun, indicated an ethnic heritage, but he
wasn’t black.   Native American or
Hispanic, maybe a little of both showed up in his family tree along with some
white heritage.  
    He
watched her with deep, dark eyes, both powerful and still.   They reminded her of a placid pond, deep and
mysterious surrounded by shadows.   Tiny
wrinkles wreathed the corners of his eyes and a few tight lines around his
mouth indicated he must be older than she was, mid-thirties
maybe.   His lips were thin, mouth
well-shaped, and she wondered how well he could kiss.   He looked tough—and she figured he was—but he
had soul, too.   Even if he doesn’t know it, he’s got it.   For the moment, though, he wore a bland mask.
    “ I’d like to look around if that’s
okay,” he said in a baritone voice, solid as good steak, richer than whipped
cream, and soft as velvet.   Cecily
suspected it could turn knife sharp and hard in seconds.   He’s
either a career criminal, heavy duty, or a cop.   Growing up ghetto she could recognize either one although they often
shared similar qualities.
    “Sure,”
she said.   Resisting the urge to drum her
fingers in a restless beat on the counter to relieve her tension, Cecily
switched on the CD player to find a calm center.   One of her favorites, the haunting Take Me Down To The Water by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals flowed from the speakers, powerful
and poignant.    Her customer paused near
the gourmet coffees, halted, and his head jerked upward.   He turned to face her, features alive and
curious.
    “That’s
my favorite song,” he said with surprise. “I like most of their tunes, but
that’s the one I listen to the most.”
    “Me,
too,” Cecily told him. She had the song on repeat, had listened to it over