Pink Neon Dreams (4 page)

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 and
over while putting the shop together.
 
The shorter cut appealed to some inner emotion, a deep pocket of need
and longing.

The
man gazed at her and his eyes shimmered. “Can you sing it?” he asked. “Will you
sing along with the music?”

His
question slashed through ten years of silence, a decade during which she seldom
sang.
 
Once, Cecily lived to sing and
cherished music.
 
During the years with
Willard, she seldom raised her voice in song or listened to tunes.
 
Freed, she’d immersed herself with music
again, but it wasn’t until the last week or so she’d felt able to sing.
 
Cecily sung along to CDs in the car, at home,
and here at the shop but without an audience.
 
She parted her lips to say ‘no’, to refuse, but his eyes caught hers and
she sensed a kinship, a shared knowledge of suffering.
 
He lived with anguish and he knew the price
of pain.
 
Kindred souls, we’re kindred souls.
 
Her chin lowered in a brief nod and when the song ended, she allowed it
to begin once more.
 

She
unleashed her voice, blended hers with Grace Potter’s, and added her rich
chocolate to Grace’s vocals.
 
 
In the first moments, her skin prickled with
awareness of his presence, but after the notes emerged the music filled the
spaces between them.
 
She’d sung the
lyrics many times and knew them well.
 
She
didn’t miss any notes. Her voice remained true to the melody.
 
During the song, he moved closer and closer
until at the end, he stood at the counter, eyes intent on her.
 
When the song ended, he stretched his arm
over the barrier and turned the player off.
 

Tears
brightened his eyes, unshed but present in their depths.
 
Her cheeks were wet too although Cecily
hadn’t realized she cried.
 
He extended
his hand to her and she took it, held it instead of shaking it. “Thank you,” he
said. “I’m Daniel Padilla.”

“My
name’s Cecily Brown,” she replied. “I’m glad we share the same taste in music.”

His
fingers caressed the back of her hand. “Me, too,” he said. “I like your
store.
 
You’ve got some pretty things.”

“Thanks,”
she said. He’d never got past the gourmet foods and coffee area, but she
understood the need to say something, even if it sounded lame. “It’s the first
day and you’re my first customer.”

“Then
I need to buy something.”

“Only
if you want something I’m selling.”

“Oh,
I’ve seen several things I like.”

Please, let one of them be
me.
 
I like what I see and I want it more
every second.
If
she’d met a man like Daniel ten years back, before Willard Bradford the Fourth,
things could’ve been so different.
 
An
unspoken connection hummed in the air between them, powerful and intense.
“Good,” Cecily said. “I’m glad.”

If
the bell she installed over the front door hadn’t tinkled, she wasn’t sure what
might’ve happened, but it did.
 
Two older
ladies, their hair tinted blue from multiple silver rinses at the beauty
parlor, entered.
 
Cecily ripped her gaze
from Daniel and greeted them.
 
He
sauntered back and picked out two small scented votive candles from the nearest
shelf.

“I’ll
take both of these,” he said. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

She
rang them up. “You’re not.”

“What
time do you close up shop?”

“Eight
o’clock.
 
Why?”

“I
wondered if you might like to grab some supper afterward.”

Although
far from the most romantic invitation she’d received, his simple statement
turned her insides gooey and fired prickles of anticipation down her spine. “I
would,” Cecily said. “Thank you.”

“Then
I’ll pick you up here, a few minutes after eight.”

“Perfect,”
she said. “I’m looking forward to it, Daniel.”

His
dark eyes met hers and seared her soul. “So am I.”

Cecily
watched him walk through the door and climb into his car.
 
He never glanced back, but she kept him in
her vision until his car merged onto the strip and blended with the growing
traffic.

“Miss,
do you have this angel in blue by any chance?”

With
effort, she turned her attention back to the customer. “Yes, I believe so. Let
me check.”

By
seven-thirty in the evening, her back ached and her feet hurt, but she’d sold
more than she expected.
 
Although she
hadn’t planned to open Sundays, figuring there wouldn’t be enough business to
warrant it in the Bible
Belt
, Cecily wondered if she
should re-think her decision.
 
She’d hate
to miss the business if the Sabbath turned out to be business as usual for tourists
and locals alike, but Cecily didn’t know if she would enjoy working seven days
straight.
 
I’d never have a day off, not one because I’m the staff, all of
it.
 
She decided she’d mull it over
before making a decision.

Since
many of the shows began at eight, her customers dwindled by seven
forty-five.
 
At five till, Cecily counted
down the register and locked the day’s proceeds in the small safe she’d
installed in her office.
 
In the dinky
bathroom, she touched up her lipstick and brushed a little bronze powder over
her face.
 
Her eye shadow had faded so
she re-did it too,
then
spritzed a little more
Eternity onto her pulse points.
 
Ready as
she could be for her date, Cecily did a walkthrough of the shop, straightened
up anything in disarray, and began turning off lights.

 
Just as the cuckoo clock she’d bought and hung
on a wall for its’ eclectic value announced the
hour,
Daniel
Padilla strolled through the door with confidence.
 
He still wore the black jeans and t-shirt,
but she inhaled a hint of male cologne, caught the scent of soap and
shampoo.
 
I bet he’s got a whole damn wardrobe with black jeans, black
shirts.
 
I’d call it boring but damn,
he’s anything but!

“Hi,”
she said.
 
In the social circles she
moved within during her marriage people often greeted with a kiss, sometimes a
peck on the cheek, often just an air version.
 
Cecily doubted Daniel would expect one, but she wanted a kiss, just not
the polite version.
 
It’s way too soon to expect anything like that, so get a grip.

“Hey,”
he said. “You ready to go?”

No
compliment, no kiss, nothing but an abrupt greeting, but she didn’t give a
shit. “All I have to do is lock the door and walk out.”

“Good,”
he said. “Let’s go.”

On
the way to his Taurus, Daniel placed one hand against her lower back as if to guide
her.
 
The simple gesture increased her
pulse rate and where he touched, Cecily sensed the heat through her
blouse.
 
With old school manners of a
gentleman, he opened the passenger door so she could climb into the car.
 

In
the few seconds before he joined her, Cecily assessed her surroundings.
 
New and kept immaculate, the Ford provided a
comfortable seat.
 
A faint hint of his
masculine musk, a combination of his cologne and natural body scent, met her
nose.
 
Rhythmic music, more chant than
song, issued from the speakers of his CD player and it took a few seconds
before she realized what she heard—Native American music.
 
The steady drum and the combined voices
weren’t like anything Cecily had ever listened to but she found something
soothing in the sound.

“I
can turn it off if you don’t like it,” Daniel said.

“No,
please, I’m intrigued,” she replied. “What is it?”

“The
group’s called Southern Thunder and they did a lot of intertribal music.
 
It’s pretty much what you’d hear at a
pow-wow.
 
I’m guessing you’ve never been
to one?”

Pleased
she’d guessed right about Native American music, Cecily laughed. “No, I never
had much of a chance growing up in Chicago.
 
The last few years, I wasn’t around anyone who’d have any interest
either, but I always thought it would be awesome.”