Pink Neon Dreams

by Pink Neon Dreams [Evernight] (mobi)

  Over the next week, she filled the shelves with lovely things, silk scarves, purses, fragrances, some cosmetics, sunglasses, and a shelf of adorable knick-knacks. She added a section with gourmet foods, coffees, and teas. Along one wall, she put up a rack with feather boas, satin jackets, and some funky hats. She added some coffee mugs she liked, ones shaped like full-bellied green and red peppers, others in the form of a formal top hat. She put out a few plates and cake stands, even added a tiny section of unusual music CDs. A few books written by favorite authors took up space on a shelf along with some exotic fragrances, scented candles, potpourri and incense.

  Within the glass cases she placed near the front door and cash register, Cecily added costume jewelry, exquisite pieces with low price tags. Until her divorce, she’d worn nothing but genuine gems, expected as the wife of one of Chicagoland’s major jewelry dealers. Her ears displayed diamonds, expensive pearls circled her bronze throat, and her fingers erupted with precious stones of every flavor. Her walk-in closet at the Canal street house, one she’d shared with Willard Bradford the Fourth featured built in jewelry drawers and each area brimmed with expensive creations. Downstairs in his study, Will kept higher quality items within a safe, although no one else knew the combination to open it. Now she wore some of the same costume jewelry she sold with pleasure. She didn’t have to worry about insurance, loss, or theft with her current choices.

  As Cecily surveyed her new domain, a grin erupted across her face and she laughed aloud. Pink Neon managed to bring her long standing dreams to life and she loved it. On impulse, she pulled out her phone to call Nia. “Hey, girl, everything’s ready to roll,” she said. “You ought to come down.”

  “Shit, I would if I didn’t have to work,” Nia said. “You know how it goes.”

  “I used to,” Cecily tittered. “And I’m about to find out all over again.”

  “You sound happy,” her cousin said.

  “I am.”

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

  Some of the sparkle faded from her bright mood. “Tell me what?”

  “Your ex is dead.”

  “Willard’s gone? What happened? Did he have a heart attack in the arms of one of his lovers or a stroke from snorting cocaine?” Cecily didn’t feel a bit of grief or remorse. His vices, the drugs and infidelity, were old news. His delight in dressing like a 1940’s pin up girl and picking up other transvestites at private clubs wasn’t, though, not to her and had been the final straw in her decision to leave.

  “Hell, no, sugar, someone whacked him.”

  “Say what?”

  “Somebody shot the son-of-a-bitch dead on the front steps of that fancy house on Canal Street and broke in before or after to steal a bunch of the jewelry.”

  “When?”

  “Week or so ago, I think. I almost called, but I didn’t want to distract you.”

  “Aw, I don’t care,” Cecily said. “I’m just glad I got out of there before it happened. It’s none of my business now.”

  After the call, she retreated into the combined office and store room space to ponder Willard’s death. Cecily considered her emotions and decided she didn’t care. And she didn’t suffer from denial, either. With no love lost between them on her part, there wasn’t anything she could dredge up except relief.

  Willard Bradford approached her when she’d been a teenage girl. It was after she competed in a teen pageant at a Chicago mall. He coveted Cecily and all but bought her. She’d never understand why the white man, twice her age, desired her but he did and forced her into marriage with his money. First, he bought the dry cleaners where her mother worked as a presser and threatened to either close the shop or fire Mama. Then he purchased the duplex where the Browns lived and sent an eviction notice. Bradford’s next move involved buying the residential care facility where her grandma Ella Brown lived and threatening to remove most of the patients.

  Cecily caved and let him take her out to dinner. He arrived in a vintage Triumph spitfire, snazzy and sleek. Willard brought her two dozen roses, not crimson but peach, another dozen, yellow this time for her mother, and a basket of gourmet goodies. They dined at a bistro along the Mag Mile. He took her to bed two nights later and proposed within the month. By then, he’d showered her family with presents, fixed the crisis situations he engineered, endeared most of her blood kin to him, and Cecily accepted. His not so veiled threats what he’d do if she turned him down inspired her demure ‘yes’.

  After a storybook wedding attended by wealthy people both local and global, they settled into the spacious new mansion he’d built on Canal Street. Cecily bobbed along like a cork on an outgoing tide and the sole voice of reason came from her Aunt Terri who whispered in her ear at the lavish country club reception. “What’s a rich white dude want with a skinny ass poor black girl? Tell me that.” Cecily couldn’t explain and even now, divorced and with her one-time spouse dead, still couldn’t.

  All of it’s over now and my future’s beginning. She resolved to forget the past and thrust all thoughts of Willard Bradford out of her mind. Pink Neon opened in the morning, and her task was to make everything as perfect as possible. And to do so, Cecily decided she’d pick up something delicious for supper, a bottle of wine, and unwind. She would face the morning rested and calm, capable, and ready.

  ****

  Beneath his mirrored sunglasses, his eyes burned and below his brimmed cap, Daniel Padilla endured a headache of epic proportion. Although he preferred to blame it on the drive down from Kansas City, he suspected the multiple Tequila shots he tossed down after checking into a cheap ass motel sometime after midnight might be the cause. He’d intended for the alcohol to help him sleep, and it did, but since the price turned out to include serious pain, he wished he’d stayed sober. Uneasy waves stirred in his belly, but he spooned a little vanilla ice cream into his mouth anyway. It might ease the nausea and at least it’d make his cover look genuine. So far I don’t like Branson. I sure as hell never thought I’d come here again, but I’m here. So far it sucks worse than I thought it might.

  He watched as a woman came outside from the shop next door, a tricked up boutique with a pink neon sign above the door. Daniel studied her face and after squinting, he decided despite the cornrow braids, the casual clothes, it was Cecily Brown, recent ex-wife of jewelry magnate and millionaire Willard Bradford. She’s a lot prettier this way.

  His fingers fumbled open the manila file lying on the picnic table where he sat. Daniel studied the photos through his bleary eyes and removed the shades for a better view. The woman in the pictures wore her hair down, sleek as satin and styled. Her conservative garments whispered of both wealth and professional privilege. The muted colors, soft pastels, dowsed her beauty instead of enhancing it.

  He snorted as he counted the rings on her well-shaped hands and noted with derision the dangling diamond earrings she wore. Rich bitch. Yet he found her attractive in person, graceful and almost beautiful. Nothing about the jeans and simple t-shirt she wore looked pretentious. He wondered if she’d really killed her former spouse and made off with the jewels. She sure as hell doesn’t look the type, but you never know. If he’d learned any lesson in his ten years with the FBI, Daniel had discovered anyone could do anything.

  If he hadn’t been sure, he would’ve doubted this woman could be the same one in the pictures. That woman looked elegant but empty, stilted, and confined. The gal he watched sashay across the parking lot radiated heat. Pink highlighted her coloring and enhanced her looks. She paused at a vintage GTO he’d love to own and opened the door. Cecily Brown slid into the passenger seat and Daniel watched her lips tilt into a smile as she turned the key in the ignition. As the motor caught, he heard a burst of music from the CD player, the unmistakable retro sound of The Pointer Sisters. Daniel listened as Cecily sang along, her voice a rich alto, true to the tune as it blended into ‘Fire’, the classic hit.

  For a moment, he forgot his headache and the spoon in his hand dropped into th
e paper container of ice cream as he stared. Cecily Brown, he thought, was fire. His battle scarred heart lost its rhythm as Daniel watched her pull out onto the strip, her voice ringing out over the traffic sounds enough he caught snatches of the song. Provocative, evocative the lyrics touched a chord within, one he thought broken and unresponsive. Shit, the song’s older than both of us. But it retained power and heat. The music evoked feelings he thought he buried long ago. With pure instinct, Daniel tossed his half-eaten ice cream and jumped in his black sedan to follow her.

  He trailed her down the Strip and when she turned into a huge discount store, he did too. Daniel hung back enough to escape her notice, but he parked less than five spaces away from her bright red sports car. When she sidled into the store, he followed at a discreet distance.

  Trained to spot detail, well-schooled in the art of building a profile about a person from their habits, Daniel found her tastes eclectic but pleasing. Cecily moved with confidence through the crowded aisles. She selected a loaf of crusty French bread in the bakery, a bag of salad in the produce department, and a bag of frozen salmon fillets from the freezers. Then she doubled back to choose a lemon. He noticed she didn’t grab the first one, either. Cecily picked up several, squeezed them and rejected them. He counted six before she put one in her cart, without a bag. He pursued her to the spice and seasoning aisles where she bought lemon pepper, Cajun blend, and a lower sodium salt product. In the dairy aisle, she bought real butter, a half-gallon of low fat milk, and a package of cheesecake dessert topped with strawberries.

  On the way to the front, she moved with slow deliberation. More than once she paused to check a display of something and in the liquor area she chose a bottle of a good, sweet red wine. Daniel expected her to head for the checkouts, but she crossed the width of the store to pick out shampoo and Moon Petal Musk bath salts. As she bent over to place the items in her cart, her ass lifted up and Daniel’s dick noticed. Focus, man, she’s under investigation and you’re the man on the case. Don’t get involved. But he knew he had, right or wrong. The woman intrigued him in a way she shouldn’t. Every professional bone in his body screamed a warning, told him to pull back, but the man within couldn’t look away, a classic moth drawn to her flame.

  I bet she’s got some city dude holed up wherever she lives, probably someone who helped her with the crime. And damn me, I gotta know the truth, one way or another. If she’s guilty, I’ll see she’s convicted and if she’s innocent, God help me, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I’d like to find out.

  Daniel Padilla, the one the other agents called ‘the Glacier’, sensed a thaw in his protective shield, a crack in the layers he’d covered his emotions and heart in. And without remorse, he followed Cecily home.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Cecily rose early to prepare for her grand opening. To boost her confidence and calm her agitated nerves, she power dressed in black designer jeans with a sleeveless pink Issey Miyake blouse. The pleated deep rose top suited her dusky coloring well and Cecily applied a lipstick she’d found in the same shade. She spritzed a heavy dose of Calvin Klein’s Eternity, enough to envelope her in a cloud of fragrance. She grabbed her keys and headed out to the car, drove through the first fast food place she saw for coffee and a sausage biscuit, and then drove on to Pink Neon.

  Although she’d bought some radio ads, paid for a few television ads with the Springfield stations, and placed a notice in both the local newspaper and the weekly shopper, Cecily worried no one would come. After careful consideration she’d decided not to have a ribbon cutting or serve refreshments. Both seemed too overdone. Instead, she planned to give each of the first one hundred customers a small piggy bank, pink with gray splotches, as a gift. She also had ordered business cards to hand out and would offer a drawing for a $100 gift certificate. Otherwise, it would be a standard business day—if any buyers showed up.

  She nibbled the biscuit and sipped coffee. Then she walked around the shop, making sure everything was in place. Cecily stowed her purse under the counter and put a scented candle on the candle warmer. As the sweet rose fragrance wafted through the space, she turned the open sign to face outward and made sure the door remained unlocked. At seven forty-five, Pink Neon was open. All 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 and over while putting the shop together. The shorter cut appealed to some inner emotion, a deep pocket of need and longing.r />
  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.”