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  PINK NEON

  written by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

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  Disclaimer: This book may contain explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: male/male sexual practices, multiple partner sexual practices, strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experience practitioner. Neither Rebel Ink Press LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity. Final edits rest with the author of this work. We give them a bit of space. They are Rebels after all...

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  Cover Artist: Carl J. Franklin

  First Edition

  ©2013, Rebel Ink Press, LLC

  www.rebelinkpress.com

  What people are saying about Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy…

  I have read several of Murphy’s books and always love her rich characterizations, her endless ability to make the reader ‘see’ what she sees in the gorgeous landscapes of the Ozarks where she lives, along with her lovely story telling. I loved Cole and Maggie, and their story is tender and touching in Heart of the Ozarks.

  Heart of the Ozarks – Alberta, Manic Readers

  As always, Murphy’s characters are well developed and you feel like you actually know and like them, and are unhappy when you finish the story because you feel like you have lost a friend. Dust Bowl Dreams will appeal to anyone who has ever heard family stories about that time in our history, but it is an accurate commentary on the financial and political times for any student of history. You’ll also like the love story, and the twist at the end.

  Dust Bowl Dreams – Manic Readers, Alberta

  Heart of the Ozarks by Lee Ann Sontheimer-Murphy is beautiful second chance romance between two young lovers who haven't seen each other in almost 20 years. With likable characters and sharp dialogue, Ms. Murphy captured my attention from the first page and didn't let go until the end. The emotional journey both primary characters, Cole and Maggie, undertake is full of heartbreak, sorrow and then hope. Watching their re-kindled friendship and then romance come back to life was a joyful experience. Part of the reason I wanted to review this book is because it's set in my home state and I've visited the Branson area several times, Ms. Murphy did a wonderful job capturing both the tourist attraction and small town vibe the area is known for and reading this book was somewhat of a stay home mini-vacation.

  Heart of the Ozarks from Queen of All She Reads

  It was a really good story. You wanted to find out what made “Devlin” tick. And you definitely rooted for his girlfriend “Gracie.” If anything it was too short.

  Devlin’s Grace – Cassandra G from Goodreads

  “Devlin”(the hero of the story)should get his own story of how he came to be, before he met his “Gracie” who helped saved him from his demons and also tried to help him with his “PTSD.”

  This book was a bit of a surprise for me, as I usually don't like books based in this era. But the author was able to pull me into this story and I found myself really enjoying it. The story is a good one that had me caring about what happened with this family and Henry's relationship with Mamie….All in all this was a good read that made me feel uplifted in the strength of love.

  Dust Bowl Dreams – reader review on Amazon.com by David Ramsey

  also on juliesbookreview.blogspot.com

  First love. It is that one love that no one ever forgets, and for others, it is the only love that matters. Ms. Murphy's Lover Never Fails story will sweep you back to remember your first love. You will quickly be drawn into Reid and Caroline's world. However, do not think this is just a love story. The author also entwines a mystery in that will keep you turning the pages and reading on. Set in the Ozarks Ms. Murphy does an excellent job capturing the feel and flavor of living in the heartland. In short, Love Never Fails is an easy read and a perfect way to spend a lazy weekend.

  Love Never Fails…from reader MORebel on Amazon.com

  Dedication

  This one’s for some of the gals who cheer me on and encourage me – Cathy Carrel Sontheimer, Wendy Breit Sontheimer, Alisha Taylor, and Diana Ross, among so many more and my fellow Rebels, especially Lila Munro and Cassandre Dayne.

  Chapter One

  Her sleek 1971 GTO coupe, red as lifeblood, hugged the tight curves and skimmed over the rugged Ozark Mountains, graceful as a soaring hawk. Cecily drove like a demon possessed but she held the road and savored the thrill. Everything important she wanted or needed fit into the two big suitcases and one smaller bag crammed into the trunk. Her new life would begin when she hit Branson, the tourist destination tucked into the southern edge of Missouri, a place she’d heard a lot about but never visited. The curving roads widened as the billboards increased along the narrow shoulders but the drop-offs remained sheer and deadly. Breathtaking vistas stretched out in every direction but Cecily couldn’t catch more than a glimpse while driving. A heavy rain fell and made visibility poor but as the road veered downward with gradual slope she drove out from the downpour.

  Sunshine streamed through a break in the clouds and illuminated the town spread out below. Before coming, her cousin Nia told her Branson was like a redneck version of Las Vegas but Cecily didn’t see any resemblance. The highway ahead snaked through town like a sidewinder, lined with restaurants, cheap motels, and crappy little souvenir shops. A few hotels stood taller than the rest and she could see the marquees of several theaters but so far the natural scenery impressed her more than the tourist clutter.

  Cecily slowed as she caught up with the traffic clogging the busy thoroughfare and gawked. Damn this place is worse than I thought it’d be. She expected rustic, not the cheap tawdriness she noted everywhere. The place reminded her of a cheesy carnival on a
vacant lot, the kind that showed up each spring to set up on any of the numerous vacant lots in the Washington Park neighborhood where she grew up in Chicago. Misspelled signs with hillbilly motifs loomed in all directions, advertising everything from pecan logs to ‘gen-wine Ozarks sorghum and molasses’ to sunbonnets. Girl, if you wanted to get away, you sure as hell picked a strange place. No one’s going to know you here but you’ll stand out like a black sheep in a field of white lambs.

  Damn Nia and her notions. She could’ve gone to St. Louis, Memphis, Kansas City or even Dallas, instead of this small town out in the middle of nowhere land. But her cuz thought Cecily would be better where a lot of tourists came and went year round, where maybe eclectic wouldn’t stand out in stark silhouette. If she’s been to Branson, I’d like to know when ‘cause I haven’t seen too many dark faces ‘round here. Cecily sighed as traffic slowed to a crawl, backed up from one traffic light to another. Like it or not, she’d arrived. First thing, she needed to find a halfway decent place to stay and get something to eat. Her long drive down from Illinois exhausted her. Maybe after she ate, got some rest, she’d see things in a different light but right now, Branson seemed like a mistake of near Biblical proportions, almost as huge as marrying Willard Bradford the Fourth. But she’d been seventeen and he’d used unfair tactics to force her into marriage.

  With dozens of eateries to choose from, Cecily pulled into the first likely one she saw, a café called Country Home Cookin’. She entered and the hostess sent her to a table along one wall. A small steam table wafted delicious smells through the place and when the waitress arrived, the freckle faced young woman explained customers could order the all you can eat buffet or order from the menu. “Whichever you want,” the waitress said with a grin. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’d like a diet Coke,” Cecily said.

  Curious what the miniature buffet might offer, Cecily got up and sauntered over to see. Fried chicken, some kind of fried fish, a pan of corn, another of mashed potatoes, two vats of gravy, one brown, one cream, a heaping bunch of biscuits, and some little green vegetable, also fried. She didn’t see any salads but there were a few pickles near the beginning of the buffet. A young man delivered more gravy so she asked, “What’s this?”

  He shot her an incredulous look. “That’s okra, ma’am,” he said. “Fried okra.”

  “Oh, thanks.” It appeared to be something green rolled in batter, not something she found appealing.

  Although the chicken looked both crisp and delicious, Cecily returned to her table to study the basic menu. It featured a lot of fried items, too, including chicken fried steak, pork tenderloins, and onion rings. There were also sandwiches from hamburgers to old-fashioned open face roast beef. I need comfort food. So Cecily ordered the roast beef sandwich, served with a side of mashed potatoes and doused in gravy. As she waited for her food, she sipped her diet soda and checked out the restaurant. Everything appeared bright and clean but they’d overdone the country theme. Too much calico hung at the windows as curtains, draped the tables to serve as tablecloths, and edged some of the old-fashioned items on multiple shelves. Someone had gone wild with a rooster motif because the birds appeared everywhere, in framed pictures, in dishes and even as a stuffed version up near the cash register. Vintage advertising signs hung in every available wall space along with old time photographs.

  Cecily also noticed the median age of the other diners ranked above fifty and over half of the folks clustered at tables in twos and fours had to be past seventy. She wondered if the OATS bus dropped over a load of senior citizens or if the place offered discounts for older people but she felt out of place, both because of her age and color. At twenty-seven, Cecily had to be the youngest diner in the place. No one else wore their hair in corn rowed braids and the rest were whiter than the paper napkins on each table. Although her skin radiated more of an olive glow, her African-American ancestry was evident in her hair and in her dark brown eyes. She might be light but she still considered herself black and so did the rest of the world.

  Someone else might’ve felt ill at ease but since she’d spent the last ten years with a Caucasian husband and in an upper crust rich world Cecily relaxed. She’d been the outsider in far more evident ways and although she caught a few curious looks, no one bothered her. After her meal, tasty but filling in a heavier way than she normally enjoyed, Cecily left a healthy tip for the waitress and paid her ticket. With one need taken care of she needed to find a place to stay.

  Since she preferred to avoid the 1960’s era cheap motels, cinderblock one-story rows with parking out front, Cecily kept an eye out for somewhere she’d considered spending a few nights. She rejected the obvious ‘cute’ places, the ones built in a faux Victorian style and anywhere where someone substituted “K” for a “C” on their sign. As far as she was concerned, kozy, komfort, and kool weren’t amusing enough to inspire a smile. If the motels appeared rundown or the pools murky, she rejected them on general principal. I might’ve been raised poor but I’ve had the best money can buy for the last ten years and this girl’s not going back to the past. It won’t be Willard’s way but mine.

  Her eyes searched for possibilities between the helicopter tours, the Ozark crafts outlets, the convenience stores, the cafes and chain restaurants and riveted on a multi-story hotel located less than a block from the Highway 76 Country Boulevard loop. Cecily maneuvered over to turn onto the smaller thoroughfare and pulled up in front of the Radisson. Now that’s my kind of place. Cecily stepped out, adjusted her designer sunglasses and shook her head to settle her shoulder-length corn rowed hair. Her black leather Gucci riding pants hugged her ass tight and the black sleeveless crossover blouse offered a discreet peek at her cleavage. Until the divorce, she’d worn ladylike soft pastel shades or severe tailored outfits as Mrs. Willard Bradford VI and her hair had been relaxed until it rippled over her shoulders smooth as satin. She’d worn low-heeled pumps, not boots, too. The first thing she did after becoming Cecily Brown again had been to buy the GTO and shop for the kind of clothing she coveted.

  With the kind of confidence she wasn’t born possessing, Cecily strolled into the lobby and booked a leisure suite. Any qualms she had about respect ended when the smiling desk clerk ran her debit card, to her brand new account, without any trouble. After living on Willard’s millions for a decade, she might have to budget on her settlement but only by rich bitch terms, not Cecily’s.

  At the hotel, she rejected the offer to help tote her luggage up to the suite and used one of the guest trolleys instead. Once in the suite, Cecily admired the spacious rooms, the living space with an easy chair, a table and chairs for four, the large bedroom, and the big bath with enclosed commode, whirlpool tub, and shower.

  Before she unpacked, she stepped out onto the balcony to overlook Branson, her soon-to-be-home. Traffic noises filtered upward accompanied by a variety of smells, mingling exhaust from multiple vehicles with barbecue aromas, the cinnamon scent of something baked, and a faint hint of something fresh and green. Despite her mixed feelings, Cecily sensed possibilities here.

  I still don’t know about this shit. Back inside, she sat down and removed her boots. Then she pulled her Galaxy phone from a pocket and as promised called Nia. Her cousin answered on the second ring and Cecily reverted to the street language of her youth. “Hey, bitch,” she drawled. “It’s me. I made it to Branson in one piece but I don’t know about this place.”

  “Don’t you like it?” Nia’s brown sugar voice trickled into her ear, familiar and sweet. “I thought it was a pretty cool place.”

  “It might be except it’s so full of hillbilly bullshit,” Cecily said as she peeled off her socks. “And I kind of stand out, don’t you think?”

  Nia giggled. “Aw, now, all kinds of people go to Branson for vacation. They like to see the shows, go to the amusement parks, and all of it. What you got to gripe about? You’ve been hanging with the rich folks for years. You’re the one told me ‘bout all the dinne
rs and events where the only other women of color were serving or cleaning up.”

  True. Cecily couldn’t dispute it. “Okay, so it’s not the first time. I’m here. What do I do now?”

  “You put the plan in action, girl,” Nia said. “We’ve talked about this since we were thirteen. You got sidetracked with Mister Money but you can do it now. How much did he give you?”

  “I asked for two hundred and fifty grand and I got it, too,” Cecily said.

  “You could have had more,” her cousin said. “You’re crazy. I would’ve taken him for all I could get. Weren’t you tempted?”

  “No.” And she hadn’t been, not at all. All Cecily wanted was to get away. After what happened, she had Will by his balls and he yielded to her demands. After a decade of marriage to a man she didn’t love, never wanted, and longed to escape, she gained back freedom. If she couldn’t find anything else positive about Branson, it was a place Willard Bradford VI had never been. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “So you’ll open your boutique, like we’ve always talked about?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good girl! Go get some rest, then tomorrow you can go out and find a place to buy.”

  Fatigue crashed down around her, heavy as a blanket, thick as mud. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Call me tomorrow, talk to you later.”

  Twenty minutes later, soaking in the whirlpool tub, Cecily dared to revive her dream. Her mind drifted as her body relaxed, returning back over the years to when she was an awkward teenager. Summer heat baked streets until the asphalt melted and the old tired houses became too hot to endure. Cecily and her same age cousin from next door settled down on the wide front porch of the Brown’s duplex. They spent the afternoons out there listening to WGCI, evenings watching to see who went where and did what, and nights talking, pouring out their hearts.