The neon sign of the 7-Eleven flickered, casting a sickly green glow over the asphalt of a parking lot in the deep, humid heart of Florida. Lana sat on the hood of a rusted-out '69 Chevy, her hair a towering beehive of honey-blonde curls that defied the midnight breeze.
She held a cold can of against her cheek, the condensation blurring the ink of the heart tattoo on her hand. Beside her, Leo—all leather jacket and bad intentions—was counting crumpled twenties. He was her "Jesus," her "King," the kind of guy who promised the world but only ever delivered a half-tank of gas and a thrill. lana del rey diet mountain dew
"You're no good for me," she whispered, popping the tab. The sharp, citrus hiss was the only sound in the quiet night. "But baby, you're all I want." The neon sign of the 7-Eleven flickered, casting