Never Happened

Beneath her faded jeans and Margaritaville tee, Alex maintained the kind of figure women half her age envied. She knew it, reveled in it. She’d learned a long time ago that humility was vastly overrated. If you had it, you saw it for what it was and used the hell out of it. Life was too short to do otherwise.

Admittedly it took work to stay in this kind of physical condition, she mused as her right foot instinctively pressed against the accelerator, propelling her SUV forward with the traffic. After all she wasn’t twenty anymore.

A sly grin slid across her face. But she wasn’t dead, either. Nor was she wearing her age on her sleeve, so to speak. She liked keeping the world guessing. Only two people in her life knew her exact age; her oldest and dearest friend, who had been sworn to secrecy under fear of death; and her mother, who wouldn’t dare tell her daughter’s age for fear of giving away her own.

With a final, longing look at one particular man on the busy sidewalk, Alex made the necessary turn and headed toward a less glamorous residential district. The working-class side of town. Art deco remained the prevailing theme in architecture, even in her lower rent neighborhood but with a more Bohemian atmosphere. Her small cottage wasn’t on the water, but there was a boardwalk nearby that went all the way to the water’s edge. Anywhere around here was close to the ocean—that living, breathing entity upon which this city thrived.

She pulled into the short driveway and slid out of the 4Runner. No, it wasn’t much, she thought with a frank yet appreciative survey of the property, but it was home and it was hers. Her grandmother had left it to her. Alex grabbed her bag, elbowed the door closed and clicked the remote lock.

Sometimes she felt guilty that she’d inherited the cottage instead of her mother. But her grandmother—her mother’s own mother—had known that Margie Jackson would piss the property away if given the chance.

As if fate had chosen that memory to warn that trouble was headed her way, Alex’s cell erupted with the chorus from “It’s Getting Hot in Here” by Nelly.

She checked the caller ID. “Damn.” The office. Had to be Shannon, her office manager and lifelong best friend. This couldn’t be good. It was almost six. “Hey, Shannon, what’s up?” Alex shoved the key into the lock of her front door. If the news was really bad she wanted to be within arm’s reach of a cold one.

“We may have a potential problem, Alexis.”

Definitely bad. Shannon only called her Alexis when she wanted her full attention.

Putting off the inevitable, Alex walked straight through the cluttered and cozy living room to the equally disorganized and cramped kitchen before she responded, “Oh yeah?” She snagged a Michelob from the fridge and twisted off the top. Not wanting Shannon’s announcement to get too far ahead of the alcohol, Alex chugged a long swallow. The brew made her shiver as much from the promise of a relaxing buzz it offered as the cold temperature.

With her hip, she closed the fridge door, leaned against it and pressed the chilly bottle to the damp skin at her throat. Okay, so maybe there was one thing about Miami she could live without: humidity. You couldn’t exist in this city without sweating. Day, night, working out or just sitting still.

“He asked her out for a third date.”

All thoughts of sweat and the most pleasurable ways to manufacture a healthy glaze on one’s skin vanished as her friend’s words penetrated fully.

“When? Today?”

“He called just before she left the office.” Shannon sighed. “You should have heard her, she giggled like a schoolgirl. She was all giddy…you know how she gets. I see trouble on the horizon, Alex. Big trouble.”

Damn. Alex shook her head. “You couldn’t stop her?”

“Right,” Shannon retorted. “Your mother has been on the wagon for more than a year. I value my life more than that. I have kids you know.”

“Your kids are grown, Shannon.”

Ignoring Alex’s reply, her friend covertly added, “I know where they were going.”

Alex pushed away from the fridge and headed for the bedroom. Might as well get this over with. She could either head off this train wreck or pick up the pieces afterward. “Where?”

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to rescue her mother. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Life could be complicated when you were the only child of a recovering alcoholic.

“Ruby’s.”

“Thanks, Shannon.”

“What’re you going to do?”

Alex took another pull from her beer and set it on the dresser as she crossed her room. “What I usually do.” She closed her phone without saying more. Further explanation wasn’t necessary; Shannon understood what she meant.

Alex stared at her reflection a moment and wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. Had watching her parents fight nonstop until the night her father killed himself, kept her single and glad to be that way? Or had her mother’s string of failed relationships turned Alex cynical when it came to anything long-term?

If life had taken a different turn for her, would Alex have kids off in college now like Shannon? A husband who spent his Saturdays watching sports? Sex every third Sunday of the month?

Alex shuddered at the concept.

God must have known she wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. Just to make sure she veered far away from unnecessary commitments; life tossed her the occasional reminder, such as this one. Some people simply shouldn’t be spouses, much less parents. Unfortunately her mother was one of those people.

Alex ripped off her T-shirt and shimmied out of her jeans. Shower or no, she couldn’t go to Ruby’s looking like one of the guys.

It never ceased to amaze Alex just how good a hardworking woman could look if she put her mind to it. Even if she’d spent the better part of the day scraping human remains off a wall.

Good genes were the one reliable thing her mother had given her.

After parking on the Washington Avenue side of the establishment, Alex walked into Ruby’s Lounge with all the confidence of a supermodel. Her dress was black and short with heels high enough to make a lesser woman acrophobic, but not Alex. She’d fashioned her long blond hair into a sexy French twist. Her lips twitched. She loved anything French, including the men. Thank God for European tourists.

She surveyed the tables of the lounge, which was a throwback to a bygone era. Some tables were wrapped with comfy sofas for more intimate dining, while others stood tall and were surrounded by stools. Every seat was taken. Latin salsa throbbed from the sound system as waiters and waitresses wove through the maze of bodies and tables.

“Do you have a reservation?”

Alex smiled for the host, garnering herself an approving smile in return. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” she said wistfully. “I’m only here to relay a message to a friend.”

“Your friend’s name?”

She held up a hand. “It’s all right. I see her.”

It wasn’t as if it was difficult. Her mother’s boisterous laugh stood out in a crowd like the proverbial sore thumb. Same blond hair as her daughter’s, only shorter. Alex’s gaze narrowed as she took in the pink suit. Apparently her mother had raided her closet. They would be talking about that.

Alex strode to the table. The new boyfriend looked up as she paused next to her mother’s chair.

“Alex! How nice to see you.”

The way his gaze slid down her body as he spoke told her he meant the statement literally.

“Robert.” She gave him a plastic smile before turning her attention to her mother. “Marg, may I have a word with you in private.”

Margie Jackson, who had refused to allow her daughter to call her mother once she became a widow, looked suspicious of her offspring’s abrupt appearance. “Alex, what a surprise.”

Alex’s determined stare apparently provided a recognizable caveat that she wasn’t leaving until they talked, here or in private.

Marg stood. “Excuse me, Robert.”

Robert nodded, the glint in his eyes giving away his infinite hope that both women would return post-haste, perhaps naked and pleading with him to take them straight to his place.

Like that was going to happen in this lifetime.

Alex led the way to the ladies’ room. She checked the stalls to make sure they were alone, then rounded on her mother. “What the hell are you doing?”

Marg glared at her daughter. “Stop right there. I’m not drinking, Alex. I’m done with that life. I like Robert and I want to get to know him better. You cannot expect me to live my new, clean life alone. I have needs.”

Alex wished she could believe that. “This is your third date with dear old Robert,” she reminded. “You know what that means.”

Her mother looked away, even had the gall to blush. “Alex, my social life is none of your business.”

If only that were the way of things, but it wasn’t. Her hands on her hips, Alex moved in closer. “Mother, I’ve known you—”

“Don’t call me that,” Marg chastised.

“—my entire life.” Alex forged ahead. “You always have sex on the third date.” She held up her hands to stop Marg from protesting. “For whatever reason, after copulating the night away, the relationship ends and you turn to the bottle for solace. In twenty-five years I’ve never seen you deviate from that pattern. Three dates, sex—bam—you’re out!”

Marg crossed her arms firmly over her Pamela-Anderson-size bosom—a Christmas present to herself last year. “Alexis Jackson, you have no right to dictate my sex life to me. I haven’t had sex in over a year! For God’s sake, I’m lonely!”

The door opened and a woman came inside. She glanced at the two and hurried into a stall.

“Be that as it may,” Alex replied, “I know how this will end. You and physical relationships don’t mix. There are alternatives,” she added in a whisper.

“It’s not the same,” her mother snapped.

Okay, this was bizarre, Alex knew. She was in a public restroom—in a lounge of all places—having the sex talk with her mother, a woman far beyond the age of consent. And she was right. The alternatives just weren’t the same. Some people had problems with gambling, others with weight or drugs. Her mother simply couldn’t have a physical relationship with a man without turning to alcohol. The combination was always, always disastrous. And Alex invariably had to clean up afterward.

“I’m going back out there,” Marg said, her expression fierce, maybe even a little desperate, “and I don’t want to hear anything else about this. I’m way past three times seven, Alex. I don’t need you telling me what to do. And I certainly don’t need your permission.”

Unable to allow her mother to have the last word, Alex said the one thing she knew would have the most impact, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Alex walked out, didn’t look back, didn’t even slow until she’d hit the unlock button for her 4Runner on the opposite side of the block.

Some women just never learned. When you recognized a weakness, you avoided it, learned from your previous mistakes.

Alex slid behind the wheel and exhaled a heavy breath. That was the primary difference between her and her mother, besides the store-bought triple-D cups. No man would ever make Alex that vulnerable.

Never.

She loved men, enjoyed dating every chance she got. But she never allowed a relationship to develop beyond the physical. Most men didn’t have a problem with that. Only once in a really long time had she been forced to let a guy down and he still hadn’t given up completely. Henson, damn him. He’d almost weakened her defenses. Thank God she’d come to her senses in time. Commitment was not her gig.

She twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the street. Time for that long, steamy bath she’d had to put off to come here and do her daughterly duty.

Maybe one of these days her mother would learn that some things just weren’t meant to be.

Thirty minutes later, hot, frothy water up to her neck, a cold bottle of Michelob in her hand, Alex had finally relaxed fully. She refused to think about the trouble her mother would likely get into before this night was over.

She refused to think at all. It wasn’t her problem…yet.

Candles were lit, the air was thick with steam. This moment made the day’s dirty work worth the effort. A bubble bath was her favorite way to soothe away the day’s stress. Well, there were other ways, but at least this one never failed her.

There she went again thinking about sex. No date in three weeks. It was oddly unsettling. Was she subconsciously going for a record? Nah. Just coincidence. It wasn’t as if sex was like vitamins, she didn’t have to have it every day.

She closed her eyes and let the water melt the tension. Her place didn’t have a lot to offer in the way of amenities, not even a dishwasher, but it did have this huge tub in the master bath. And there was no mortgage. Two very important assets in a single woman’s life.

The wood floors guaranteed she’d never have to worry about replacing carpet. The tile roof and stucco exterior ensured that, outside of being hit by a hurricane, nothing more than a paint job would ever be required. The lack of fancy appliances promised nothing expensive would break down. The furniture was the same overstuffed, worn pieces her grandmother had owned forever. And the tiny apartment over the garage provided a place to keep her mother off the streets.

Alex was pretty sure her grandmother had planned it that way, and her mother didn’t really seem to mind. She evidently understood on some level that she couldn’t be trusted as a home owner. Besides, the whole setup gave her total freedom from responsibility.

The creak of a floorboard somewhere beyond the half-open bathroom door jolted Alex from her mental ramblings. She sat up straight and listened.

Another squeak had her climbing quietly out of the water and reaching for her robe. She slipped into her bedroom and grabbed the can of pepper spray from the bedside table and eased closer to the door.

Since she didn’t carry a gun, the pepper spray was her weapon of choice. This was Miami after all. It hadn’t been that long ago that it was the murder capital of the nation. She had no intention of becoming a victim and going down without a fight.

When she heard no other sounds, Alex moved through the door and into the short hall that separated her bedroom from the living room-kitchen area. The house was silent. She liked it that way when she wanted to relax, enjoyed listening to the night sounds. Even hearing the neighbors arguing at the house next door was somehow comforting and innately familiar.

Being careful not to make any noise, she moved through each room to ensure there wasn’t an intruder. Doors, front and back, were still locked. Windows were open, the night breeze shifting the curtains but nothing looked out of the ordinary. Slowly she let down her guard. With the windows up the sound could have carried from next door; the houses on either side of her had wooden porches.

Alex returned to her bedroom and opened her lingerie drawer. When she would have selected a clean pair of underwear, she hesitated. Something wasn’t right. Her pulse skipped as she checked drawer after drawer. Everything was there but different somehow…as if someone had riffled through her things.

The pink suit flashed in her mind and realization made a delayed appearance.

She was going to kill her mother.

Not only had she borrowed the pink skirt and jacket, but clearly she’d made herself at home with Alex’s undergarments.

She hoped Robert enjoyed them.

A car door slammed outside. Alex’s head came up and she listened.

Her mother’s voice. Robert’s.

Alex tiptoed over to the window and peeked past the edge of the curtain. The streetlamp spotlighted Robert’s efforts to pull Marg into his arms, but she resisted. Alex’s jaw dropped. Since when was playing hard to get part of her mother’s third-date routine?

She heard Marg say good-night, then watched in astonishment as she strode up the walk and across the yard to the exterior stairs that led up to her apartment without a single hesitation or backward glance.

Alone.

Unbelievable.

Robert stared after her a few moments before getting into his sleek sports car and driving off.

“Hot damn!”

Maybe her mother had finally gotten her act together.

Alex owed her an apology.

She was woman enough to admit when she was wrong.

With that in mind, she strode out her front door and straight up the stairs to her mother’s door. Just before she knocked, the music beyond stopped her.

Ten seconds passed before she recognized the music from the workout video Sweating to the Oldies.

Alex smiled.

Dear old Richard Simmons.

Grinning, she did an about-face and went back to her own home. Apparently her mother had opted for one of the alternatives Alex had mentioned. An extensive physical workout could go a long way in alleviating certain types of stress.

“Good girl,” she muttered as she closed and locked her own front door behind her.

Maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks.

The jangle of her landline disturbed the pleasant silence and annoyance flared. It was late, she was ready for bed. Who the hell would call her at this time of night? The answer was not the one she wanted. Work most likely.

She didn’t want to know about any more trouble.

“Alex Jackson.” She’d stopped answering with hello years ago. It seemed all her regular customers, various landlords, cops and whatnot, assumed her home number was a business number, too.

“Hey, Alex, it’s Rich.”

Henson. What did he want? Guilt pinged her. She didn’t actually mind hearing from him, but she’d learned from experience that maintaining frequent contact proved nothing more than a segue to let’s try again. She pulled the lapels of her robe together, suddenly self-conscious that she was naked under this robe. Was that dumb or what? After three months you would think she’d have her head straight about this guy. He wanted commitment and she didn’t…but he’d made her wonder what if? No other man had ever managed to do that. Everything had been fine until today.

“What’s up?” She was careful to keep her tone light, but clearly disinterested in anything other than straightforward conversation. She mentally weighed the pros and cons of having another beer. Three was usually her limit, but this night had the definite makings of a six-packer.

“I just wanted to call and thank you for alerting me to that piece of evidence you found this afternoon.”

She hesitated at the fridge and her forehead pinched with a frown. Was this call really about business? “The contact lens?” Okay, so maybe they could have a chat without the inevitable invitation to pick up where they left off.

“Apparently it’s some sort of computer chip. I’m on my way over to Morningside to pick it up from that whiz kid I told you about. He’s done some quick unofficial analysis for me before. I wanted to be sure this was something worth using taxpayers’ dollars to analyze. I’ll be taking it straight to the state lab tomorrow, but you know how slow they are to respond. This kind of heads-up will get the ball rolling. Outstanding call, Alex.”

“That’s great.” She didn’t know why it mattered or what exactly his obvious excitement meant, but she was glad Henson was happy about it. The moment gave her hope that maybe they could actually be just friends.

“Anyway,” he went on, his enthusiasm palpable, “I thought maybe you’d let me take you to dinner on Friday night to repay the good deed.”

Oh, man. There it was. Her hopes deflated. The man would never give up.

“I’d love to, Henson, but unfortunately I already have plans for Friday night.” It was true. She’d promised to go to a movie with Shannon; the woman swore if she didn’t have ladies’ night out once a month she’d go mad. Alex felt reasonably certain she wasn’t exaggerating.

“Another time maybe,” he said.

She nodded, to convince herself evidently since he couldn’t see her. “Another time…maybe.” She hated constantly turning him down. He really was a nice guy. She didn’t get why he didn’t just give up. He deserved someone who wanted the same sort of commitments he did. She was not that girl.

“Well, look. I’m getting another call. ’Night, Alex.”

“G’night, Henson.”

As she hung up the phone she couldn’t have guessed in a million years that it would be the last time she would talk to Detective Rich Henson.

CHAPTER 3

The offices of Never Happened sat way, way, way off Ocean Boulevard. Not a bad location but a bit off the beaten path, nestled between the office of Dr. Sherman Holloway, psychologist extraordinaire, and Patsy’s Clip Joint, a pet salon. Things could get a little noisy at times, otherwise the folks on either side of Alex’s offices were pretty easy to get along with.

There was, however, the perpetual parking problem. The alley between Never Happened and Patsy’s was supposed to be shared space, except her clients weren’t always so considerate. Especially the ones with the big, luxury automobiles and the small, prissy dogs.

Alex rolled into what she had claimed as her space next to the brick wall of her building. Since most of her staff arrived before seven, morning parking wasn’t usually a problem. Afternoons were a different story, however; things could get hairy.

She pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. Eyeliner, lipstick, no smears or smudges. Good to go. Flipping the visor back into place, she grabbed her knockoff gold Fendi shoulder bag, her caramel-mocha latte and climbed out of her SUV.

As she turned the corner toward her shop front, a long low whistle trilled behind her.

“My, my, Alex,” Patsy called from the open entrance of her shop, “don’t you look sharp today.” Her wolf call had prompted a cacophony of yelps from her restless four-legged guests.

Alex smiled. “Thanks.” The low-slung jeans she wore were her favorite. She’d paired them with thonged sandals and a ribbed pullover that didn’t quite reach the extrawide belt buckled around her waist. “You’ve lost more weight,” Alex commented after giving her business neighbor an approving once-over.

“Forty pounds so far,” Patsy confirmed before a lengthy drag on her Kool 100 Ultra Light. “Twenty-five more to go. I’m itching for that new wardrobe my husband promised me. Give me a couple more months and we’ll set a shopping date. I’d love a day away from this.” She jerked her head toward the racket inside.

Alex gave her the thumbs-up before heading into her office. According to Patsy she’d been overweight her whole life; with forty breathing down her neck now she’d decided enough was enough. She didn’t want to plunge into middle age as a fat woman with climbing cholesterol and soaring triglycerides. Alex admired her determination. Change was good…for some people. Personally, she liked her life exactly as it was.

Most of the time.

“’Morning, Alex.”

Though her lifelong friend and office manager, Shannon, had tried her level best not to glance at the clock, she did. She couldn’t help herself. Alex had known Shannon Bainbridge since kindergarten when she was mild-mannered Shannon Owens. The woman had always been as sweet and kind as any angel, but she was an obsessive-compulsive, Type-A personality, perfectionist to the max.

“It’s seven-oh-two but I’m here,” Alex said in acknowledgement of her silent chastisement. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Guten morgen, Alexis.”

Alex shifted her attention to the man lounging on the sofa and perusing today’s Miami Herald. “Same to you, Professor.” He liked showing off his command of various languages. So far she’d recognized six. She’d hired the Professor, aka Barton Winstead III, four years ago when he’d “defected,” as he called it, to Florida from his homeland of Boston. He’d left his career in anthropology behind, as well. To this day Alex had no idea at which university he’d taught or the reason for his decision to leave. He didn’t talk about it, she didn’t ask. She liked him. He had that distinguished look about him. Even his thinning gray hair added an air of dignity. But it was the extreme intelligence that radiated from those caring hazel eyes that she liked most.