Never Happened. Debra WebbЧитать онлайн книгу.
Not surprising that Spanish was the primary language. The news from Havana or Caracas was more often than not the talk on the street.
Speaking of people, as traffic slowed near 10th Street, Alex braked and watched couples glide into the Casa Casuarina, a hotel that was once home to the revered designer Gianni Versace. Not even the fabulous architecture could detract from the gorgeous patrons flowing into the ritzy joint. Men with wash-board stomachs and bulging pecs were outfitted in the still famous Miami Vice Sonny Crockett look with their loose-fitting linen slacks and silk shirts. Soft pastels were sharply contrasted by richly tanned skin. Alex sighed as she studied the appetizing smorgasbord of pleasing male specimens. Just part of the everyday landscape and another aspect of her love affair with this city. She wasn’t intimidated in the least by the equally attractive ladies with their short, tight dresses and stiletto heels.
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