Never Happened. Debra Webb
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.