Born to Be Wild (26 page)

“My dad likes blonds,” Lauren said over the noise of the vacuum. “What about Max? Does he have a preference?”

Jamie pushed the vacuum cleaner within a quarter of an inch of Lauren’s lavender spikes, but Lauren didn’t flinch a muscle. Jamie was not going to get the upper hand. With the vacuum roaring next to Lauren’s legs, Jamie stared over the handle at Lauren’s hair. “Max likes blonds, too,” she announced. “He thinks redheads are okay, but he doesn’t like brown hair.”

Lauren drew a lock of her own hair forward and stared at it. Crossing her eyes gave her a headache, but Jamie would probably appreciate the fact that Lauren looked ridiculous. “I’ve always considered this dark honey-blond,” she said. “Brown’s
so
drab.”

Jamie switched off the vacuum and plopped down on the couch. “My mom had honey-blond hair. I don’t remember her much, but I think her hair was a lot lighter than yours.”

“Honey-blond comes in all shades, light, dark, in between.” Lauren leaned close to Jamie and whispered. “Most of mine comes from a bottle.”

A small smile touched Jamie’s lips. “I told Max I wanted to dye mine black so I’d look more like him, but he said no.”

“Your hair’s much too pretty to dye.” Lauren threaded her fingers through the curly, pale blond ponytail. “I like your hairstyle, too, and your bangs are absolutely perfect. You must have a wonderful hairdresser.”

Jamie giggled. “Max cuts it for me.”

“Max cuts it?”

“Yeah. He’s got an extra pair of really sharp
kitchen scissors and every once in a while, he just whacks it off.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve never been to a salon?”

Jamie shook her head.

How was this possible in this day and age? Lauren wondered. “Have you ever wanted to go?”

Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell. “I never gave it much thought, and Max isn’t into frills.”

“Well, we’re going to change all that.”

Jamie frowned. “How?”

“I’m going to make an appointment for you with Frederico.”

“Who’s that?”

“The man who does my hair. And”—she lifted Jamie’s hands and stared at her blunt, chewed-off fingernails—“we’ll get your nails done, too.”

“Really?”

“Of course, but first things first.”

Lauren dropped her magazine on the glass and chrome coffee table and pushed up from the couch. “Ryan!”

He tilted his head toward her, shooting her a withering glare. “What?”

“It’s homework time,” Lauren announced, remembering that Max had left specific instructions that homework had to be done right after school. She’d let that rule slide for nearly an hour, which was definitely long enough. “You can play with your Xbox later.”

“I’m in the middle of a game,” Ryan argued.

“Which, I’m sure, you can get back to some other time.”

“But I’ve got a high score.”

Not knowing what else to do, Lauren emulated one of her boarding school teachers and tapped the toe of her shoe on the carpeting.

Ryan offered her a long-winded sigh, then flipped off the
game and TV. “I’ll do my homework in my room,” he said, and started to storm off.

“Wait a minute, Ryan.”

He turned around and glared. “What now?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t like school either.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “So.”

“So, I got lousy grades because I didn’t do my homework. Then my mother married this old guy—his name was George Rhodes, not that that matters to you—but George was a whiz at math and history and when my mother and George were in town, which wasn’t often, he’d help me with my homework.”

“Is there supposed to be a moral to this story?”

Lauren smiled, touched by Ryan’s lack of charm and social skills. “Only that I didn’t mind doing my homework so much when someone was around to help me.”

“Max is around.”

“Do you let him help you?”

“I don’t need help.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

He frowned, his look suspicious, as if he was
certain Lauren had something up her sleeve. “Can I go to my room now?”

“If you want, but it’s going to be terribly boring for me the next couple of hours while you and Jamie are doing your schoolwork. I was thinking you might let me help—just so I’ll have something to do.”

“All I have is history. I don’t think you want to help with that.”

“I have to write an essay,” Jamie chimed in. “It can be on any subject. You can help me.”

“Well,” Lauren said, smiling at Jamie and then at Ryan, “as I said, George was a whiz in history. Ask me a question, any question, and I’m sure I can answer it. As for essays, they’re only as good as the subject you pick, and I know an awful lot of interesting subjects. So, grab your books, we’ll get the homework done, and then we’ll pay a visit to Frederico and get Jamie’s hair done.”

“Wait a minute,” Ryan blurted out. “I’m not going to do homework just so I can spend the rest of the night sitting in some old beauty shop.”

“Frederico’s isn’t old, and I have no intention of taking you there,” Lauren shot right back. “Your hair’s perfectly fine. There is, however, a sports store next door.”

“What do you know about sports?”

“Absolutely nothing, although I’m a terrific spectator and I know how to yell with the crowd. However, I’ve made numerous purchases from this store for my nephew Beau, who’s just a few years older than you, and I’m acquainted with the owner. He used to play pro basketball, and if
you can be civil for an hour, I’m sure he would give you some tips.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And all I have to do is my homework?”

“I’d take you whether you did it or not,” Lauren said flat out. “But you know what? Max has got an awful lot on his mind right now, and I think it would be nice for him to come home and find that you’d done your homework and chores without me even suggesting it. What do you think?”

This time
Ryan’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “You mean you’re not going to tell him that I gave you a hard time?”

Lauren smiled. “Have you given me a hard time?”

His eyes rolled once again. “Okay, but you’d better be really good at history, because I’m lousy,” Ryan said, heading off to the kitchen.

Lauren wasn’t about to tell him she was pretty lousy at history, too. They’d just have to fumble through it together.

Jamie had already pulled out a notebook and was working away at the coffee table. “How can I help you, Jamie,” Lauren asked.

“I’m pretty good at essays, but there is something else you can help me with.”

“What’s that?”

“Come here.” Jamie tugged Lauren toward her bedroom, her small hand warm against Lauren’s palm, and a lovely feeling hugged her heart.

Her good feelings nearly collapsed when she
saw the horrid decorating scheme in Jamie’s room. The walls were plastered with posters of motorcycles and cars, when Lauren had fully expected to see frills.

“This is
your
room?” Lauren asked.

“I keep telling Max that I want posters of
Justin Bieber and One Direction, but he seems to think I’m not quite ready to like boys.”

“Are you?”

Jamie wrinkled her nose. “They’re okay. I figure I’ll like them more in another six months or so, but my girlfriends all like boys, and it’s kind of embarrassing when they come in here and see all these posters.”

“Do you want me to talk to Max about it?”

“No,” Jamie said, “he’s not ready for me to make the leap from motorcycles to boys, so I’ll wait awhile.”

“So what is it you wanted to show me?”

“This,” Jamie said, her voice full of defeat when she pulled a white J. C. Penney’s bag from a drawer, opened it slowly, and drew out a plain white brassiere. “I needed a bra,” she said, her pretty blue eyes frowning as she dangled the horrendous piece of stretchy cotton on her finger. “Max and I went shopping on Sunday, and
this
is what he said I should get.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I told him we should go to Victoria’s Secret.”

Lauren sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re not quite ready for Victoria’s Secret,” she said, “but there’s a wonderful lingerie shop on Worth Avenue
that carries the most divine bras and panties. I shop there all the time and I bet we could find something perfect in your size. A little lace. A little silk. I think you’d look lovely in pink or green.”

“I like lavender,” Jamie said softly.

“Then that’s what we’ll get. Right after the homework’s done.”

Jamie sat beside her on the bed. “You know what, Lauren?”

“What?”

“Max doesn’t really date a lot of women.”

“Not even a stripper?”

“Heck no!”

What a relief.

“And,” Jamie added, “I think he likes brown hair, even if it
’s dyed.”

Lauren smiled. She’d never been flattered quite so nicely. On top of that, she’d come to the conclusion that her instincts weren’t half bad, and she might even make a pretty good mother after all.

M
ax rolled down the window to let the warm spring air blow about him as he followed Harry’s directions to the house where Charlotte lived, just a twenty-minute drive from the Phoenix airport. Saguaro cactus and sand streaked by as he headed along the highway at seventy-five. He’d stopped in Phoenix ten years before, when he’d made his first trip to Hollywood to look for his brother and sister. He wondered if Charlotte had lived there then, if he might have seen her on that trip, and not even recognized her.

He passed a run-down trailer park with a sign hanging lopsided over the entrance reading shady grove, reminding him of a trailer he’d lived in with his mom, dad, brother, and sister, a
one-bedroom single-wide parked in the vacant lot behind the Boardwalk Tavern, where his mom waited tables.

Max rarely allowed his mind to wander back to his childhood, to a father who drifted from one minimum-wage job to another until he drifted completely from sight.

Larry Wilde had a heavy hand and a fast-action belt, and he’d used both whenever and wherever the mood struck, his target most often Max. His mom, Loretta, never raised her hand against her husband, never raised her voice. She just put up with the man.

It went without saying that Larry hadn’t been much of a dad, and Max couldn’t remember wanting to know what had happened to him. He’d gone away, and good riddance had been Max’s only thought.

When his mother left, Max had a different attitude. He’d just turned ten, and he was hurt, angry, and not about to stay with Rich Hunt, the man who owned the Boardwalk Tavern, just one boyfriend out of many Loretta had used. Before Rich shoved Max off on the foster system, Max had run away three times. Then he’d run away from five or six foster homes before he ended up with Philippe.

Loretta Wilde had promised to send for him once she got settled in Hollywood, but Max couldn’t remember her being all that good at keeping promises, or caring all that much about what happened to him. Whether or not she ever tried to find him, Max didn’t know. But he
doubted it. The only kids she’d seemed to have some feelings for were Charlotte and Zack, because she’d taken them with her when she headed for California.

Zack was seven, Charlotte only four when he saw them last. Zack had had pudgy cheeks, curly black hair and wanted to be a cop. Charlotte’s eyes had been big and brown, and she’d loved to sing and dance.

They’d eaten a lot of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese when they were little. A lot of canned pork and beans and Spam. In the afternoons they’d watch soap operas with their mom, and one night a week they were allowed to stay up late and watch
MacGyver.
Max had few memories left of those days; he’d worked hard to block everything but his brother and sister out of his mind.

Zack was dead now, killed in a car accident six months before Max tracked down the cemetery where he’d been buried. The only thing he’d been able to find out about his brother was that he’d been a cop, that he didn’t have a family, his friends said he was a good
man, and he shouldn’t have died... but he had.