Born to Be Wild (9 page)

“You wanted waiters, right?”

She looked at the motorcycles around her, at the Dumpsters lining one wall, at the huge, graffiti-covered warehouses that surrounded them, and she laughed. “I suppose they’re lined up on shelves inside, and you just walk down an aisle and pick out the ones you want.”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

He was teasing, of course. She knew full well that he couldn’t find qualified waiters in a storage building on the outskirts of West Palm Beach. “Really, Max, where are we?”

“The Hole in the Wall.”

The Hole in the Wall
, she repeated to herself, then frowned. “This isn’t a biker bar, is it?”

“A hangout,” he corrected, as if his choice of words would give her a cozy feeling about the place. “I spend a lot of time here.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, but what are
we
doing here?”

“Taking care of business, just like I said. Are you going to stay out here or go inside?”

She had no way of knowing what kind of business he could have in an old, dilapidated warehouse, but she’d heard stories about bikers and what they did in their free time, things like drinking and carousing, not to mention having their way with women. She couldn’t imagine Max
mixed up in anything so disreputable, but that didn’t mean the people he hung out with weren’t a bit on the shady side.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked, combing his fingers through his hair, only to have it fall right back into its natural state of disarray.

She slipped off her helmet and looked at the big black door and the huge, racy motorcycles, with lightning bolts, fanged serpents, and fire-breathing dragons painted on their gas tanks. Thoughts of the men who rode them, and the knowledge that they’d be inside, helped to quickly make up her mind. “I believe I’ll stay here, thank you.”

Max shook his head as he walked to the door. “Suit yourself.”

Even though Max had put down the kickstand, she settled the tiptoes of her silver spikes on the ground and hoped the bike wouldn’t topple over. She was five-feet-ten-and-three-quarter-inches tall, she was packing a few too many pounds on her frame—or so her ex-fiancé had told her—but she still felt small on the massive Harley.

She slid from her perch to the scooped out part of the leather seat, where Max always sat, and put her hands on the grips. Suddenly she didn’t feel so little. Riding along as a passenger she had no control, was totally at the mercy of the man at the helm. But sitting in the driver’s seat was exciting, empowering.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

The sound of Max’s voice drew her gaze toward the door. She’d gotten so carried away by
the thrill of the bike between her legs that she hadn’t noticed he was still in the alley, that he’d been watching her movements. “A girl could get used to this.”

A slow grin touched his lips. “Then keep it warm for me while I’m inside. I won’t be long.”

He opened the door and she heard a blast of music—a heavy guitar and the heavier beat of drums—before the weighty metal door slammed with a deep clank behind him, leaving her all alone.

The sense of power left her when she realized the only thing keeping her company was the sunlight bouncing off the chrome of half a dozen motorcycles. It was quiet now, lonely, and it seemed as if the walls were closing in on her.

Being alone was nothing new. She’d been alone many times as a child, when her mother would run off unexpectedly, leaving her behind for months at a time, with only Charles and her nanny for company. But she’d been on familiar ground then.

Right now she was out of her element, too far from the places where she felt at home. She should be shopping with friends and ducking into Café L’Europe for linguine and shrimp, a glass of wine, and good conversation, while a pianist played lightly in the background.

Instead she sat on a motorcycle outside a biker hangout, where God knows what was going on inside.

She looked at her watch. Four-thirty-two. If Max didn’t come outside by four-forty, she was
going in after him. She drummed her fingers on the gas tank, right next to the painted mermaid. The green and gold scales on her tail shimmered in the sunlight. Her light brown hair flowed about her as if she were swimming far below the ocean’s surface, and delicate strands wisped over her chest like shredded silk, revealing hints of her firm, voluptuous breasts.

What was Max’s fascination with mermaids? she wondered. How did he get interested in motorcycles, or becoming a chef?

Why did he have long hair? Why did he wear a beard and earrings?

Why was she thinking about him—again—and why on earth was he taking so long?

She twisted the rearview mirror to check her makeup, dug into her silver clutch, found her lipstick, and applied it sparingly. Last but certainly not least, she fluffed some life into her hair. Frederico, her stylist, would have a fit if he saw the damage the helmet had done to her coif.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she whispered to herself as she climbed cautiously off the bike and smoothed the wrinkles in her silk trousers, but her words were drowned out by the roar of an engine echoing through the alley. Her eyes darted once more to the rearview mirror and caught sight of a red machine racing toward her, closer, closer, until it rumbled to a stop at her side. A muscle-bound man with a Fu Manchu stared at her, and she in turn gaped at his wide, hairless chest and the black leather vest that did little to hide his skin.

When he climbed off the motorcycle he towered over her, an impressive feat for most anybody, especially when she was wearing heels. He continued to stare as he removed his helmet, revealing a red bandana tied about his head and glittering diamond studs in his ears.

He folded burly arms over his brawny chest and smiled, flashing a set of amazingly straight, pearly-white teeth. “You must be a friend of Max’s.”

“An acquaintance,” she answered, smiling weakly.

He stuck out his hand. Instantly, Lauren looked at his fingernails, wondering how much grease was beneath them, but they were clean, his cuticles trimmed, each nail rounded and white as if he’d just had a manicure. “I’m Vince Domingo,” he said, “but my friends call me Bear.”

Lauren hesitantly lifted her hand, and he clutched it in a viselike grip. “It’s nice to meet you ...
Bear.
I’m Lauren Remington,” she said, trying to sound cordial in spite of her anxiety. “Do you hang out here, too?”

“Every chance I get, which isn’t often enough.” He pulled the bandana off his head—a totally bald head—and stuffed it into his helmet. “It’s cooler inside than out here,” he said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his temple. “Why don’t you come in with me and have a drink. Meet some of the guys.”

Maybe she didn’t want to go inside after all.

“I told Max I’d wait out here, but thank you for the offer.” She anxiously checked her watch. “He’ll be out any moment now.”

Bear’s laugh rumbled through the alleyway, almost as loudly as his motorcycle’s engine. “It’s obvious you don’t know Max all that well. If he gets caught up in a game or something, he won’t be out for hours.”

“A game?” So that’s the business Max had to take care of. “I didn’t realize there was gambling inside.”

A wide grin spread across Bear’s face. “Why don’t I show you what’s inside.” He gripped her upper arm and ushered her toward the door. Part of her wanted to pull back, to tell him she had no intention of going inside, but she had the feeling no one ever said no to Bear.

How could she possibly have gotten herself into such a mess, when all she’d wanted to do was hire a caterer for Betsy Endicott’s wedding? This entire day had gone all wrong. Now she was heading into a den of iniquity, and she seriously doubted that Max would come to her rescue, because he was probably enmeshed in a poker game, having a high old time with his gang.

Bear opened the door to the Hole in the Wall, and the heavy bass of the music vibrated straight through Lauren’s body. Her legs were shaking when she touched her right foot down on the concrete floor, the same place her eyes were aimed, because she was afraid of what she might see if
she looked around. She took a quick sniff of the air to see how badly it reeked of stale cigarettes, and noticed only the faint hint of sweat. Slowly her eyes drifted upward. At the far right end of the warehouse, at least a dozen kids were shooting hoops and dribbling balls. At the other end were vending machines filled with sodas, coffee, and snacks. And far across the room was a cluster of tables, where kids bent over opened schoolbooks.

Where were the men rolling dice? Where was the cock fight? Where were the brazen biker mamas with teased, bleached blond hair?

Why hadn’t Max told her this was a hangout for kids? And why on earth had he let her think the worst?

“Not much gambling going on right now,” Bear said, his bright white teeth gleaming through his wide-mouthed grin.

“So I see.” Lauren felt a tinge of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. Obviously she’d prejudged Max, Bear, and everything connected with the Hole in the Wall. When would she ever learn not to judge a book by its cover?

A basketball rolled to a stop against her heels, and a cute, blond-headed boy nearly knocked her over as he raced to retrieve it. “Hey, Bear!” he hollered over the music, jumping up in the air to slap the burly biker a high-five.

The boys and girls scattered around the warehouse had hair in shades ranging from pink to green, and styles that ran the gamut of Mohawk to lacquered spikes. Their clothes were a mishmash she couldn’t begin to describe. Yet this boy, who
dribbled his ball in a circle around her, looked fairly neat, although the baggy shorts hung nearly to his knees and his oversized white T-shirt looked as if it might belong to his dad.

“Hello,” she said, when he bounced the ball close to her toes.

“Hi,” he said all too quickly, revealing a mouthful of silver braces. “You aren’t gonna work here, are you?”

“Well... no.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Why?” Lauren asked. She knew she didn’t have a clue about troubled kids and their needs, but was it all that obvious?

“Not too many people around here wear diamonds.”

“If I come again, should I leave my jewelry at home?”

“Might be safer,” he said, twirling the ball on the tip of his finger, obviously showing off. “Hey, Bear,” he said, turning his attention away from her, “did you hear Rob got thrown in juvie last night?”

“Yeah, I heard.” Lauren couldn’t miss the disheartening tone in Bear’s voice.

“Max says there’s not much we can do,” the boy said, tossing the ball to Bear.

“I don’t mind helping someone who’s screwed up once or twice,” Bear commented, “but Rob pushed too far this time.” He bounced the ball hard against the floor, then tossed it back to the boy “Breaking into a house doesn’t set too well with me.”

It didn’t set too well with Lauren, either. In fact, the entire conversation left her feeling completely dismayed.

“The kids here aren’t...
delinquents,
are they?” she asked Bear, after the boy dribbled the ball to the far end of the warehouse.

“Some are, some aren’t. Unfortunately we can’t turn every kid into a model citizen.”

“Is that what you do here? Rehabilitate problem kids?”

“If that’s what’s needed.
Mostly we help the older ones find a job, or give them one ourselves, just to keep them off the street. Jed, over there,” he said, pointing to a skinny young man in greasy overalls, who was tinkering on what looked like a pile of motorcycle parts, “was working for Max until this morning. Turns out he’s a lousy chef’s assistant, but great with engines, and it just so happens I had a bike I wanted rebuilt.”

“What about the younger kids?”

“Most of them have only one parent, one who’s either not the best role model or who is too busy trying to pay the rent to pay enough attention to them. They need help with schoolwork, need someone to listen to their problems, and sometimes they just need a place where they can hang out, get a good meal, especially when things aren’t going well at home. That’s what we’re here for.”

“I had no idea.” She looked around the warehouse, spotting Max talking to a couple of kids. One of his boots rested on the edge of a bench, and he hunched over a boy’s shoulder, pointing
something out in a book. “Is Max as involved in all of this as you are?”

Bear laughed. “It was his idea, not to mention his money, that got it started.”

She looked at Max again and for a moment imagined him dressed in shining armor. Half an hour ago she thought he was one step away from being a hoodlum. She really should be careful about judging people she knew so little about.

Turning her curiosity toward the blond-headed boy shooting hoops, she asked, “Who’s the boy with the basketball?”

“You mean Max hasn’t introduced you?”

“No. Should he?”

Bear scratched his head. “I thought you and Max were friends.”

“We’re business acquaintances, that’s all.”

“Then I guess there wasn’t much reason for him to tell you about his son.”

“You mean the boy with the basketball?”