The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  -44-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE

  Jealousy and Heartache

  Betty-Jo believed what Brad had told her about his relationship with Sandy. But she was disturbed by the way he dressed for his meeting with her, and she loathed the very thought of her lover alone with the Tooth Fairy. The more she had to drink, the more upset, jealous and frightened she became. By eight, she could no longer endure the heartache. She did up her hair, put on her floppy brown hat—the one that looked good with her chocolate-brown skirt, beige silk blouse and tweed jacket—and then she studied herself in the mirror. Heck of a disguise, she thought. If I wore a mustache, I wouldn't recognize myself.

  She went down to the hotel lobby, grabbed a cab, and by eight-thirty she was sneaking into the dimly lit Vista Room bar at the Ambassador. Feeling like a fool, she sat on a stool in a secluded corner of the bar, and spied on Brad and Sandy.

  At least—she consoled herself—I'm inconspicuous. 'Cause surely as fish swim, dogs bark, and guppies do whatever they do, harakiri is my only option if I'm discovered.

  Before long, she had stopped worrying about being discovered—she was too distraught, unable to believe what she was seeing. Brad and the Tooth Fairy were in a tight embrace on the dance floor, and he had his hand on her bottom.

  How can he do this to me? Doesn't he realize there's no sacrifice I wouldn't make for him, that he's all that matters to me?

  Without Brad's love, she discovered that there was no limit to her misery. Devastated and afraid, she wished she was anywhere else; but she found, when she tried, that she couldn't leave.

  When Brad and Sandy finished their dessert, they had another dance. As they undulated together on the dance floor, a feeling of utter despair swept over her. Bereft of hope, she continued to watch as Brad paid the bill, and then escorted the vile Tooth Fairy—laughing girlishly, being silly, and draped all over him—out of the Vista Room.

  The bartender came over, and she ordered another scotch. "Make it a double," she said. What does it matter, that rug rat will be wenching all night. He'll go to the mat with anything.

  Absorbed in her misery, she was finishing her drink, when, without warning, a hand was clamped over her mouth. Another hand snaked over her shoulder and grabbed her breast—hard! Then teeth found the nape of her neck and bit. Vampires! she thought. She tried to fight, but was quickly forced into such a precarious position on her stool, that she could barely maintain her balance. She tried to scream, but the hand that covered her mouth muted her cry. Then, the hand that had been squeezing her breast, relocated. It thrust its way under her skirt, up her inner thigh, and grasped her cubbyhole.

  Damn you, Brad! Because of you, I'm not wearing panties!

  -45-

  BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE

  A Fond Farewell?

  Brad watched Sandy as he moved his hand down her back to her bottom. She smiled into his shoulder. "Feels like old times," he said.

  "Terrible Grasshopper, I apologize for interrupting your dalliance, but under the circumstances, don't you think that my bum should be out of bounds to you?"

  "I suppose so, but I'm willing to accept the two stroke penalty."

  She gave him a flirtatious glance. "A two stroke penalty seems fair. You're not looking at a good score anyway, because I've mastered your 'toy-boy' tongue twister. I can say 'toy-boy' forever without fouling up."

  He grinned at her. "Scoring with you is easy. Try today's skill tester, 'unique New York.'"

  "That's sounds easy enough. Unique New York, noonique..."

  "So once again you're my plaything for the evening."

  Sandy smiled, and moved her hips invitingly against him. "Remember when you forbid me to slow dance with anyone but you, because you said I was a sexually lethal weapon?"

  "You still are. Problem is, this time it's me you're killing."

  "And remember when my mother caught you doing me on her bed."

  He grimaced. "It wouldn't have happened if she hadn't had the mansion's only water bed."

  "Fortunately for you, she liked you."

  "She had a funny way of showing it."

  "What did you expect," Sandy said with a laugh, "after you came up with, 'and who, may I say, is calling.'"

  "She'd made me nervous in your service."

  "Who'd have guessed, because after she screamed who she was, guess what you said?"

  He shook his head. "'Would you care to join us, Mrs. Manderville?' I can't believe I said that."

  "You worry too much. I think mother was flattered."

  "Maybe she was, because she refused to leave, even when I was running around trying to find my undies."

  "'For nakid as a worm was [he].'" Sandy held his eyes, and gave him a mischievous grin.

  "I admit it! I panicked. I felt like a little boy—a teeny, tiny, little idiot-boy, who'd been caught with his hand in her cookie jar."

  "That wouldn't have been so bad. Unfortunately, you were a big, bad idiot-boy, who'd been caught with your Homer in her daughter's honey-pot."

  "The worst part, was when she attacked me with her belt, as I was trying to get into my Jockeys."

  Sandy laughed. "I couldn't believe it. You started hopping around the room like a one legged frog with my mother in hot pursuit."

  "What could I do? I was tangled in my undies, and she was whacking me."

  "So you decided to hop for the door. Your thing—still eager—leading the way." Sandy was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.

  "I'd have made it if I hadn't tripped."

  "I thought you'd broken your thing, Sandy said.

  "I thought your mother was going to beat it to death."

  She hugged him. "You were lucky to have escaped intact."

  "I wouldn't have, if you hadn't thrown me my pants," Brad said.

  "It was the least I could do, given the good time you'd almost given me."

  "Could we talk about something else. Never before or since, have I gone from one of my finest moments, to one of my worst, in such a short period of time."

  Sandy kissed Brad on the cheek. "Tell me about your girlfriend."

  "Betty-Jo's a lot like you. I happened upon her after you dumped me for Ralph. She plays a better game of tennis than you, but she knows less about Milton."

  "A jock like you. That's nice."

  The evening drifted along with the easy banter that comes effortlessly to long time friends and some former lovers. Following dessert, he had a final dance with Sandy, before he escorted her to her Jag. There, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a goodbye kiss, and a thank you kiss. It was a kiss where either he or Sandy could have erred by not thanking enough, or by failing to say goodbye. And Sandy erred—her attempt at goodbye was pathetic. Her kiss said I want it to be over, but I can't let go.

  He checked her eyes to confirm what her lips had already told him.

  She smiled sheepishly. "What can I tell you? I'm a high performance woman. I can go from zero to lover in under six seconds, especially like now, when I'm not wearing panties."

  An uneasy feeling grabbed Brad, but he managed to find a smile. "A natural born free-buffer," he said.

  "Only for you, Grasshopper. Only for you."

  Chalk one up for Tawny Cat intuition, Brad thought as Sandy drove off. And his uneasy feeling lingered. He knew how temperamental Sandy could be when she wasn't getting what she wanted. She could also go from lover to Tooth Fairy in under six seconds.

  -46-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Love, Trust and a Conniving Tooth Fairy

  At the Vista Room bar, the hand continued to grasp Betty-Jo's pussy, and a voice whispered, "Worried your ovaries, didn't I?"

  "You slug!" she yelled, but from behind the hand, it sounded like a muffled, "oo ug."

  "That's no way to speak to your lover. And if your manners don't improve, I'm going to have you right here on the floor. Sandy's put me in the mood."

  "Asshole!" she hollered into the han
d, and then wished she hadn't, because Brad tipped her stool until she was certain she'd fall.

  After her "Sorry! Sorry!" he righted her stool, put his arms around her waist, and nibbled at her ear.

  "That was close," he said. "I was afraid you were so sloshed you were going to tumble off your perch. Reminds me of the time I saved you from that mean ol' coaster."

  "And you remind me of a woodpecker!"

  "Could be worse."

  "Without the wood."

  Brad escorted her to the table where he and Sandy had been sitting. Beside the table, chilling in an ice bucket, was a magnum of Dom Pérignon.

  "Don't you ever do that to me again!"

  "My meddling Tawny Cat, it serves you right. Don't you understand that it's impolite to spy on your lover and his girlfriend, and that if you do, there's a price to be paid?"

  "I'm your girlfriend!"

  "You're my lover—forever. Subtle difference, don't you think?"

  He took the ice-cold magnum of champagne out of the bucket, reached under the table, and shoved it between her thighs. Then worse came her way. He handed her a menu, pulled her blouse out of her skirt, flipped up one side of her bra, and guided an ice-cube to More Fun's tip.

  Mortified, she shifted the menu to hide what was happening to her. "Stop!" she hissed.

  "You're not going to make a scene, are you? Don't you think you've caused enough trouble for one evening?" Her polka dot had perked up with the ice-cube's arrival, and the ice-cold bottle between her thighs was arousing her. "If I let you remove the champagne, do you promise to behave?"

  "I will. I promise." She reached down and retrieved the bubbly. "How did you know I was here?"

  "A combination of my X-ray vision and the lavender perfume you're wearing. I always know when you're within a mile of me."

  * * *

  The reality of how Brad knew Betty-Jo was at the Vista Room bar was less esoteric than X-ray vision and lavender perfume. He had shown the maitre d' a picture of Betty-Jo, and asked him to report back if he saw her. Brad knew that his Tawny Cat was a trusting cat, but he also knew that she was a jealous cat. He had been unsure which of her virtues would win out that evening.

  Brad was rough with Betty-Jo when he pulled her to him on the dance floor. She placed her head on his shoulder and clung to him. "I'm sorry. I thought you were going to sleep with that Tooth Fairy."

  "Your presumption of my infidelity was greatly exaggerated."

  "I know that now."

  "Do you remember asking me why I needed you, when I had those satin sheets, and I told you that it was a lonely bed without you?"

  "Yes."

  He moved her away, and apprehended her eyes. Then he bit her neck to remind her that she belonged to him. "I'm fond of Sandy, but to me she's like those sheets. Even if I had Sandy, my life would be dismal without you. When I danced with her, I thought of you, and longed to be with you. It would be easier for me to stop breathing than to stop thinking about you, and to stop feeling your touch in my memory."

  "Really?" Betty-Jo said softly.

  "In the twilight, I need you to hold me and dream with me. With the dawn, I need you to stretch for me and make love with me. But you already know that! How have I failed to indelibly imprint on your heart that I have loved only you, that I love only you, and that I will always need and love only you?"

  * * *

  How could I have believed that Brad's love and need for me would be any less than my love and need for him? Betty-Jo thought. Her anger was replaced by a softness in her eyes—and remorse. What is the matter with me? I know that love and trust must go hand in hand. Like turtledoves, if one dies, both die. Then she thought about what had happened to Psyche when Psyche had failed to trust Cupid. She made a vow to herself that she would never again allow mistrust to come between her and Brad.

  "I'm so sorry. I was terrified. I hurt so much when I thought I'd lost you."

  "Who do I belong to?" Brad said.

  "You belong to me."

  "That's right. And who do you belong to?" His eyes held hers.

  "I belong to you, only to you. From now on, down whatever darkened alleys my love for you might travel, I promise that my trust in you will be its constant companion." Her lips sought his, and firmly sealed her promise.

  He grinned, and his voice caressed her. "What's your bear's name?"

  "I Love Only You, So Much."

  "Close enough," he said, as he pulled her tightly against him.

  * * *

  Brad found it difficult to believe that Greg and Belinda were getting married, but he understood how it could happen. He recalled the last time he'd been with them. From a limo and petting, to a church and a wedding, he thought.

  He was unable to avoid Sandy, because he was the best man, and she was the maid of honor—an on-the-prowl maid of honor.

  "I think marriage will agree with me," she told him at the reception. "'It combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity.'"

  "I'm sure you don't have to get married to have all the opportunity you can handle."

  "Perhaps, but since it's you that's causing the temptation. Perhaps you could also do something to provide the opportunity as well."

  He frowned. "Behave yourself, Sandra. You're almost a married woman."

  "I can't." She placed his hand between her breasts so he'd know that she was wearing the varsity ring he'd given her. "I suspect that marriage would also suit you, Grasshopper. 'Men are slow to realize that matrimony is the most delicious state of life a man can enjoy. When all other amusements grow dull and insipid, a married man can always find an inexhaustible fund of entertainment in tormenting his wife.'"

  I can appreciate that marriage might be the most delicious state of life a man can enjoy, he thought, even if the ability to torment one's wife isn't the reason. However, if tormenting one's wife is valid entertainment, then there's nobody I'd enjoy tormenting more than my Tawny Cat.

  * * *

  Later, Sandy held Brad's ring, and studied the ECC initials. Then she pressed them to her lips. It isn't fair, she thought. How can I compete with someone who looks like Betty-Jo, Dime-Store Floozy? I have pots of money from gram's estate, but what good does it do me if I can't have Brad? She slammed her hand on the couch. Stupid of me, I should have gone to Coastal Carolina with Brad, and let my mother disown me. If I could get rid of the floozy, I know Brad would come back to me. Nobody forgets his or her first love. When you need them, where are those Bulgarians with the knockout drops in their umbrella tips? If I could hire one of those guys, I could shanghai Betty-Jo, and sell her to some sultan, in the white-slave market. Might even make a profit on the wench. I can see it now—Betty-Jo Floozy in some sultan's harem, riding around the desert on a camel, and me with Brad all to myself. Then, when the wench is too old to be a harem floozy, they'd make her look after the goats.

  Again, she kissed the ring Brad had given her, and felt close to him, as she contemplated other ways in which she might dispose of her nemesis.

  -47-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE

  Dressing for Show

  Betty-Jo easily won her first three Canadian Open matches, and on Wednesday, she was into the round of sixteen. Her evening match—against Maria Manendez on stadium court at the National Tennis Centre—was being televised nationally in Canada on TSN, and she was dressing for the occasion. She had decided to take her best shot at tennis superstardom, and if that meant becoming the Madonna of tennis, hey, she liked Madonna. But she was terrified. She knew, full well, that what she was planning was an on-court striptease for millions of men.

  For her match, she would be wearing black panties. In contrast, her short pleated skirt, socks, tennis-shoes, Revlon lipstick, choker, and form-fitting aerobics top, were pink. Her aerobics top hugged, separated and lifted her already high breasts, while it outlined her polka dots beneath the stretch-Lycra. The Tour would finally have a woman with two breasts instead of the Presto Log chests that female tennis play
ers—through some quirk of nature—appeared to have been born with.

  When she showed Brad her new tennis ensemble, he took one look, and told her that he'd made a terrible mistake in encouraging her to seek supernovadom.

  "Tawny Cat, jump up and down." She did. "Take a look in the mirror. You've really put your tits in a wringer this time. You're hotter than boiling, and yummier than Bubble Yum. If you go onto the court dressed like that, your life will become a permanent spin-dry cycle. You can still change your mind."

  "Too late. My mind's made up. Commitment to a new dress code was difficult for me, because I'm sympathetic to the struggle of equity feminists, and I find it difficult to believe that titillating men on a tennis court is helpful."

  "Titillating? Couldn't you say arousing? 'Titillating' implies your weapons of choice."

  She tossed him a scampish smile. "All the more reason to stay with titillating, wouldn't you say? But getting back to the cause—I fail to see how the struggle for sexual equality, and an attraction to the opposite sex's butt, are significantly related."

  He grinned. "In love with my butt, are you?"

  She nodded. "After falling so pathetically for you, I increasingly appreciate the physical differences. I love your bod: its lean, mean look, its feel on my tongue, and its musky, woodsy smell. I love it. And I have company in my obsession. All I have to do is go to a rock concert, and look at the women there."

  "Trust me, there'll be no shortage of men to admire the form you're committed to revealing. You'll be the Ferrari of the WTA Tour."

  "Who'd of guessed? Little ol' me—a Ferrari."

  She had grown up believing what her daddy told her, that 'a life without risk is no life at all.' She knew, that her introduction of blatant sexuality to women's tennis, would have the support and encouragement, of the two men in her life that counted most.