The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  "For me it will always be a miracle, even if it was part of a vengeful goddess' wicked scheme."

  "I've been sifting through a few history books lately. Lord Worthington's right. That Mercury guy has been feeding me a heap of bull about a penitent Venus. I'm furious that I allowed myself to be taken in by that sinister pair."

  "You're being too hard on yourself my gullible fiancé. Even Superman fouled up on occasion."

  "At least now, thanks to Lord Worthington, we know who our foes are, and we know what's at stake."

  Betty-Jo pulled her lover against her. "I'm frightened. I feel as if I've fallen down a rabbit hole, but instead of ending up in Wonderland, I've ended up in a horror story."

  Brad wrapped his arms around her. "Don't be frightened, our love is the immortal, can't die variety. We know it began with Helen and Paris, and then transcended time to bond us together forever."

  Betty-Jo bit at her lip, and combed her hair with her fingers. "Bad Brad, I don't want to run. I don't want to withdraw from the U.S. Open because of a goddess that may not even exist. I don't want to miss out on playing at Stade Roland Garros because of a Nostradamus prediction, and I don't want to spend my life looking under the bed for boogie-men. Once we run, it will never end."

  He hugged her. "Now I remember why you're my favorite princess," he said. "And don't worry, everyone knows that 'love conquers all'. But just in case everyone's wrong, we'd better sow the seeds for victory."

  "Sow the seeds for victory?"

  "'For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap'. Comes straight from the Bible."

  "What about a woman?"

  "'It is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible.'"

  "You are full of it!"

  He grinned at her. "Not me, Shaw."

  "But George, my grinning friend, is your kind of guy."

  "And you, my scrumptious cat, are my kind of princess."

  "Do you really think I'm a real princess?"

  "I'm sure of it. And I even know how we can prove it."

  "How?"

  "We put a pea under your mattress. If you're a real princess, you'll feel it, because real princesses have more sensitive skin than persons of low degree."

  That made her laugh. "Persons like yourself?"

  "We commoners wouldn't feel a thing. But a real princess will feel the pea immediately, and be very uncomfortable."

  "How do you know the pea thing will work?"

  "Because that's the test that has always been used to test for real princesses, and it's never been known to fail."

  Brad got a frozen Green Giant pea out of the freezer, put it under the mattress, and told her to lie down.

  "I don't feel a thing," she said, trying hard not to let Brad see how disappointed she was.

  "That's because you still have your clothes on." He undressed her, but she still couldn't feel the pea. Strangely, Brad didn't seem to be concerned. "I know what the problem is," he said. "You have to bounce around a little." But after a whole lot of bouncing and love making, she still couldn't feel the darned pea.

  "I think every woman dreams of being a princess," Betty-Jo said. "Now, after thinking I was one, I'm saddened that I'm not. I'm an unhappy unprincess."

  "Don't be unhappy," replied a grinning Brad. "The pea test proves that you really are a princess. You knew right away that there wasn't a pea under the mattress. That's because the pea is still in my pants pocket. I figured that with you bouncing around trying to feel the pea, our love making would be awesome. And I was right!"

  Brad wasn't maimed, or worse, because he was lying on top of Betty-Jo, and he had a firm grip on her wrists. "Easy there, Tawny Princess. You wouldn't want to injure your prince, would you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "If I really am Paris' direct descendent, then guess what? That makes me a real prince."

  * * *

  Later that morning, Betty-Jo learned that her father was dead. Victor had died saving Eddie, when a hurricane blew in from out of nowhere, and made landfall at Myrtle Beach.

  As she flew south to be with Eddie, she clung to Brad and wept. "The Gray Ghost's warning has cost my father his life," she said. "If Lord Worthington hadn't warned me about Venus, he could have warned me about the hurricane."

  * * *

  Venus watched in disgust as Eurus' hurricane headed toward South Carolina's northern coastline. Eurus has to be the dullest tool in the shed, she thought, or he's listening to that dimwit Mercury. What's he doing? He knows he's only on earth for backup in case Plan-A fails to eliminate Princess Betty-Jo. "Damn you, Eurus! Zeus isn't a complete fool. It doesn't matter how busy he is shagging Europa; he's still going to notice a hurricane. Eurus would have a better chance of sneaking the dawn past a rooster!"

  It wasn't until Eurus' hurricane killed Victor Chance, that the goddess of love moved her hand under her skirt, and began to cheer up.

  "Hairball," she said, "maybe the hurricane wasn't such a bad idea after all. Victor's death might be the good omen I've been waiting for, and if nothing else, it's created more misery for Betty-Jo."

  -57-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Grand Slam Sex Appeal

  It was noon, Thursday, August the seventeenth, and Betty-Jo was playing in the second round of the two week U.S. Open. Her first round opponent had withdrawn due to injury. The match was being played on Stadium Court, and she was focused on playing well in tribute to her father. "Daddy would have wanted me to be tough like Ben-Gal," she told Brad.

  The twenty thousand seat Stadium Court was easily sold out, and across the nation, work came to a halt as men everywhere found a TV and settled back to watch Bouncer. She had dressed for her countrymen, and as they watched her move, they marveled at what Iowa corn, Florida orange juice, and Texas beef had produced.

  She was wearing a white form-fitting top, a short white skirt, and white stockings, all tastefully accented in red and blue. Her garter belt was red, and her panties—shown to the enthralled viewing millions in slow motion when her skirt flipped up or when she bent over—were red and white striped. It didn't take much of an imagination to figure out where the stars were.

  She put her red white and blue choker on in the center of the court and curtsied. Her countrymen went ballistic. Their American princess was sending them a message. It said that she was one of them, and they loved her for it.

  The two sets went by quickly, although occasionally Betty-Jo had to stop to wipe away the tears that came when she thought about her daddy. An hour and a half after the match began, she had won—six two, six two. Marguerite Ferraro was never in the game.

  As the press swarmed around Betty-Jo, Tony Vaccaro shouted, "Bouncer, we know where Old Glory's stripes are, but where are her stars?"

  Initially, she had been annoyed when the press had nicknamed her Bouncer, but after a while she accepted it, and then she even started to like it. In any event, she and Tony had become pals following his black see-through acquisition, and his obvious enjoyment when she had modeled it for him.

  "Tony, I'm surprised at you," she teased. "What's happened to your imagination?"

  "My imagination's fine. It's working overtime. What I'd like to do is help our viewers locate the missing stars."

  "Are you implying that your viewers lack your insight?"

  "Come on, Bouncer. Put us out of our misery."

  She gave Tony an affectionate smile. "Are your cameramen ready?" She did a quick one-footed twirl. "Now everyone in America knows where the stars are." When the scrum had pulled itself together, she said, "In my third round match on Saturday, I have a surprise for you, but I'm running out of dress ideas. Tony, since you seem to be especially interested in what I wear, why don't you check with your viewers, and I'll wear what they want in my round of sixteen match on Monday—if I win on Saturday."

  "I'm confident that our viewers will be up to the challenge," Vaccaro replied.

  Betty-Jo turned and, waving to her cro
wd, walked off the court.

  * * *

  Across the nation, the debate raged over whether or not the Flag should be gracing Betty-Jo's panties. The naysayers thought it was a desecration, but most men maintained that no better use existed for the Flag than the protection of a national treasure, especially when that treasure was their fondest fantasy. And Bouncer had promised them a surprise in her Saturday match. What, they wanted to know, could be more surprising than what she had already given them? Then, if she made it past the third round, she was going to let them dress her however they wished. Every warm-blooded American male had a few thoughts on that one. Dress ideas flourished; the problem was, that the dress ideas ranged from virtually no dress to no dress at all.

  -58-

  FELICITY READY

  Fight Fire With Fire

  Having Draper help me with my stocking is an obvious ploy, Felicity thought, but I want him, and I'm not in a waiting mood. She never did get her second stocking on.

  Draper was an accomplished lover, and Felicity could not believe how much she loved what he did to her.

  How could I have gone all this time denying myself something this fantastic?

  Madly in love, she would never have believed that six months later she would be putting the finishing touches on her plan to exterminate him.

  At ten-thirty, the in-lust lovers took a short break from their frenzied activity to order a pizza, but it was obvious that Draper was more interested in Felicity than pizza—he couldn't seem to get enough of her. She lost track of how many times she came that evening and the following morning. Exhausted, she slumbered through the flash from a Polaroid camera that gave Draper Greely $1,500, the Big-Swinging-Dick trophy, and the admiration of the boys at the office.

  For the next six months, she dreamt only of Draper. But as her obsession with him grew, so did his abusiveness. Still, she lived to be with him, even when he beat her, had sex with other women, and ignored her for days at a time. She wrote him love letters, phoned him at all hours, and even drove him to and from his favorite haunts, the lap-dance bars—she couldn't help herself. At the office, her obsession for Draper interfered with her work: she arrived late and looked bedraggled. She could not eat, and she was filled with such despair that suicide seemed preferable to her misery. And Draper wanted her clients. So on Thursday she brought her largest client to meet him at Flushing Meadow where Betty-Jo Chance was playing Marguerite Ferraro. The men started to salivate when B-J appeared on court dressed in a skin-tight, red white and blue aerobics top, choker, garter belt, and stockings. To add to the degradation of women—the Flag had been printed on her panties.

  She knew immediately that Betty-Jo Chance was evil. Betty-Jo was destroying everything that women like Billie Jean King and Martina Navratilova had struggled to achieve for women's tennis. She was turning the tennis court into a catwalk, designed solely to arouse men. Betty-Jo Chance was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with women, and the reason why the women's movement had stalled, despite Felicity's efforts and the efforts of women like her. What possibility did women have of being treated like human beings when back-stabbers like Betty-Jo catered to men's every fantasy? Given their way, the Betty-Jo Chances of the world would have women like herself back in the shackles of male subservience.

  Later that day, Felicity was informed that the Securities and Exchange Commission had ruled that she had violated their professional conduct rules with respect to the churning of accounts, and the purchase of unsuitable securities. The Commission's fine was $20,000 plus $10,000 for the cost of the investigation. Her employment at Bourbon and Fry was terminated, effective immediately, and her accounts were turned over to Draper. The civil suits remained outstanding, and she would have to defend them without the support of Bourbon and Fry.

  Her world had collapsed. She had never known such pain. Then Draper phoned.

  "What you did was disgraceful. But I shouldn't have expected anything more from you. I can't stomach you, or your feminist bullshit. Never could. Fifteen hundred dollars and The Big-Swinging-Dick trophy weren't reward enough for having to boink you."

  "Bedding me was part of a contest?"

  "Why else would anyone sleep with you? Whenever I was desperate enough to boink you, I should have been given a fluff girl."

  "A fluff girl?"

  Draper laughed malevolently. "That's a broad who gets a guy in the mood for the main event."

  "That's disgusting!"

  "You think that's disgusting? I'll tell you about disgusting. There's a saying that 'women, like calendars, are only good for a year'. Imagine how disgusted I was when I found out that you weren't even good for a week."

  "I have good legs." It was the only thing she could think of to say in her own defense.

  "Good legs? I've seen better legs on a rottweiler." An audible gasp got away from her. "Now I have a real woman, a Bouncer kind of woman, who knows how to please a man. No fluff girl required. Harass me again, and I'll call the cops."

  If Felicity's world was in a shambles before Draper's call, it was beyond redemption after it. The only glimmer of hope in her life had been snuffed out. She took her gun from its holster, held it to her head, and drew in her breath, happy that she would soon be dead. But, as she was about to squeeze the trigger, she thought about Jason. That thought saved her life, because with that thought, some small bit of sanity returned. Then, from out of nowhere, there was a godsend. A voice told her what she had to do.

  "Felicity, you must use your rage to strike a blow for women. Make a statement that the world will understand. Let men everywhere know that women will have their freedom. Let them know that women will no longer be oppressed, especially not by their own sisters."

  The voice is right, she thought. Women like herself, who were trying to make a difference, were trampled under foot, while women like Betty-Jo Chance, who flaunted their breasts and butts, rose to the top in a corrupt male-dominated society.

  The more Felicity thought about the struggle, the more certain she became that it was the Betty-Jo Chances of the world who were the real enemy. If they can only be stopped by force, then force will have to be used. As she fueled her rage, she became angrier than ever before. Her gun gleamed dull in her hand, as she cleaned and polished the matte. I'll fight fire with fire!

  The next day, she found a scalper, and purchased the two best seats available for the Stadium Court match at two on Monday afternoon. That was where Betty-Jo would play if she won her match on Saturday.

  Felicity's plan was simple. She would get to a front row seat, jump over the low barrier, and shoot the Judas. If a deranged Günter Parche could get close enough to Monica Sellas to stab her, surely she could get close enough to Betty-Jo Chance to shoot her.

  Felicity also decided that Draper Greely didn't deserve to live. Turn your back on Draper, and he'd pee on your plants, she thought. But how best to off him? She favored a wood tick, feeding at the base of his skull until paralysis, loss of reflexes, and finally, respiratory failure claimed him. Unfortunately, the tick on the skull idea was impractical. How would she find a tick, and then how would she implant it at the base of Draper's skull? Moreover, her book on ticks said they could go three or more years without eating. What if her tick didn't like Draper any better than she did?

  Injecting Draper with HIV positive blood was an interesting option. That she might be able to manage, and it would be a suitably miserable way for him to die. But safe sex had never been high on Draper's list of priorities, so it was unlikely that he would die from aids without taking more than a few sisters with him. Moreover, the aids approach to snuffing out Draper could jeopardize her primary objective—a dead Betty-Jo Chance. Then, while browsing a web site on murder, Felicity found an ideal way to dispatch her former lover. It was a clever plan, because it would not be uncovered until it was all over for Betty-Jo.

  -59-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Tawny—A Playboy Centerfold?

  Betty-Jo'
s life was chaotic. She had authorized a video—Bouncer In Slow Motion—that showed her fans the motion they wanted to see. Soon after its release, it was the best selling video of all time. Millions of dollars were being offered if she would play in Japan, and companies were begging her to endorse their products. Money was pouring in, but Betty-Jo didn't want or need money. She already had what she wanted, a shot at the U.S. Open title, and what she loved and needed—Brad.

  * * *

  Like her father, Betty-Jo tithed to her favorite charities. She believed in tithing, because people who tithed were almost always successful. She had no idea why. What she concluded was that if God wasn't rewarding tithers for their generosity, then the act of tithing itself must be turning them into superior money managers. And she had decided to do more than tithe. Twenty percent of her income, and as much of her time as possible, would be set aside for causes she felt strongly about.

  "I want to expand the tennis program for inner city children, and I want to provide shelters for battered women and unwed mothers," she told Brad. "To the extent that my money can accomplish it, I want to give people without hope, another chance."

  * * *

  Talk show hosts scrambled to have Bouncer on their show, and Playboy offered her a million dollars to be the December playmate. Betty-Jo had never been able to understand why numerous celebrity-women, who had all the money they could use, were willing, even eager, to show all, in a men's magazine. Now she knew. What she couldn't understand, was why she wanted men see her that way.

  I want to be a Playmate. Problem is, I'll have to tell Brad, and for sure he won't be pleased.

  Brad didn't say much when she told him about her centerfold plans, but she knew she was in trouble when he undressed her in front of the mirror in their room at the Plaza Hotel. All he left on her were the large gold TC-earrings he had given her on Valentines Day, her choker, and her gold-wafer necklace.