The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  Betty-Jo was amused by Robin's antics, and in fairness to Bender, she may even have encouraged them by putting almost as much topspin on her rear-end as she put on the ball. But Victor Chance wasn't amused. To Victor it looked as if Coach Bender was as interested in teaching B-J about dirty old men than he was in teaching her tennis. So Victor took the too-friendly coach aside.

  "Nothing sadder than finding a dead robin in your bird bath," he told him.

  Robin Bender got the message.

  -21-

  BRAD RAIDEN & PUSSCAT

  Bull Fighting PussCat

  Bull Fighting PussCat was a shorthaired, gray and white tabby. She still had nightmares that featured an incensed bull charging toward her, head lowered, eyes glazed, and nostrils flaring. In her nightmares she hissed, arched her back, and prayed, even though she knew that it was too late for prayer.

  * * *

  Brad and PussCat were family. She would be going to Coastal Carolina with him. Six years earlier, they had become inseparable when he saved her from a bull at his uncle's farm, northeast of Toronto near Stockton. The fearless mouser had managed to get herself cornered by an irate bull that was intent on sending her to cat Valhalla. The bull's first charge knocked PussCat senseless—his second was about to finish her.

  Brad was sitting on the fence that surrounded the bull's enclosure when the bull charged, caught PussCat on his horns, and tossed her into the air. Damn fool cat's a dead carp, he thought. But friend to all animals that he was, he jumped into the enclosure and saved her, but not without first being gored himself.

  "From now on," he told the fur ball, "if you want me to save your butt again, you'd better pick on someone your own size." It was advice that PussCat would regret ignoring.

  * * *

  PussCat was like no cat Brad had ever known, probably due to her formative year as a barnyard cat. He cherished the ornery pussy, and she doted on him.

  PussCat terrorized the local cats, and had to be de-clawed, but even de-clawed, she remained invincible—a pussycat to be reckoned with. Her territory reached as far as she cared to extend it; dogs soon learned to keep their distance. Once, Brad saw a neighbor attack PussCat with a broom, and he watched in amazement as she held her ground, and then fought back.

  "Stay away from me you deranged animal," the neighbor had hollered before retreating.

  The only weapons that could deter the fearless mouser were a spray bottle full of water or a garden hose. Without one of those weapons at their disposal, the neighbors had no choice but to let PussCat do whatever she pleased.

  Brad brushed, fed, and carried PussCat around on his shoulder. Most pussycats become more attached to the houses they live in than to the people in them, but PussCat was different—she was a one man cat, who would only purr for Brad. Nevertheless, when they arrived at their Myrtle Beach cottage, Brad buttered her paws, and kept her inside until she became accustomed to the place.

  -22-

  BRAD RAIDEN

  Carolina Boun

  It was a fortunate set of circumstances—or the work of Mercury—that was taking Brad to play hockey at Coastal Carolina University, twenty miles west of Myrtle Beach. Six years earlier, Coastal had lobbied to have the University of South Carolina's hockey program located at what was then U.S.C.'s Myrtle Beach campus. Jason Moore, an ex-patriot Canadian who presided over the thirty-six-member board of directors of the Myrtle Beach Area Chamber of Commerce, had led the campaign for the hockey program. Moore loved Myrtle Beach. He had vacationed there for years, and when, at fifty, he took early retirement from teaching, that was where he wanted to open his retail golf and tennis discount outlet.

  The one thing Moore missed at Myrtle Beach was hockey. But when the University of South Carolina was asked to participate in a southern university hockey conference, he saw his opportunity to make Myrtle Beach perfect.

  As far as the U.S.C. Board of Governors was concerned, the money for a hockey arena could be better spent on a team of under-water basket weavers. So when the Myrtle Beach Area Chamber of Commerce offered to pay for an arena on the Coastal Carolina campus, the U.S.C. Board voted unanimously to locate the varsity hockey team there. It was a decision that the Board soon regretted as the popularity of hockey soared with the arrival of the Florida Panthers and the Tampa Bay Lightning.

  The Coastal Carolina Gray Ghosts won the conference championship in their first year—1990—and they won it every year thereafter. That was thanks to the coaching skills of Alister Wylie. Wylie had coached NHL teams for eight years, but at sixty he had decided it was time to ease into retirement. When Jason Moore approached him, and asked him to coach the Gray Ghosts, he'd eagerly accepted.

  "Ten years from now Myrtle Beach will be better known for hockey than it is for golf," Wylie had told Moore.

  "I admire your enthusiasm, Coyote," Moore had replied. "But perhaps you'll forgive me if I don't hold my breath 'til it happens."

  * * *

  Brad rented a two bedroom cottage—just off the Coastal Carolina campus—from Chick and Joe Mortimer, a Canadian couple, who were too elderly to trek south for the winter, but who were unable to part with their retirement home, and the fond memories that went with it. They had watched Brad grow up, so they were confident that he would take good care of their home. The rent was only $200 a month.

  * * *

  It was painful for Brad to head off to college in South Carolina and leave Sandy behind. His summer with her had been everything he'd hoped for, and more, thanks to her passion for both tender romance and decadent loving. When he wasn't teaching tennis at a Toronto summer camp, Sandy was helping him with the basics of lovemaking. Although most of the time they just fumbled along together. He owed her. She fulfilled his fantasies, and taught him to shampoo twice.

  "Shampoo twice with me whenever we can, and those days will be a good hair days," she told him. And they were—or at least they were until Veronica Manderville happened along when they were testing her waterbed for leaks. But unbeknownst to Brad, Mrs. Manderville's arrival in the middle of the waterbed test wasn't just an unfortunate happenstance. Mercury had returned to earth, and when he'd arrived, the first thing he'd done was tell Mrs. Manderville that Brad was playing Doctor with her daughter—without a license.

  Sandy had begged her mother to allow her go to Coastal Carolina with Brad, but Veronica Manderville had refused. Brad was pretty sure that he knew why. So Sandy was off to Queens University, and he was off to Coastal Carolina without her.

  * * *

  As Brad drove Old-yellow through West Virginia on Interstate 77, John Denver's song, Take Me Home, Country Roads, kept repeating in his head. West Virginia was beautiful country, but then Country Roads made him predisposed to appreciate its heavenly qualities.

  "Look at those up-and-down baby mountains, PussCat," he said. "If you could iron them out, this place would be bigger than Texas." He promised himself that, before he graduated from Coastal, he'd stop and spend some time in West Virginia, because, further along in the song, country roads were taking a fellow home to his 'mountain mama'. Brad decided to enlighten PussCat. "Every guy in West Virginia isn't just given a mountain woman, you know. And you can be darn sure that if you don't spend some time here you won't be put on the waiting list to get one. It's not as if you can just order a mountain woman from a Sears catalogue." But he had more to think about than mountain women, because before he'd left for Coastal, he'd contacted Birth Parent Locators, and started a search for his birth parents. "Wonder what they're like?" he asked, as he rubbed behind PussCat's ear.

  He reached forward to the dash, and patted Lucky Ducky on her head. He knew that having a ducky at his age was silly. But his mother had told him that his birth mother had left the duck for him. Lucky was the only tangible evidence he had that his birth mother might have loved him. So he'd named her Lucky Ducky, and then had been unable to part with her. Lucky was a constant reminder that he needed to love, and be loved.

  Brad brushed PussCat from time
-to-time as the miles slid by. "What a perfect summer it was. If only Mrs. Manderville hadn't caught me doing my stallion thing with Sandy, on her waterbed. But even if I'd been looking more like a missionary than a stallion, it was game over when I shoved my foot in my mouth, and invited her to join us."

  -23-

  JIM BOB O'HARA

  Trouble

  "Mr. C, it's Jim Bob. May ah speak to B-J if she's around?"

  "Sorry, Jim Bob, she's out for the evening."

  "Do yu know how ah maght ged in touch with her?"

  Victor Chance hesitated. "You may be able to catch her at the Park."

  "Thanks, Mr. C." Jim Bob shut down his cell-phone, and headed for the Park.

  One lousy date with B-J since the prom, he thought, and it was lousy. "Ah'm not even close t' gettin' into her pants."

  When the light at the intersection of 4th and Ocean Boulevard changed, Jim Bob stomped the Jimmy's peddle to the floor, and left behind an impressive strip of rubber. He was pissed. He knew that Betty-Jo had a date with some jerk that evening, because she'd told him she already had a date, when he'd asked her out for Friday evening. But then, when he'd asked her out for Saturday, she'd brushed him off.

  "Who studies on a Saturday naght?" he muttered before he slammed his fist against the dash. "Ah'm gonna find that gal, and set her straight. Ah saved her ass. She owes me!"

  -24-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Capture a Rainbow

  Initially, the coaster ride had been a nerve-wracking ordeal for Betty-Jo, but Brad had held her so tightly, that by the time the coaster eased to a stop, she was feeling almost safe.

  "Okay, Brad," she said, "you can let go of me now."

  "...B-J, it's you who's holding onto me."

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Silly me. So it is." She released him, retrieved her bear, hooked her arm around his, and followed him, thankfully, where he led. Where he led was behind the bingo tent.

  She could feel herself being drawn to him: to his strength, to his aroma, and to his charm. Then she felt herself being undone by his probing brown eyes, and his velvet and leather voice. By the time she realized that he was more dangerous than the coaster, it was too late for her to save herself.

  "Poor you," he said with a disarming grin. "You want me."

  "Damn you!" But she didn't pull away. His eyes, his voice, his dimples, and his grin were too much.

  "So tell me, is there a reward for saving you from that mean ol' coaster?"

  He's so sure of himself, but I don't care anymore. "What kind of reward did you have in mind?"

  "From you, an affectionate kiss would be satisfactory, as long as it's to Raiden specifications."

  "Does a Raiden-specified kiss come with an instruction manual?"

  "Of course. Put your arms around my neck. Now stand on your toes, and pull yourself against me."

  Behind the bingo tent, they held each other as time slowed, and reality drifted away. Their heartbeats merged while their eyes asked questions, and then provided answers. When at last she kissed him, her heart was taken, and her soul surrendered—she was forever Brads'.

  "What is your bear's name?" she heard him ask from somewhere in the cocoon that had enveloped them.

  Her reply, inviting and defenseless, hung in their small world of monumental delight. It was a pledge, and a promise. "I Love Only You Brad," she said.

  In that enchanted place, she knew that to love Brad Raiden was all she had ever wanted, and all she would ever need. "I've captured a rainbow," she whispered.

  She moved her hand to touch, and then to caress the stubble on his face. How is it possible for anything to feel so rugged, so...masculine? Then, wanting more, she moved against him in wanton surrender—until her legs began to shake. She tried to ease to the ground, but he kept her positioned, trembling against him. When he finally released her, she was unable to stand, and would have fallen if he hadn't held her.

  "Unbelievable!" she said as she struggled to return. "That kiss? What does it mean?"

  "Two more weeks of winter?" He punctuated his reply with his grin.

  She smiled all over, and rubbed playfully against him, discovering his desire. "Fool," she said, "that's ground hogs and their shadows, not kisses."

  His eyes continued to hold hers. "I know one thing. Your kiss was the finest reward I've been given for anything." He paused. "I've become fonder of you than..."

  "B-J! What the hell ah y'all doin'?" Jim Bob O'Hara had appeared from out of nowhere, and broken the spell.

  She turned and glowered at him. "Listen to me, O'Hara! A couple of dates don't give you proprietary rights. And I don't recall signing you on as my chaperon."

  "Your daddy told me you'd be here, an ah knew what you'd be doin'. Pair a you looked lahk a couple a hound dogs that had locked-on."

  "You're disgusting!"

  "Didn't know how ah was gonna ged you apart. Thought ah'd have t' hose yu down." A smug, self-satisfied smirk worked its way across Jim Bob's face.

  "Wart hog!" She lunged at Jim Bob, but couldn't get close enough to do any damage, because Brad had a secure grip on the sleeve of her blouse.

  "B-J, you're forgetting your manners," Brad said. "You haven't introduced us." She gave him a derisive look, which he ignored. Then he stepped toward Jim Bob, and held out his hand. "I'm Brad Raiden."

  O'Hara, Brad's height but beefier, moved into Brad's space. "Shove off, Raiden!" he snarled. Then he turned to Betty-Jo. "B-J, you're comin' with me!"

  -25-

  FELICITY READY

  The Real Enemy

  "Men only want one thing from a woman," Felicity's mother had told her—not once, but many times. But men's obsession with sex didn't bother Felicity—what troubled her was their cruelty. She despised their desire to control, to manipulate, and to humiliate women. It was all spelled out in Kate Millett's 'Sexual Politics', her mother's bible. One passage, from a Henry Miller novel, was especially revealing. It described how a man could achieve an 'impersonal fuck' by having as little contact with the woman as possible, and by never looking at her face. The 'cold fuck' was achieved by 'back-scuttling'. The approach used was to 'get her half asleep, her blinders on...sneak up on her, slip it into her while she's dreaming.'

  "Are all men that inhuman?" Felicity asked.

  "The good ones are," Katherine replied. "The spiteful ones also beat you. A war's being waged against women. We fear and live an abuse by men that's both psychological and physical."

  Felicity was intelligent and attractive. She had her sights set on getting away from the drabness of Riverton Springs and onto Wall Street. She saved, Katherine saved, and with hard work, she won a scholarship. Felicity Ready was off to college.

  In 1978, Felicity's sophomore year, she was finally beginning to push Christian Paris—a year earlier he had been reported missing in action—into a corner of her mind. She would have stayed away from men a while longer had it not been for Terrence Spratt. Terry sat behind her in her English lecture hall. He gave her back rubs, and told her how beautiful she was. Actually, it was even better than that.

  "Felicity," he said, "you're the prettiest swan on the pond." That was sufficient to give her a serious liking for him.

  She knew that Terry would never be her soul mate—he wasn't bright enough. 'The wheel's still turning, but the hamster's dead' was her assessment. However, Terry was fun, and he could dance. On their first and only date, he took her to his fraternity party where the evening passed quickly in his arms.

  Felicity's first drink put her at ease, and with her second she was feeling light headed and having fun. After her fifth drink she didn't remember much. She did remember going to lie down but could recall nothing after that. She was later told that she had become the life of the party.

  At class on Monday, everyone seemed to have a print of her sitting on a couch, stark naked, holding a drink in one hand, and some guy's equipment in the other. It wasn't a pretty picture.

  Terry to
ld her, "I couldn't believe the change in you. My frat buddies had told me I'd have to put your panties in the freezer just to warm you up. Were they wrong! Everybody had a ball skinny dipping with you."

  "Please Terry," she pleaded between sobs.

  "Don't you 'please Terry' me—I knew you weren't the sharpest tool in the shed, but who knew you were the hoe?"

  She became known around campus as Gooden Ready.

  That was the last time Felicity dated for eight years. She had been an equity-feminist before she met Terry, but her ordeal with him flung her headlong into the radical-feminist camp.

  Three years at college gave her an undergraduate degree in psychology and women's studies. It was in her women's studies classes that, for the first time, she fully understood the extent to which women are entrenched in a gender war in which their psychological and physical violation is the norm. She learned that consensual sex and rape were virtually the same thing, and that marriage was a license given to men so they could legally rape women. She learned that from time immemorial, men had schemed to get women into bed. Virgin sacrifices to the volcano gods were simply a male ploy to keep each new crop of recently fertile women eager. After all, what woman in her right mind wanted to be a virgin come sacrifice time?

  It was obvious to her that nothing had changed since the days of virgin sacrifices. Studies on the plight of women in the areas of rape, battery, eating disorders, and wage differentials underscored the oppressive, patriarchal, sex-gender system that men perpetrated on women. One study showed that 675,000 rapes occur annually in the United States, that battery of women was responsible for more birth defects than all other causes combined, and that 150,000 women died each year of anorexia, in excess of three times the annual number of fatalities from traffic accidents.