by Sierra Hill
His Fairytale Princess
The Halloween Honeys
By
Sierra Hill
Copyright © 2018 Sierra Hill
Published by Ten28 Publishing
Cover Design: Pop Kitty
Photography: Deposit Photo (Standard License)
Editing by: Michele Ziemer
Formatting: Tracy Lorraine
All rights reserved.
Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without prior written permission by the author, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, business establishments, or educational systems is entirely coincidental.
All products and/or brand names mentioned are registered trademarks of their respective holders/companies/institutions.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
I chose to attend Oak Ridge University for one reason and one reason only.
To piss off my mother.
It’s safe to say my choice did the trick. She wanted me to attend Princeton, her alma mater, where I would have been surrounded by all her peers and other business magnate’s progeny, influenced by their upper class, East Coast wealth and prestige. But I wanted something all my own.
All my life, I’d been known as the daughter of Muriel Davis, Queen of Shipping. As in, she runs one of the most successful international shipping companies in the world.
I consider this as I wait for the rest of my cohorts from Mi Alpha Alpha, the sorority I pledged to at the beginning of my freshman year last year, to arrive. Our sorority president this year, Stacy Barren, scheduled this meeting to discuss the upcoming charity fund raiser we would be organizing this year for Halloween.
If it’s anything like last year’s event, we’ll have a blast and will raise a ton of money for those in need.
“You’re always early to everything, aren’t you? You put all the rest of us to shame.”
I turn behind me to find my friend, Maddie, walking into our dining room where we hold our regular meetings. Her hair is up in a messy bun and she looks like she just came back from a run. The jogging shorts and sports bra are another clue as to her previous whereabouts.
Shrugging a shoulder, I smirk. “What can I say? My mother raised me with the motto, “If you can’t be the first one there, there’s no point in going.”
Maddie snort-laughs. “Well if that’s the case, there’s no reason for me to even be in college. I’m always late for my classes. Anyway, I gotta run up and shower quick. Will you save me this seat?”
I nod in agreement and watch her charge up the stairway leading to the second and third floor bedrooms. We aren’t roommates but spend a lot of time together when we can. She’s a biology major and I’m studying to become a teacher.
Teaching is something I’ve always wanted to do, ever since I can remember. Maybe it was because I didn’t get a lot of attention at home with my mother as busy as she was running a Fortune 500 company and never home long enough to spend time with me. My teachers became my role models and parental substitutes along the way. Especially Ms. Campbell, my high school English and Composition teacher. She was the one who gave me the courage to break out of my introverted role and become a literacy mentor after school, and to join the school newspaper.
I smile at several of my sorority sisters as they begin to file in, finding their seats and chatting with one another. I’m just about to say hello to Lexi, one of my close sisters, when my phone buzzes in my hand. Figuring it’s my mom, I glance just briefly at it and am surprised to find it’s a message from Brant Leeds, the guy who manages the student tutoring center where I signed up to become an English tutor this year.
It seemed appropriate that if I was going to break out of my shell and become a teacher, I’d need the real-life experience in tutoring other students. Being that this is my sophomore year, I need all the additional hours and credits I can get to have a decent resume for graduate school.
Brant: Do you have time to add another student to your schedule? Got one that just registered. It’s past the deadline but if you’re willing and able…
I hastily type in my reply before the meeting starts and I get sidetracked or forget to respond.
Me: Absolutely. I have Tuesday and Thursday nights free. Send email with deets. TY.
I set my phone to vibrate and stuff it into my book bag just as Stacy calls the meeting to order and Maddie takes her seat in the nick of time.
“Good afternoon, Mi Alpha Alpha sisters.”
A rambunctious and hearty greeting response is returned from the twenty or so girls in the room.
“Thanks for coming today and if any of your sisters are missing, please make sure to pass along this information soon. As you know, each year we host a fund-raising event to collect money for a charity. This year, instead of doing the typical kegger or talent show, we’ve decided to host a Halloween Haunted House.”
A collective titter of excitement echoes through the room. I sit up straighter in my chair, eager to learn more about the plans for the event.
“Thanks to Shelly Duchane for coming up with this idea,” Stacy announces, acknowledging our senior sister in the front corner for her contributions. “I’m super excited to kick this thing off and get it going. Since it’s already mid-September, we only have a few short weeks to bring this to fruition and get our spook on!”
The meeting continues with suggestions and ideas thrown out and shared, each one building on the theme and creating a higher level of excitement as we move forward. At the conclusion of the meeting, we’ve determined that the event will take place at Stacy Barren’s empty mansion that her parents own and will be held over a two-week period leading up to Halloween. During the event, each sorority sister is to dress up in a costume of their choice and volunteer to decorate and host a haunted room in the mansion.
“Oh my God, I know exactly what my costume will be,” Maddie chirps in her British accent, leaning over to whisper in my ear. I give her a side-eye glance. “Let’s just say I attended British Prep schools.”
When I tilt my head inquisitively, she waggles her eyebrows and stares at me expectantly. I stare blankly back. Then she gives herself a facepalm, rolling her eyes with fake disgust.
“Dude, naughty schoolgirl. That’s what I’m going to dress up as. You know, Brittney-style skirt and knee-highs?”
My mouth forms in the wide-O to confirm my understanding.
She plants both hands on the tops of my shoulders and shakes her head in feigned disgust. “Oh, Brin, what are we going to do with your sweet, innocent self?” Then she drops a hand and snaps her fingers, pointing at me in declaration.
“We’re going to get you
laid in one of the haunted rooms, that’s what we’re going to do!”
“Omigod, no! Shut up, Maddie!” I shriek, trying to slap a hand over her mouth with no success as she jumps out of reach and runs toward the stairs.
Just as she hits the bottom step, she yells at the top of her lungs, “Halloween mission is to get our little Princess’s cherry popped this year! Who’s on board?”
Like the communal war cry at an English pub during a football match, a "here-here" chant is collectively shouted across the room.
My cheeks flame red as garden tomatoes as I bury my head in my hands. Good grief, why did I ever think it would be a good idea to mention to her that I was a virgin?
Chapter Two
“Get your asses going, ladies! We don’t have all day.”
I lace up my skates, adjust my pads under my practice jersey and head out of the locker room to the rink toward the sounds of the other team members and the coach, who just made that announcement.
My buddy, Roman, knuckles me on the shoulder as he passes. “Jesus, not sure what’s up Coaches’ ass today, but hurry up, Dahl.”
I’ve played for the Oak Ridge University Bears hockey team since I was a freshman. It’s my life during the season, which means that everything else takes the bench when I’m training, practicing and playing, including girls and sometimes even school. Which is what got me in my current predicament.
Well, that’s not altogether accurate. But nonetheless, for me to graduate in the spring and continue to play the game I love, I need a tutor to help me get through English and American Lit 200. We’re barely a month into the semester and I’m struggling like Sisyphus with his stupid rock. Every step I move forward, the rock slips back down and I can’t get the leverage I need to push it uphill.
It doesn’t help that I have a difficult time reading. Much less comprehending all the gibberish in literature. Give me a Sports Illustrated or ESPN magazine and I’m a much happier camper. Maybe that makes me a dumb jock; I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I’m great with numbers and working with my hands. If I hadn’t gotten a full-ride scholarship to Oak Ridge U, I would’ve been working in my dad’s autobody shop back home in Pittsburgh and running the place.
I step out onto the ice and breathe in a big whiff of the chlorine-scented air. It’s the one constant in my life. No matter where I go or where I play, it always smells the same.
Coach blows his whistle and has us skating sprints before getting us started on drills to warm up our legs. Sprints blow but are a necessary evil to avoid injury and muscle soreness after practice.
We break out into pairs and do some one-touch passes, getting our hands involved and keeping low on the ice. We move in circular motions around the rink, one at a time, and then take shots at the goal, getting our goalie, TJ Collins, warmed up, too.
TJ is a sophomore and I don’t know him too well yet except that this is his first year starting. Johnnie Dortson was our starting goalie last year but graduated, leaving the spot open for TJ.
I’m a playmaker on the ice – a center. I make things happen and set up teammates to make goals. I’m not necessarily the best goal scorer like Ludwig who is our sniper, but I’m dependable and I see things on the ice and make solid plays. I’m smart with the puck and play well in all three zones.
As the drills come to an end, we begin practicing and running through our strategic plays in preparation for a season full of wins. Being in the northeast Division II, we don’t have the strong competition like they do at Yale, Boston College and Penn State. Last year we won our conference championship – by the skin of our teeth – and are touted to win this year, as well. If we can get our shit together.
Practice concludes with a rousing speech from Coach Hensley and we hit the showers. As I’m soaping down, I overhear Blake Conrad in the stall over talking to TJ about some sorority event.
“Dude, it’s the prime opportunity to get a half-clothed, drunk-ass chick into a dark secluded room and make her howl like a ghost.”
The obnoxious asshole cackles and makes an impression of a howling ghost. I can’t help but jump in.
“Hey Conrad, you’re a prick. Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
I throw this in because I know for certain he’s been dating some chick from Princeton for the last six months.
He peers over the tiled wall of the shower, flipping me his middle finger.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Plus, sorority chicks love a hockey player and don’t care if we’re single or not.”
“Jesus, Conrad, shut the fuck up already.” That was from Roman across the bank of showers from us. “Not only are you a douche nozzle, but you’re a cheating one at that.”
A few of the guys chuckle and chortle at this, but they know it’s true. Blake Conrad is the worst and biggest sleaze I’ve ever known. It makes me nervous that some of the under-classman sorority girls will so easily buy into his swarmy shit.
Some guys just don’t know how to treat women. I may have never had a girlfriend, per se, so I can’t be all that judgmental, but I do know that cheating and sleeping around is disrespectful as fuck. And I do know how ladies should be treated, even if I’m not able to commit to any serious relationship.
I just found early on in college that it wasn’t fair to a girl when I had so many other priorities. Plus, I know once I graduate I’m moving back to Pittsburgh to be close to my family. They mean everything to me and I literally wouldn’t be here in this world without them.
That is, if I end up graduating. The nagging dreaded feeling washes over me just like the soapy suds down my back. My anxiety level is at an all-time high right now, which reminds me of two things I have to do this week. One is to go to the campus counselor and get a new script for Xanax. I’d never admit it to any of my teammates, but I struggle with anxiety. I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it makes me feel inferior when it seems all my other friends and players have no problem juggling school, hockey and life.
The other thing I need to do as soon as I get back to my apartment is to contact my new English tutor and set up our first session.
Having to lean on crutches like anxiety meds and tutors to get by isn’t what I would call winning. But it sure beats hanging up my skates and failing my classes.
Choose your battles, my dad would say. And these are mine to conquer.
Chapter Three
This has been the day from hell and has been a battle every step of the way.
It started off with my alarm failing to go off. I can’t even blame my alarm when it was my own fault for turning off my phone last night. I was begged into going to movie night with my friend, Chantel, afterwards stopping at Dickey’s Drive-In for burgers and shakes, even though when I got back home I had to pull an all-nighter for my Chemistry exam.
I was literally working on two-hours of sleep and overslept by forty-five minutes, completely missing my Women’s Studies lecture.
Then my mother called. She grilled me yet again about my choice of studies and major and something about “wasted potential,” none of which I really listened to. I’d heard it all before and it was a never-ending battle of wills. Sometimes she drove me insane and I was glad to be far enough away from New York City that she couldn’t just pop by anytime she felt like it.
Then it started to rain – thanks to the crazy-ass fall weather in the northeast – and it went from drizzle to complete downpour in ten minutes flat. I could’ve handled the rain had I not run out of gas and had to hoof it over to the library to meet my six-o’clock tutoring student.
Preston Dahl.
The name alone sounds like a Class-A Ivy League Asshat.
Shaking my wet hair out before stepping over the threshold of the arched doorway into the pristine hallway of the library, I look down at my clothes to find that I’m soaked through. Great. My blouse is practically see-through and clinging to my breasts. My heavy, round and embarrassingly large boobs that have attracted unwanted attention from men
of every age since I was fourteen-years-old.
I sigh and manage to pull the sweater I brought with me out of my bag and wrap it around my shoulders, hoping to hide the telltale signs of the cold that’s swept into my body – i.e., headlights. My nipples are so hard right now and the draft from the library air conditioning isn’t doing me any favors.
I adjust the strap of my book bag and walk up the bank of stairs in the middle of the building, up to the third-floor study carrels where we tutors set up shop. Preston and I had messaged the day before and I’d given him the location of our study session, as well as gotten some information on what he was studying and needed help with.
I was thrilled to know that he was taking a class that I’d already taken last year, English Lit and Sexuality in Literature. It was the most divine course I’d ever taken and the professor, Char Feldman, was a hoot. Studying the works of writers such as Tennyson, Woolf, Nabokov and Tennessee Williams can sometimes cause your eyeballs to roll back in your head, but she drew out comparisons to the world we live in today and how their words shaped our thoughts on sexuality.
Honestly, it was also very hot stuff to read. Studying sex in literature was an erotic feast for my imagination and I didn’t know what to do with my body’s reactions to all the steaminess. It just continued to ratchet up my desire to finally experience what all the fuss was about. But it still hasn’t happened.
I set my bag down with a sigh, picking an open table and scanning the room for anyone that looks like they might be Preston. I’m picturing this stuck-up, polo-shirt-wearing douche with slicked back hair and daddy’s Porsche parked outside.
“Ahem.”
The sound from behind me startles me and I whip my body around and smack right into a wall. Well, not a wall, but a chest. And when I say smack, what I really mean is that my over-sized boobs bounce against this gigantic chest-wall in front of me.
My hands fly up to said chest instinctively and I place my palms against his pecs. I feel them strain and flex under the weight of my fingers, and instead of dropping my hands, I dig my fingertips into the T-shirt. Wobbling slightly, my shoulders tremble – is that from the cold air or this guy’s massiveness? – and the sweater that was hanging over my back falls to the floor.
