The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (7 page)

* * *

Betty-Jo's arm-wrestle challenge was the
biggest thing to hit Grand Strand High since hurricane Hazel
leveled the school in fifty-four. Word of the grudge match, and the
stakes, spread quickly. It wasn't long before Jim Bob O'Hara, the
student council president, was clasping Betty-Jo's hand with
Richards'.

She was pumped. "I never would have guessed
that I'd be holding hands with you, Dick," she said. Then she fixed
him with an icy stare.

"Enjoy me while you can, Stud Plaything,
'cause your world is about to sewer."

"I should warn you that I'm not as dumb as
you look. Only you will be sewering."

"Ready?" Jim Bob asked her. But she wasn't,
because something weird was happening. Dungie was twitching, and
his eyes were changing—from cold and black to warm and blue.

"...Ready," she replied.

"Ready, Richard?"

She felt Dungie's grip tighten on hers.
Something bad's going on!

"Ready," said the future dung beetle.

"Go!" Jim Bob O'Hara shouted.

Sandra Manderville was about to take a shower
when her friend, Belinda Rawlings, called. "You know my Sheik's
taking me to the Empire Canada formal."

"Sure. It'll be you, and the private school
gropers."

"Not exactly.... My Sheik has a friend."

Since when have I ever been that desperate?
"Don't even think about it!"

"Sandy, you must! For me?"

"Who is this guy, the school mascot? Dumbo
the Clown's younger brother?"

"His nickname's Grasshopper."

"Grasshopper! You expect me to go out with a
guy named Grasshopper." Damn you, Robert! Why did you leave me?

"He plays on the hockey team. My Sheik says
he's tall and handsome. We ride in a limo, drink champagne,
and..."

"It's happening Friday, right?"

"We'll pick you up at a quarter to six."

"Do you swear that if this jock's a
wildebeest you won't desert me?"

"You know I wouldn't. But a wildebeest might
be fun."

To you, maybe. Sandy took a deep breath, and
shrugged. "I haven't any idea why I'm doing this."

"Best friend ever, I love you!" Belinda
said.

"I'll tell you if the feeling's mutual after
the formal."

"Don't worry. My Sheik says the Grasshopper's
the kind of guy that even you might misbehave with."

"Your Sheik's an ass!"

"If I didn't have my Sheik, I'd be jealous.
Talk soon."

Sandy let her robe fall from her shoulders.
Not too shabby, she thought. I could pass for a short haired,
azure-blue-eyed Shania Twain. Spirited, pinkie-brown nipples
highlighted her full, firm breasts, and her long, statuesque legs
merged enticingly. If I can't make it as an English scholar,
there's potential here for me to turn pro. But it would have to be
in the carriage-trade end of the profession. That thought amused
her as she stepped into the shower, and turned on the hand-held
water massage. She moved the setting to three, pulse. She knew why
she was willing to chance a blind date.

* * *

Greg and Belinda picked Sandy up in the white
stretch-Lincoln rental at her Bridle Path estate. She stepped
inside, and Belinda began to twitter.

"What a marvelous dress, and look what you've
done to your hair. It's adorable—don't you think, Sheik?"

Greg, who had zeroed in on Sandy's breasts,
managed a sheepish grin. "Yeah, love em," he said.

Sandy knew that men found dress discussions
painful—it was a topic for the ladies room. Now, however,
reciprocal compliments were mandatory. "Belinda, and look at you!
You look fabulous! Sheik, you keep your hands to yourself."

"What? And ruin Belinda's evening?" Greg
deadpanned.

"Speaking of ruining evenings, where's the
grasshopper guy."

Greg chuckled, and gave her a wink. "We're
picking him up last. He lives on the way to the pre-prom."

"You mean I have to go to his door and get
him?"

"Not my date," Greg said.

* * *

Brad thought he'd swallowed the bluebird of
happiness when he saw Sandra Manderville get out of the limo, and
walk toward his house. A form-fitting, black-satin dress, with
white trim, hugged her in all of her interesting places—stopping
both top and bottom as soon as decency permitted. Black designer
nylons combined with her short black hair to complete the
effect—drop-dead yummy!

I don't believe that Sheik. How'd he pull
this off?

When the knock came, he was ready. He flung
open the door, grabbed Sandy around the waste, and kissed her.

She looked as if cardiac arrest would have
been preferable to what was happening to her. When she swung, he
sidestepped her blow, and caught her wrist. "Steady Sandy," he said
as he worked to keep a grin at bay, "you're trying to hurt in a no
hurting zone. And besides, I knew nothing about this. 'Twas the
Sheik who set you up."

* * *

Sandy stomped back to the limo with Brad
trailing along behind her. Not surprisingly, the limo door was
locked. The window opened a couple of inches.

"I'm sorry! You have to believe me! I didn't
know!" came Belinda's plaintive cry.

"Not half as sorry as your Sheik's gonna be
when I get my hands on him!"

"Hey," Greg said, "it could be worse. At
least we have all the Champagne we can drink, compliments of the
Grasshopper."

"You got this grasshopper guy a date with me
so you could get free Champagne?"

"Even you gotta admit that the poor guy
wasn't faring very well on his own."

"He called me a horses ass, and a mouse."

"And now you know that you're the second
mouse."

"OK Sheik, what the hell is this second mouse
shit!"

"Sandra, just take a look at that
Grasshopper. You've lucked out! Everyone knows it's the second
mouse that gets the cheese."

Sandy glanced over at Brad, and her heart
softened a little. He did look kind of sexy—like 007—in his white
linen dinner jacket, black vest, ruffled white shirt, and classic
black bow tie. His light-brown hair was now short, brushed back and
gelled, his mouth offered a Tom Cruise sort of grin, and he had
that 'V' for very sexy shoulder and waist alliance that she was so
fond of. If hockey doesn't work out for this one, she thought, he
has a future as a male model. Why do men look so scrumptious in
formal wear? It's enough to make a poor girl give up crocheting for
less noble pursuits.

"Grasshopper, tell Sandy you're sorry," Greg
said.

"You're a very sexy mouse," Brad
ventured.

Greg opened the limo door. "See, Sandra, he's
sorry. So now you can get back in if you promise to behave...."

The very sexy mouse was still floating
following her first date with a college man. Robert was a couple of
years older than she was, and he knew what he wanted. She had been
more than ready, but what if she hadn't been? No means no, as
everyone knows. But how does a girl say no to a college man without
implying that she still wears a training bra?

Sandy had learned a thing or two on her date
with Robert. One thing she'd learned was that The New Joy of Sex
was accurate in its upbeat assessment of the world's most popular
recreational activity. Unfortunately, Robert was inconsiderate.
He'd left the next day to plant Douglas fir on Vancouver
Island.

The pre-prom cocktail party was fun, because
Brad was being attentive, and the beverages were flowing
freely.

When Sandy was alone with Belinda she asked,
"Why does your Sheik call Brad, Grasshopper?"

"I just asked him that."

"And?"

Belinda giggled. "He's green—as in
inexperienced when it comes to women—and lately he's been hopping
all over town trying to get a date."

Sandy grinned, took a long pull on her gin
and tonic, then said with a smirk, "Do you know what the guys call
gin?"

"I give up."

"The panty dropper. And if it works this
time, that Grasshopper will no longer be a grasshopper—he'll be a
James T. Kirk.

"A James T. Kirk?"

"Yea, James T. Kirk. He'll be boldly going
where only one man has gone before!"

When the limo pulled up to the revolving
doors of the Royal York Hotel, Brad moved his hand to support
Sandy. He had dissuaded her from mixing her drinks at the pre-prom,
and when she seemed intent on overdoing it, he'd watered them down.
I should get a Good Samaritan award, he thought. Everyone knows
that liquor is quicker.

The music of AC/DC, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl
Jam and other 'in' rock bands followed dinner, speeches, and
numerous toasts. Sandy was in constant demand, so he tried to
establish a proprietary sphere around her, but the way she moved on
the dance floor beckoned to males the way blood in the water calls
out to sharks. It was attention that Sandy wasn't encouraging, but
she wasn't discouraging it either. She possessed an earthiness
that, judging from his below the belt assessment, was impossible to
ignore.

I like this babe—I like her a lot. Now all I
have to do is figure out how to privatize her. Sharing is for
saints, not for a wanta-be, born-for-the-first-time sinner like
myself.

The first slow dance is often a test for a
budding relationship, and—as Brad promptly discovered in his first
slow dance with Sandy—heaven sent. One hell of an event! Perhaps
she's my reward for the celibate life I've been leading.

Sandy swayed against him, her every move a
revelation. Hesitantly, she asked, "Is that some kind of fruit in
your pocket, or are you just happy to be with me?" Brad tried to
pull away, but she held him against her, and hid her face in his
shoulder. "Poor pathetic me is mortified, but that's something I've
always wanted to say."

"Isn't poor pathetic you the brazen one." He
grinned, bent down, and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Mmm," she murmured as she traced her satin
dress-covered breasts across his chest. "I do love to dance with
you."

He slid his hand down her back until it
settled on her bottom. "Funny," he said, "with you my hand heads
for your derriere as if led by a seeing-eye-dog."

She laughed gleefully. "More likely it's
being led by a dirty-old-dog."

"You'll be pleased to learn that the gods
have favored you with a comfy behind."

"And you've decided to make yourself at home
there?"

"What I've decided is that you're proprietary
software."

"Meaning?"

He shifted his hips to remind her that she
was still enchanting him. "I'm a generous guy, but you're not
shareware to be handed out to the great unwashed, and if I were to
loan you to my friends, I'd risk giving one of them heart failure.
So to be on the safe side I've decided to keep all slow dances with
you for myself."

Sandy looked charmed. "You're afraid you'll
be sued if you let your pit bull off her leash?"

"Something like that. You can fast-dance with
other guys if we're unable to keep them at bay. I can live with
them looking, but I can't be giving them too good a time for free.
Comprenez?"

"Is that all you want?" she asked as she
rubbed herself against him.

"Not necessarily."

"And what do I get in return? If I'm
forbidden to slow dance with other guys, why are you allowed to
slow dance with other women?"

He thought quickly. "That's a fair question,
but our primary concern here isn't gender equality. It's the
containment of a sexually lethal weapon."

She gave him her best happy face. "Okay. You
win. Do with me as you please."

Magic words, he thought. Magic beans? No, not
a believer. But magic words! Is there a guy under eighty who
doesn't recognize them when he hears them? He placed his hand under
her chin and kissed her forehead.

"If you move a little closer, I'll teach you
my rain dance," he said.

"We're going to make it rain?"

"I call it my rain dance, but when done
properly, only you get wet."

"Animal," she said, and moved suggestively
against him.

Richard
Wins a Party Favor

If Betty-Jo had blinked she would have missed
it. In less than a nanosecond—or so it seemed—Richard had smashed
the back of her hand onto the table.

"Don't you just hate it when that happens,
Stud Plaything?" His ugly puss was inches away from hers, and the
warm blue eyes were gone: the cold black ones—with their pinprick
pupils—had returned.

Darn right I do! A butt-ugly wimp had just
kicked sand in her face, and the horror of what would soon happen
to her was sinking in fast.

"How can I be delicate about this?" Richard
said. "'Your ass is grass, and I'm your lawnmower.' Tomorrow you'll
wear what I tell you to wear. I want a very short skirt, a garter
belt, black stockings, and a tank top that shows off your tits. I
want you to be looking your decadent best for my clients."

A festive atmosphere blossomed in the
cafeteria. The guys congratulated Richard. They couldn't help
themselves. They were looking forward to the coming good times with
the Dung Beetle's party favor.

Betty-Jo was unable to sleep that night.

The arm wrestle was fair, and I lost it. So
now I'll have to stand and deliver, kneel and deliver, or lie down
and deliver. No matter what position Dungie puts me in; I'll have
to give him what he wants.

When she arrived at school the next day,
looking delectable, Richard smirked and patted her bottom.

"Not bad, Stud Plaything," he said. "You've
packaged my squirrel rather nicely."