The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (11 page)

Witchcraft in a Pickup

Jim Bob was like a kid who'd been given an
unexpected bag of candy, but couldn't make up his mind which piece
to sample first. Finally, he went to work on dress removal—he
unzipped the back of Betty-Jo's dress, slipped the spaghetti straps
over her shoulders, and pulled the bodice forward onto her lap.
Dress removal was an awkward but rewarding business for the Gator
captain. For a while he just stared at her bra-covered breasts,
spellbound—then he ran his hands over his treasure, focusing on the
tips, which, without her permission, had perked up beneath her
black lace bra. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch
what Jim Bob was doing to her. For years Betty-Jo had been looking
forward to her first lover, but now that he was finally happening,
she just felt miserable.

Why does it feel as if the Grinch—or in my
case, the Wart Hog—has stolen Christmas? How have I managed to
become the lead squirrel in this post prom from hell? "Maybe I
could give you a hand-job like Deborah Sue threatened you with. I'd
hate to see you miss out on something like that because of me."

She moved her hand to Jim Bob's crotch, and
unzipped his pants, but when she reached into his athletic shorts,
she was unable to extricate his unruly shaft. Blushing, she fumbled
around until she finally had it cornered. Then she gave a nervous
tug, and out it popped.

Betty-Jo had never handled a man's equipment
before, so she was uncertain about how to proceed. And there wasn't
time to write Miss Manners for her thoughts on the matter, because
no sooner had she unsheathed the Wart Hog's manhood, than the darn
thing started to shoot. The first blast caught her cheek.
Instinctively, she pushed the out-of-control shaft lower, so the
second burst hit her bra. By the time she had his sperm-thrower
under control, her dress was a mess.

She was astonished. The last weapon she'd
encountered with that kind of force was the Super Soaker her
brother had been given for his birthday. Jim Bob also looked
dumbfounded. He looked in his lap at the retreating pride of Grand
Strand High. Then he looked at her.

"Hu, howd' you do that?" he stammered.
"Nothin' lahk that has evah happened to me before."

"While I appreciate modesty in a man, yours
is a little difficult to believe," Betty-Jo replied.

"Thas not what ah meant. Ah've done lots a
women."

"There you go. Now you're sounding like the
wart hog I know and love."

"B-J, you don't understand. Somethin' weird
jus pulled ma trigah. Yo hand is unearthly—it's charged with
electricity or somethin'. Somehow, the energy of yo entire body is
bein' channeled to the aura around yo hand. Either that," he
hesitated, "or you ah a witch."

She listened to Jim Bob's theory, half-amused
and half-annoyed.

I don't believe this wart hog. He's blaming
me 'cause he has a hair trigger? But then, what do I know? Maybe
his lack of control is the result of magic hands, or
witchcraft.

Poor Betty-Jo. The likelihood of her chastity
being repealed that evening, had gone from a virtual certainty, to
nil, in less than twenty seconds.

"Jim Bob," she said, "even witches wanta have
fun. So when does the fun part begin?"

Later, a forlorn Betty-Jo spent some time in
her room feeling sorry for herself. Sad, sad, and sorry me, she
thought. Am I destined to dry up, and die an old maid having never
been loved? But after a while she began to cheer up. Next year I'll
be cruising down the 501 on my way to CCU. Surely at Coastal,
there'll be a man I can love, a man who'll know how to move past my
magic hands, and have me.

Souvenir Panties

The pain that shot through Brad's arm was
intense, but you didn't play hockey if you couldn't handle pain. So
despite the pain, he was euphoric. "Sandy," he said through
clenched teeth, "I'd happily trade seven movies for one smile from
you. Besides, why would I ever want to watch movies if I could
watch you?"

* * *

Sandy released her pit bull hold on Brad's
arm. A sinking, horrid feeling replaced her fury.

"If I'd pay a couple of hundred dollars for
one slow dance with you," Brad said, "imagine what I'd pay for what
you've given me tonight. I told you, because of you, this has been
the best night of my life."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she grabbed
his head and pulled it to her breast. "How could I have done this
to you? Can you ever forgive me?"

He grinned. "Of course I forgive you. I have
to. You have my boy-toys."

"That's not funny. Look! I've hurt you!"

On Brad's jacket sleeve was a semi-circular
perforation where she had bitten him. "One thing's certain—you've
hurt the jacket." It was soon apparent that Brad was also damaged,
because blood was spreading on his shirtsleeve. He took off his
shirt, and examined the wound. Two rows of reddish-purple tooth
marks were bleeding lightly. Sandy was horrified by what she
saw.

"Cheer up," Brad said. "I'm thankful to have
you back. For a minute or two I thought I was dating Hannibal the
Cannibal." Something between a sob and a cry escaped from Sandy.
"Don't think there's major damage, but I'd better go for a rabies
shot tomorrow—just in case you've been carousing with the wildlife
on your estate."

She failed to find a smile. "I'm so, so
sorry. There must be something I can do to make it up to you."

"All is forgiven if you give me your panties
as a souvenir of our evening, and so I can bandage this wound." She
was unable to remove them fast enough. "Don't worry, it's a trivial
mutilation. Look at it this way: I'm a big boy, and I knew that
messing with high explosives was a risky business. The injury to my
arm was an occupational hazard, and your panties are my reward for
outstanding bravery in the face of clear and present danger."

"You were very brave." She placed his hand on
her breast.

"But in fairness to innocent bystanders, we
should get a sign for this limo that says Pit Bull on Board."

"I don't want to be a pit bull, I want to be
your girl." She searched his eyes.

"Here then—wear my ring. That way you won't
be losing your drawers, and getting nothing in return."

"Are you sure? After what I did to you."

"I want you to have it: cubic zirconium, gold
plating, and all. If you like, I'll buy you a chain so you can wear
it between your sweater-puppies. That would be a nice, warm,
symbolic place to keep it."

She gave him her best kiss. "I'll wear it
there always."

"But I want a written guarantee that you'll
stop biting."

"I'll never bite you again, I promise. And
I'll make it up to you. Your girl will be whatever you want her to
be. All you have to do is tell me what you want in a woman—besides
your dick!"

Brad put his feet up on the black leather
seat and laughed. "Seriously," he said, "I've always wanted a cross
between a love slave and a Pet Rock."

She grinned, and moved as close to him as she
could. "Why am I not surprised?"

* * *

On Olympus, Venus wasn't having nearly as
much fun as Brad and Sandy. "That Raiden/Manderville SexCapade
doesn't fit into my plan," she informed Old Hairball. "Time to send
Mercury back to earth to put an end to the malarkey. And that
diminutive dumbbell better not object. Can you believe it—after his
botch-up with Foul Odor Smith, he still had the temerity to beg me
to fornicate him?"

Daddy's
Girl

When Betty-Jo was five, she watched the
televised glory of Chrissy Evert at the U.S. Open. Chrissy—standing
in the center of the Stadium Court, the championship
sterling-silver cup held high above her head—made a lasting
impression on young Betty-Jo. With that picture of Chrissy
constantly with her, she lived, practiced, and developed her gifts
so that one day she might be there. It also helped that her
grandmother, Sue-Ann, was eager to teach her the game, and the
proper attitude to go with it. Sue-Ann, a talented tennis player,
had only eased out of coaching tennis a few years before Betty-Jo
showed a knack for the game. Sue-Ann cut down the handle on one of
her rackets, and took on B-J as her only pupil. Then she smothered
her granddaughter with affection, and passed along her passion for
the game. Sue-Ann gave her granddaughter the attitude she would
need to be a winner.

"You have the talent to play Center Court at
Wimbledon," she told Betty-Jo. "All you have to do is learn to
'treat triumph and disaster the same.'"

"What does that mean?" Betty-Jo had asked.
She would always remember the answer.

"Learn to control your emotions, win or lose,
good calls or bad. It isn't the bad calls that keep you from
becoming a champion—it's the way you handle them. I handled them
poorly."

Betty-Jo spent hours on the court each day.
If there was nobody to play with, she played with the practice
board, and she practiced in all kinds of weather, thanks to
Sue-Ann. It had started to drizzle one day, and Betty-Jo had dashed
for cover.

"What's the matter, B-J?" Sue-Ann said. "Are
you made of sugar?"

Some days Betty-Jo spent more time sweeping
water off the courts than she spent practising tennis.

"If I'm ever a homemaker, my contribution to
domestic bliss will be sweeping," she told her father.

"Maybe you should take up curling," Victor
had suggested.

* * *

Victor Chance loved Myrtle Beach. In '69 he'd
purchased a small motel on the Grand Strand. He was a straight
shooter, whose word was his bond, and he worked hard to parlay his
initial investment into the 300 room Strand Princess.

Betty-Jo was her father's daughter. Like
Victor, Betty-Jo's word was her bond, and like her father, she
loved Myrtle Beach. From her room at The Princess she could gaze
along the Strand for miles, and marvel at its great expanse of
sand, hear the lapping of its surf, and appreciate its American
Graffiti appeal. She loved the place, and she knew why. It made her
feel American.

* * *

Betty-Jo's mother died when Betty-Jo was
twelve. It was '87, and Dixie Lee and Victor were practicing for
the Seoul Olympics when a freak wave broke over their Star. Dixie
Lee was swept overboard, and drowned before Victor could reach her.
The accident was disconcerting, because nobody could recall a rogue
wave off the Grand Strand that was anything like the monster that
killed Dixie Lee Chance.

"I almost didn't ask your mother to marry
me," Victor told Betty-Jo. "I thought she was too good for me, and
I was right. But I thank the Lord for every minute I had with her."
He handed Betty-Jo the gold heart-shaped locket that her mother had
always worn. Inside it was a picture of Victor. But B-J didn't keep
the locket. She replaced Victor's picture with a picture of him
embracing her. The picture showed a terribly happy, twelve-year-old
girl sitting on her daddy's lap holding Ben-Gal, the tough Bengal
tiger that Victor had given her for winning the girls
twelve-and-under tri-state open. For Victor's birthday, Betty-Jo
gave him the locket. That was the only time she ever saw her father
with tears in his eyes.

* * *

With his childhood sweetheart gone, Victor
Chance showed no interest in finding a replacement. He already had
a close father-daughter relationship with Betty-Jo, and they grew
even closer when she helped him pick up the pieces, and then
mothered him, and her younger brother, Eddie.

The one divisive issue between Betty-Jo and
her father was his insistence that she go to college. Betty-Jo
believed that she was good enough to play on the professional
tennis Tour—she was confident that she could earn a living as a
pro.

"It's difficult for me to deny you anything,"
Victor told her. "But I want you to enjoy your youth out of the
spotlight. The Women's Tour often gobbles up the best teenage
talent around, chews on it for a while, and then spits it out. I
don't want that kind of anguish for you."

As partial compensation for not letting
Betty-Jo play on the Tour, Victor bought her a slightly used,
cobalt-green Mustang for the twenty-minute commute along the 501 to
the Coastal Carolina campus. He suggested that she live in dorms,
but Betty-Jo was her daddy's girl—she wanted to stay at home and
look after him.

Dirty
Old Robin

Robin Bender was the coach of the Coastal
Carolina tennis team. On the side, he also instructed a number of
promising younger players, including Betty-Jo. He was anxious to
have her play for the Coastal Carolina Gray Ghosts after her senior
year, and it was thanks to him that she was given a full
scholarship to play tennis at Coastal. Betty-Jo liked Coach Bender.
He was competent, and his shoulder was just the right height for
crying or celebrating on, depending on the outcome of an important
match. However, it seemed to Victor that Robin was attempting to
instruct Betty-Jo in areas that were unrelated to tennis. When she
was involved, Bender's tennis demonstrations appeared to require a
hands-on approach. He would show her the strokes with one hand
holding her racquet, one arm wrapped around her waist, and his
dipstick nestled comfortably between her buns.

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.