The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (14 page)

She laughed again. "That's lovely, Brad. How
did you know that every girl longs to out-fun a petting zoo?"

He played along. "I'm not sure. I may have
read it in Reader's Digest." He caressed, kissed, and tasted her
expectant polka dots. "Those erasers they put on pencils are
useless, but I'm in love with the ones they've given you."

"Which of the petting zoo animals am I more
fun than?"

"B-J Chance, you're more fun than all of
those animals combined, bunnies included.

"Even the bunnies, eh?"

He grinned and nodded. "Have you ever been
involved with a Canuck before?"

"No. And I have no idea why I'm involved with
one now."

"You're probably thinking cheap Christmas
tree for me come Christmas."

"Lucky guess," she said.

He thought for a moment. "Ever made love in a
car before?"

"...No."

"No?" He focused on her concealing
emerald-green eyes. "Have you ever made love anywhere?"

"None of your business!" She ran her fingers
back through her hair, and bit at her lower lip.

"Of course it's my business. Could it be that
I've cornered my first virgin? This may be my lucky day, thanks, no
doubt, to my Lucky Ducky."

"Then Lucky's a bad ducky!" She tried to sit
up, but he held her down.

"You're a rookie—aren't you?" There was no
reply. "Okay, I'll have to check it out for myself." He held her
wrists above her head with one hand while the other undid the
button on her cutoffs. Then he tugged on the zipper.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes what?"

"Yes—I'm a vir... I'm inexperienced," she
whispered, almost as if she were ashamed.

He loosed a half smile, half grin. "I don't
believe it, a woman with her tamper resistant seal intact, and a
zero reading on her puss-o-meter." She tried to hit him. "While
that's fantastic for me, it's trouble for you, 'cause chastity is
enemy number one of the happy hour."

"The happy hour? That's as long as you can
make the happiness last?"

He grinned, and then brushed her lips with a
kiss. "We'll work on lengthening it together. But first I want you
to do something for me. Think pleasant thoughts. Think about
Dorothy finally making it back home to Kansas, think about Snow
White when she married Prince Charming, think about Red Riding Hood
when she was saved from the Big Bad Wolf. Are you thinking?"

"Sure. I'm wondering who'll save me from the
Big Bad Brad."

"My fault. Poor choice of fairytales. Forget
the Wolf—think of me as Prince Charming, and you're his fairytale
princess."

"Much better."

"Your fairytale will be the best ever—better
even than Snow Whites'."

"Hard to believe that anything could be more
fun than seven dwarfs."

I can't believe she said that. He laughed,
and looked at her appreciatively. "We'll begin your fairytale at my
place—in my bed. Role up your seat, and then tell me your bear's
name." She rolled up her seat but said nothing. "Forgotten your
bear's name already? Well cheer up. While it's true that most
pigeons have a better short-term memory than you, to compensate,
you have better pigeonholes. And mouth watering pleasure pals—much
more fun than Play Dough."

* * *

Betty-Jo was delighted while trying not to
be. "What a relief," she said. Then she thought dreamily about what
being a fairytale princess in Brad's bed would be like; little
imagining what was in store for her there.

Forever
a Virgin?

By the time Betty-Jo realized what was
happening, Brad was driving north on Route 17, and her chest was
bared to the world; bared, that is, to that part of the world that
was driving south and looking in her direction.

What further ordeals will I have to endure
before I can add ex-virgin to my résumé? she wondered. "Please,
Brad, let me button my blouse."

He reached over and cupped her breast. "You
have gorgeous playmates that should never be covered. But since I'm
a reasonable guy you may do up one button."

"Do you have a preference for which button,
or do I get to choose?"

He laughed. "Your choice. After all, we're
living in the world's greatest democracy."

"The way you've embraced democratic
principles is...heartening."

"When in America," he said with a grin. She
frowned back.

The button that she chose to do up could
scarcely contain her breasts, so she hunched forward to ease the
tension.

"Don't do that, B-J, you're ruining the
scenery." He moved her shoulders back against the seat. "Be a good
little virgin, and keep your shoulders back."

The good little virgin frowned again, but did
as she'd been asked. She could feel her breasts straining against
her blouse, as the lone functioning button struggled to contain
them.

"Lovely," he murmured, before he moved his
hand into her cleavage, and then downward between the swells.

A short time later he pulled into an all
night supermarket. "I'm going to buy some champagne and lemonade
for our celebration. Keep a low profile until I get back."

"'Cause there are trolls everywhere?"

"Trolls and Jimbos."

A few minutes later he was back with two
bottles of champagne, a can of frozen pink-lemonade, and a short
stemmed rose.

"What do we need champagne for?" she asked,
even though she knew the answer.

"Not we, little one. The champagne's for me."
He stroked her hair. "The lemonade's for you. I can't be giving
champagne to a fledgling. Hell, I'm not even sure you've been potty
trained yet."

She could feel her mouth turning up at the
corners, despite her effort to stop it. "And you need champagne
because?"

"To celebrate. It's not every day that a
fairytale princess loses her flower."

"And it's not every day that a Big Bad Brad
gets to deflower one. You're probably thinking that women are like
a box of chocolates, and you've found one with a cherry in it."

When he'd stopped laughing, he gave her a
hug. "Forrest Gump couldn't have put it better." He handed her the
rose. "Guess what I bought for you?"

"My first guess has to be a rose."

"It's a replacement flower. An American
Beauty rose for an American beauty."

She held up the rose and breathed in its
fragrance. "A very short stemmed Beauty rose."

"It's for your hair."

She put the rose in her hair. "But why?"

"In the middle-ages, only virgins were
permitted to wear rose garlands in their hair. It's a custom that
should have endured so lecherous hockey players could single out
the virtuous virgins for special attention."

"That makes sense. But why do I need a rose
garland when you already know I'm virtuous?"

"You're missing the point, young princess.
Tonight will be your last opportunity to legitimately wear a rose
garland."

"What makes you so loveable? While it isn't
much of a garland, the thought is precious...."

Brad's cottage, overlooking the seventh hole
at the Ridgewood Golf and Country Club, was fifteen minutes west of
Myrtle Beach on the 501. When they arrived there he lit a candle
and amber incense, then he turned on his CD player. As the haunting
melody of the panpipes filled the room, he pulled her to him. But
they didn't really dance—they just swayed against each other.

When the last note faded, he popped the cork
on the champagne, and poured them each a glass. "Your beauty is
enhanced, if that's possible, by the candlelight." He raised his
glass, and admired her through the crystal and the fizzing
champagne. "To my American princess," he said.

She studied him, amused. Then she shook her
head and lifted her glass. "To your American princess," she
replied. This is absurd. Why am I so delighted to be his princess?
"Now may your princess button up her blouse?"

"No—and since you mentioned it, would you
kindly undo the button that's still done up." She ignored his
request. "Betty-Jo, you really are an ingrate."

She wished she'd unbuttoned her blouse like
he'd requested. "Why do you say that?"

"Because there you were on Route 17, your
pleasure pals free, mine to admire. You seemed embarrassed,
although I can't understand why because most women would kill for
fun puppies like yours. So, gallant guy that I am, I allowed you to
do up your blouse. Now this is the thanks I get for my
chivalry."

She couldn't help it. She laughed at him.
"Stop, before you have me in tears."

"And you don't play fair," he continued. "I
had you out of your blouse and bra, and was well on my way to
separating you from your cutoffs, when you told me you were a
virgin. You, on a bed in my car, with the waves murmuring, the
breezes caressing, and the moon casting its spell—it was more than
I'd dared to hope for."

"You believe that the moon casts spells?"

"Only on virgins—the moon hates virgins."

How does he dream this stuff up? "Hates
virgins?"

"As I understand it, the moon hates having to
tug on women as hard as it does each month to release that egg. But
with virgins, it's especially galling for the moon, because it
knows its efforts are for naught."

This guy has no idea how women work. "That's
what you learned from The Farmers Almanac?"

He grinned. "I can't reveal my sources."

"That's 'cause you have none. But tell me,
why does the moon cast its spell only on virgins?"

"It wants to show them off to best advantage
so they'll be ravaged by hockey players."

"Dare I ask?"

"The moon likes hockey players because they
still believe the truth about it."

"Which is?"

"That it's made of Swiss cheese."

"You've just confirmed what's always been
suspected—that hockey players are brain dead," she said with a
smile.

He stuck out his tongue at her. "The virtuous
virgins are the hockey player's reward for keeping the faith."

I'm playing a starring role in a fool's
paradise, she thought. "No one will argue with that kind of logic,
but let me make sure I understand. The moon was giving me to
you."

"I don't know that 'giving' is what it was
doing. Presenting you to best advantage would be my guess. How else
can you explain how irresistible you looked in the moonlight at
Pawleys Island?"

"I'm flattered beyond belief. From now on
I'll only date when the moon is full."

"I told you, it was more than I'd dared to
hope for. But Old-yellow was the wrong place for a fairytale
princess to give herself to her lover for the first time—that's why
you're here."

He's saying that to make me love him forever,
she thought. "So maybe you're not the scoundrel I thought you were,
but who'd have guessed that you're a blessed saint? And anyway,
what makes you think that you and the moon can conspire against me,
and then not tell me the rules?"

"I don't tell my hockey stick the rules, but
I still expect it to play by them."

That made her laugh. He really is quite
funny. "So now I'm supposed to tear off my blouse so you can dance
with my polka-dots?"

"Why didn't I think of that?" he said before
he kissed her.

"I'm sure you did." She undid the button on
her blouse, freeing her breasts. "There, Very Bad Brad. Are you my
happy hero now?"

"Not entirely, but hopefully soon." He
changed the CD, pushed a button, and then caught her as she swept
into his arms.

It was a dream come true when the seductive
melody of Everything I Do—I Do It For You, enveloped them.

"Bryan Adams," she said as she swayed against
him. Her polka dots, brushing against his shirt, responded. His
arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her close. She slipped her
hands into his back pockets, relishing his feel against her
fingers. Then, her hips, acting on their own, swayed against him,
in a shameless caress. "You Canucks are ganging up on me."

"By the way." His voice pulled her from her
heavenly moments to more earthly considerations. "Shouldn't you
call your father to tell him you won't be home tonight?"

"You're planning a sleep-over for me?"

"More like a pajama party, but without the
pajamas. And I want to avoid hostile fathers."

"Smart. But you don't have to worry. I won't
let him hurt you."

"How can I be sure?"

"Be good," she said with a grin as she poured
herself another glass of bubbly.

"If you drink much more champagne you won't
feel a thing when we embark on your maiden voyage."

She kissed his cheek. "That's what I'm
hoping," she said, and then she kissed him some more.

"Don't be a fraidy cat—it barely hurts."

Betty-Jo stopped kissing. "How would you
know? I thought I was your only virgin!"

"You are. But I've chatted with a few
ex-virgins, and they tell me that, most often, the end of innocence
is about as painful as skinning your knee. Problem is, skinning
your knee comes as a surprise—goodbye to innocence doesn't."

"Surprise me then."

"If it's any consolation, what happens after
'goodbye', is heavenly: a voyage of discovery, an expedition to
nirvana."

That cheered her a little. "Nirvana sounds
alright."

"It's much better than alright. And because I
like you, I've decided to take you there with me."

Betty-Jo wasn't terribly concerned about any
pain that might accompany her loss of innocence—a tennis player,
she had survived more than her share of skinned knees. But what did
distress her, was the condition of her panties. They were a faded
yellow color, with a shredding elastic waistband, and a tear to the
right of her crotch. If Brad found the condition of my bra amusing,
he's going to have a real yuck about the state of my panties.