The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (2 page)

She allowed his voice to caress her again.
"Doesn't everyone know Bad Brad Raiden—the Gray Ghost hockey
superstar who scored two goals in one game, and brought a goon to
his knees—without heavy breathing?"

He looked at her suspiciously. "I'm saving
the heavy breathing for a more appropriate occasion."

"There's a more appropriate occasion for
heavy breathing than a fight to the death?" She gave him the hint
of a smile.

"You saw that Lancer goon try to kill
me?"

"Everyone was betting on the goon."

"Even you?"

"Because that goon got unlucky, you escaped
the infirmary. So now, instead of convalescing, you're here
annoying me."

"I'll make it up to you. I've inherited a
couple of tickets to the Myrtle Beach Amusement Park for tomorrow
night. You're invited to share in my good fortune."

Is this guy holding his breath? she wondered,
as she considered her reply. "It's sweet of you to want to make
amends, but Brad, there are no tickets to the Park. Entrance is
free."

He gave her his sexy grin, and commandeered
her eyes. "Now that's a relief," he said, "because it means I'm
looking at a cheap date."

A cheap date? You grinning dufus, she
thought, but she recovered quickly, and gave him her best grin in
return. "An inexpensive date," she corrected.

"We'll find out tomorrow. I'll pick you up at
your place—seven-thirty." He stood up, moved across the row of
seats, and strode up the isle.

You can't leave yet, she wanted to yell after
him. I haven't said yes!

* * *

Brad suspected that romance required magical
moments, moments that were gifts from the gods, so he was
determined to give the gods every opportunity to work their magic
on the purdy moth slayer. On his way to pick-up Betty-Jo, he parked
Old-yellow on the Kings Highway. Then he strolled into the Myrtle
Beach Amusement Park to flex his muscles on the StrongMan—a
test-of-strength pole. How wrong can it be to give the gods a
helping hand?

The objective with the StrongMan was to hit
its base hard enough to blast a clapper through eight measures of
strength, ranging from Wuss to Superman, and ring the bell at the
top.

As it turned out, swinging the mallet was
much like hitting a slap shot. The secret lay in snapping your
wrists at the optimum moment. By Brad's third attempt, he was up to
speed. He rang the bell, and won a large, brown-eyed bear.

"Awesome," said the tobacco-chewing carnie,
"but yuh wasn't supposed t' win."

"Why not?"

"Keep this to yourself. I had The Man on an
almost impossible settin'. I like to give the bears to guys with
hot lookin' gees—good for business."

"Then your business is about to boom, because
I have the best lookin' gee this side of heaven. And I have another
incentive for you." He handed the carnie a twenty. "I'll be back in
half an hour. Don't make it too difficult for me to win my bear
again."

"You're an okay guy," the carnie said, as
Brad turned to leave. "If yuh really want t' impress her, try it
with one arm."

* * *

When Betty-Jo opened the door to her
penthouse apartment at the Strand Princess, she was miffed, because
Brad was early.

"Good evening, Ms Chance," he said, drawing
out the Ms, and punctuating it with his grin. "Glad you didn't
bother to dress for the occasion."

Betty-Jo was still wearing her white cotton
blouse and cutoffs. She hadn't changed because her tennis practice
had run late. By the time she'd grocery shopped, made dinner for
her daddy and brother, and grabbed a bite for herself, there had
barely been time to dab on the lavender perfume that the
cosmetician had told her men found irresistible.

"Mmm," Brad continued, "let me guess,
Obsession, and you're wearing it for me."

"You should be so lucky!"

"Have I told you about my lucky ducky?"

"Sadly, Brad, you've just removed all
doubt."

"Begging your pardon!" he said.

Got him, Betty-Jo thought. "Don't you know
that 'it's better to remain silent, and be thought a fool, than to
speak and remove all doubt?'"

"That's not a very nice thing to say to your
brand-new boyfriend!" Brad replied.

Betty-Jo was right back at him. "Well 'I'll
try to be nicer, if you'll try to be smarter.'"

An obviously amused Brad took a step toward
her, and faked a swing at her butt. Then he chuckled as she jumped
out of the way of his phantom shot.

That miffed Betty-Jo even more. "I'm sure you
realize, that 'by being here with me, some town, somewhere, is
without its fool.'"

He thanked her with his grin. "You're going
to have a wonderful time tonight, young lovely, because I've
decided to give you a starring role in this fool's evening of
merrymaking and intrigue."

On the short drive to the Park, Betty-Jo
fumed. Then she had a talk with herself. B-J, you are pathetic! I
can't believe you bought lavender perfume to encourage this
arrogant, self-centered fool. Merrymaking and intrigue? He'll get
merrymaking and intrigue alright, but not the kind he's looking
for. I'm nobody's young lovely, and he knows what he can do with
his ducky!

When they arrived at the Park, Brad slipped
into a be-nice mode. But even being nice, he was still too cocky
for Betty-Jo's liking, and his be-nice phase didn't last long—about
sixty seconds.

"Tell me you love me," he teased.

"Love you? The meager smarts you initially
inherited have just deserted you! I don't even like you!"

"Have you considered my charm, noble
character, and cleverly disguised intellect? 'But enough about
me—how are you doing?'"

A smile managed to escape Betty-Jo, but she
was able to reign in a heavy duty laugh. "I'll be as charitable as
possible," she said. "Five neurons less, and dimwits would snub
you!"

He humored her with the kind of smile that
fathers reserve for misguided daughters. "Be careful, I bruise
easily."

"Not likely. No one could have been born as
self-centered as you. You've been taking affectation lessons.
Haven't you?"

"That sounds to me like a rush to character
assassination," he said, with a laugh.

As they wandered around the Park, Betty-Jo
delighted in the feel of the wood chips under foot, and the glow
from a full moon overhead. Then there were the sights, the smells,
and the sounds: barkers calling, laughter, organ music blasting
from the rides before it mixed with a melody from an ancient
calliope, and occasionally—high-pitched above it all—screams. Brad,
once again charming, fed her his strawberry flavored cotton candy.
But that only served to irritate her because she wanted to stay mad
at him, and how could she when she loved cotton candy—the way a
great fluffy clump of the stuff dissolved away to only a sprinkling
of sugary flavor on her tongue?

They strolled past a shooting gallery, a ring
toss, two ball throws, and a whack-a-mole before Brad stopped
beside the StrongMan. There, a massive dread-locked bro was handing
the carnie a dollar—doubtless, visions of big bears were dancing in
his head. The Hulkster hefted the mallet, positioned himself
carefully, and then, after a magnificent windup, drove it onto the
StrongMan's base with all the force he could muster. Unfortunately
for the Hulkster, the clapper wasn't impressed. It struggled
two-thirds of the way up the guide rail, and—to the amusement of
the Hulkster's girlfriend—labeled him a Flyweight.

Brad stifled a smile and said, "Tell you
what, B-J. You put a buck on me, and I'll win you a bear. Superman
and I have a lot in common."

She couldn't conceal a smirk, confident that
the Hulkster's fate, or worse, awaited Brad. "To win a bear you'd
have to be more powerful than a locomotive. I'd have a better
chance of winning the Georgia State lottery."

"You don't believe that 'the meek shall
inherit the earth?'"

Betty-Jo's smirk morphed into a smile. This
just keeps getting better and better. "Perhaps they shall, but
there's no way that the weak shall be given a bear."

Looking forlorn, Brad gripped her shoulders.
"You're destroying the self-esteem of a sensitive
nineties-kind-of-guy. But because I like you, I'll invest the buck.
When..."

"You know what they say about a fool and his
money."

He laughed at her. "When I win the bear, he's
yours. All I ask is that you let me name him."

"Sounds reasonable to me. But if you're a
smarter fool than you appear to be, you won't rush out to buy a
name book."

"'Oh ye of little faith.'"

"You know, this is all fine for you, but what
about me? It's taken me years to build a rep for only dating real
men."

He shook his head, picked up the mallet with
one hand, and swung it. The shell-shocked clapper blasted straight
up to Superman, and made a hell of a noise that could be heard all
over the park.

"Un-be-lievable!" the carnie hollered before
he handed Betty-Jo a huge brown-eyed bear. "The odd guy can ring
the Man usin' both arms, but this is the first time anyone's rung
it usin' only one."

She hugged her bear. "Please tell me that
what just happened, didn't," she said. She knew she had a problem
because she loved her bear, but she was furious with herself for
loving him.

Brad chuckled. "On a positive note, your
reputation for only dating real men is still intact."

"My bear's eyes are the same color as yours,"
she said, vaguely thinking that she had seen his eyes somewhere
before. Then, sounding as contrite as possible, "What are you going
to name him?"

"I'm naming him I Love Only You Brad."

"You can't name him that! Bears are named
Pooh, or Honey, or Bear, not I Love Only You Brad."

That brought a frown from him. "Betty-Jo, you
are quickly becoming a pain in the butt. First you refused to wager
a buck on me. Now you won't keep your promise to let me name your
bear." She tossed her hair, but said nothing. "Tell me your bear's
name, and all is forgiven."

Indignant, but with no obvious alternative,
she whispered, "I Love Only You Brad."

The bear-winning super-hero patted her on the
head. "They must be spiking the cotton candy with something,
because in under ten minutes you've gone from 'I don't even like
you' to 'I love only you Brad.'"

"Why couldn't I be dating Howard the
Duck?"

"Think of me as your consolation prize."

"So now, I suppose, you'll be asking me my
bear's name all evening."

He laughed, and pulled her against him. "It
wouldn't be happening if you'd wagered that dollar on me."

She scowled, and shoved him away. This one's
not just conceited; he's also presumptuous. "You guys are
impossible. 'If you can't pick up the pace you'll be the last
creatures on earth to be civilized by women.'"

"That may not be all bad. Remember what
happened to the serpent in the Garden of Eden when one of your
people taught him how to share. Before he could say, 'No God! Not
my fault!' he was slithering along the ground on his belly."

She laughed, and shoved Brad again, but then,
before she could stop him, he took her hand.

Her response was immediate. My God, stop, she
yelled to herself as a great, dazzling happiness streaked through
her, conjuring up unacceptable fantasies as it raced along. How can
the fool be doing this to me? He's only holding my hand! So why
does it feel as if he's grabbed hold of my heart? Without her
consent, she gave him a long glance, and then, worse—her hand
tightened on his.

Minutes later, past the Tilt-A-Whirl and the
Carrousel, Brad stopped, and bought tickets for a roller coaster
named Death Leap. "Ever been on this?" he said.

"No, heights bother me." She knew she should
refuse to ride Death Leap, but she was reluctant to show her bear
winning date any vulnerability.

As Brad escorted her to the front car, he
said, "Not to worry. Nothing terrible ever happened to Lois Lane
when she was with Superman."

She handed her bear to the attendant, and the
slow climb to the summit began. Brad's fingers killed the time by
perusing her neck and ear. The sensations he was creating went to
places where they had no business being. But Betty-Jo had more to
worry about than unruly sensations, because heights didn't just
bother her—they terrified her. They had ever since, five months
earlier, a foul smelling redneck had tried to kick her off a
balcony at the Strand Princess.

She started to tremble as the coaster neared
its crest. "Brad, I'm fri... nervous," she said. "Please hold
me."

He draped his upper arm across her shoulders,
and then dropped his hand down over her breast.

Incensed, she almost forgot how frightened
she was. "Not that way!" she exclaimed, and pushed his hand away.
Who does he think he is?

He grinned impishly, and his eyes tracked
hers. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, who does this
guy think he is? What makes him think that just 'cause my breasts
have him all excited he's allowed to put the grab on them?"

"Actually, I was thinking who sprinkled the
fool with pervert dust?"

He blew her hair away from her eyes. "Is it
wise to imply that the only person who can save you from this mean
ol' coaster is a pervert?"

"If I survive this ordeal, you're a dead
pervert!" Then she looked into the abyss below, and had second
thoughts about pervert killing. She clung to him and said, "Changed
my mind. I love only you Brad."

* * *

There, on top of the world, Brad thought he
heard moon-glow. "That's my girl," he said, and kissed the tip of
Betty-Jo's nose. "But love—at a bare minimum—means never calling
your best-ever boyfriend a pervert."

As the coaster began its downward plunge,
Brad held Betty-Jo Chance, the Myrtle Beach moth slayer, tightly
against him.