The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (38 page)

The twenty thousand seat Stadium Court was
easily sold out, and across the nation, work came to a halt as men
everywhere found a TV and settled back to watch Bouncer. She had
dressed for her countrymen, and as they watched her move, they
marveled at what Iowa corn, Florida orange juice, and Texas beef
had produced.

She was wearing a white form-fitting top, a
short white skirt, and white stockings, all tastefully accented in
red and blue. Her garter belt was red, and her panties—shown to the
enthralled viewing millions in slow motion when her skirt flipped
up or when she bent over—were red and white striped. It didn't take
much of an imagination to figure out where the stars were.

She put her red white and blue choker on in
the center of the court and curtsied. Her countrymen went
ballistic. Their American princess was sending them a message. It
said that she was one of them, and they loved her for it.

The two sets went by quickly, although
occasionally Betty-Jo had to stop to wipe away the tears that came
when she thought about her daddy. An hour and a half after the
match began, she had won—six two, six two. Marguerite Ferraro was
never in the game.

As the press swarmed around Betty-Jo, Tony
Vaccaro shouted, "Bouncer, we know where Old Glory's stripes are,
but where are her stars?"

Initially, she had been annoyed when the
press had nicknamed her Bouncer, but after a while she accepted it,
and then she even started to like it. In any event, she and Tony
had become pals following his black see-through acquisition, and
his obvious enjoyment when she had modeled it for him.

"Tony, I'm surprised at you," she teased.
"What's happened to your imagination?"

"My imagination's fine. It's working
overtime. What I'd like to do is help our viewers locate the
missing stars."

"Are you implying that your viewers lack your
insight?"

"Come on, Bouncer. Put us out of our
misery."

She gave Tony an affectionate smile. "Are
your cameramen ready?" She did a quick one-footed twirl. "Now
everyone in America knows where the stars are." When the scrum had
pulled itself together, she said, "In my third round match on
Saturday, I have a surprise for you, but I'm running out of dress
ideas. Tony, since you seem to be especially interested in what I
wear, why don't you check with your viewers, and I'll wear what
they want in my round of sixteen match on Monday—if I win on
Saturday."

"I'm confident that our viewers will be up to
the challenge," Vaccaro replied.

Betty-Jo turned and, waving to her crowd,
walked off the court.

* * *

Across the nation, the debate raged over
whether or not the Flag should be gracing Betty-Jo's panties. The
naysayers thought it was a desecration, but most men maintained
that no better use existed for the Flag than the protection of a
national treasure, especially when that treasure was their fondest
fantasy. And Bouncer had promised them a surprise in her Saturday
match. What, they wanted to know, could be more surprising than
what she had already given them? Then, if she made it past the
third round, she was going to let them dress her however they
wished. Every warm-blooded American male had a few thoughts on that
one. Dress ideas flourished; the problem was, that the dress ideas
ranged from virtually no dress to no dress at all.

Fight
Fire With Fire

Having Draper help me with my stocking is an
obvious ploy, Felicity thought, but I want him, and I'm not in a
waiting mood. She never did get her second stocking on.

Draper was an accomplished lover, and
Felicity could not believe how much she loved what he did to
her.

How could I have gone all this time denying
myself something this fantastic?

Madly in love, she would never have believed
that six months later she would be putting the finishing touches on
her plan to exterminate him.

At ten-thirty, the in-lust lovers took a
short break from their frenzied activity to order a pizza, but it
was obvious that Draper was more interested in Felicity than
pizza—he couldn't seem to get enough of her. She lost track of how
many times she came that evening and the following morning.
Exhausted, she slumbered through the flash from a Polaroid camera
that gave Draper Greely $1,500, the Big-Swinging-Dick trophy, and
the admiration of the boys at the office.

For the next six months, she dreamt only of
Draper. But as her obsession with him grew, so did his abusiveness.
Still, she lived to be with him, even when he beat her, had sex
with other women, and ignored her for days at a time. She wrote him
love letters, phoned him at all hours, and even drove him to and
from his favorite haunts, the lap-dance bars—she couldn't help
herself. At the office, her obsession for Draper interfered with
her work: she arrived late and looked bedraggled. She could not
eat, and she was filled with such despair that suicide seemed
preferable to her misery. And Draper wanted her clients. So on
Thursday she brought her largest client to meet him at Flushing
Meadow where Betty-Jo Chance was playing Marguerite Ferraro. The
men started to salivate when B-J appeared on court dressed in a
skin-tight, red white and blue aerobics top, choker, garter belt,
and stockings. To add to the degradation of women—the Flag had been
printed on her panties.

She knew immediately that Betty-Jo Chance was
evil. Betty-Jo was destroying everything that women like Billie
Jean King and Martina Navratilova had struggled to achieve for
women's tennis. She was turning the tennis court into a catwalk,
designed solely to arouse men. Betty-Jo Chance was the embodiment
of everything that was wrong with women, and the reason why the
women's movement had stalled, despite Felicity's efforts and the
efforts of women like her. What possibility did women have of being
treated like human beings when back-stabbers like Betty-Jo catered
to men's every fantasy? Given their way, the Betty-Jo Chances of
the world would have women like herself back in the shackles of
male subservience.

Later that day, Felicity was informed that
the Securities and Exchange Commission had ruled that she had
violated their professional conduct rules with respect to the
churning of accounts, and the purchase of unsuitable securities.
The Commission's fine was $20,000 plus $10,000 for the cost of the
investigation. Her employment at Bourbon and Fry was terminated,
effective immediately, and her accounts were turned over to Draper.
The civil suits remained outstanding, and she would have to defend
them without the support of Bourbon and Fry.

Her world had collapsed. She had never known
such pain. Then Draper phoned.

"What you did was disgraceful. But I
shouldn't have expected anything more from you. I can't stomach
you, or your feminist bullshit. Never could. Fifteen hundred
dollars and The Big-Swinging-Dick trophy weren't reward enough for
having to boink you."

"Bedding me was part of a contest?"

"Why else would anyone sleep with you?
Whenever I was desperate enough to boink you, I should have been
given a fluff girl."

"A fluff girl?"

Draper laughed malevolently. "That's a broad
who gets a guy in the mood for the main event."

"That's disgusting!"

"You think that's disgusting? I'll tell you
about disgusting. There's a saying that 'women, like calendars, are
only good for a year'. Imagine how disgusted I was when I found out
that you weren't even good for a week."

"I have good legs." It was the only thing she
could think of to say in her own defense.

"Good legs? I've seen better legs on a
rottweiler." An audible gasp got away from her. "Now I have a real
woman, a Bouncer kind of woman, who knows how to please a man. No
fluff girl required. Harass me again, and I'll call the cops."

If Felicity's world was in a shambles before
Draper's call, it was beyond redemption after it. The only glimmer
of hope in her life had been snuffed out. She took her gun from its
holster, held it to her head, and drew in her breath, happy that
she would soon be dead. But, as she was about to squeeze the
trigger, she thought about Jason. That thought saved her life,
because with that thought, some small bit of sanity returned. Then,
from out of nowhere, there was a godsend. A voice told her what she
had to do.

"Felicity, you must use your rage to strike a
blow for women. Make a statement that the world will understand.
Let men everywhere know that women will have their freedom. Let
them know that women will no longer be oppressed, especially not by
their own sisters."

The voice is right, she thought. Women like
herself, who were trying to make a difference, were trampled under
foot, while women like Betty-Jo Chance, who flaunted their breasts
and butts, rose to the top in a corrupt male-dominated society.

The more Felicity thought about the struggle,
the more certain she became that it was the Betty-Jo Chances of the
world who were the real enemy. If they can only be stopped by
force, then force will have to be used. As she fueled her rage, she
became angrier than ever before. Her gun gleamed dull in her hand,
as she cleaned and polished the matte. I'll fight fire with
fire!

The next day, she found a scalper, and
purchased the two best seats available for the Stadium Court match
at two on Monday afternoon. That was where Betty-Jo would play if
she won her match on Saturday.

Felicity's plan was simple. She would get to
a front row seat, jump over the low barrier, and shoot the Judas.
If a deranged Günter Parche could get close enough to Monica Sellas
to stab her, surely she could get close enough to Betty-Jo Chance
to shoot her.

Felicity also decided that Draper Greely
didn't deserve to live. Turn your back on Draper, and he'd pee on
your plants, she thought. But how best to off him? She favored a
wood tick, feeding at the base of his skull until paralysis, loss
of reflexes, and finally, respiratory failure claimed him.
Unfortunately, the tick on the skull idea was impractical. How
would she find a tick, and then how would she implant it at the
base of Draper's skull? Moreover, her book on ticks said they could
go three or more years without eating. What if her tick didn't like
Draper any better than she did?

Injecting Draper with HIV positive blood was
an interesting option. That she might be able to manage, and it
would be a suitably miserable way for him to die. But safe sex had
never been high on Draper's list of priorities, so it was unlikely
that he would die from aids without taking more than a few sisters
with him. Moreover, the aids approach to snuffing out Draper could
jeopardize her primary objective—a dead Betty-Jo Chance. Then,
while browsing a web site on murder, Felicity found an ideal way to
dispatch her former lover. It was a clever plan, because it would
not be uncovered until it was all over for Betty-Jo.

Tawny—A
Playboy Centerfold?

Betty-Jo's life was chaotic. She had
authorized a video—Bouncer In Slow Motion—that showed her fans the
motion they wanted to see. Soon after its release, it was the best
selling video of all time. Millions of dollars were being offered
if she would play in Japan, and companies were begging her to
endorse their products. Money was pouring in, but Betty-Jo didn't
want or need money. She already had what she wanted, a shot at the
U.S. Open title, and what she loved and needed—Brad.

* * *

Like her father, Betty-Jo tithed to her
favorite charities. She believed in tithing, because people who
tithed were almost always successful. She had no idea why. What she
concluded was that if God wasn't rewarding tithers for their
generosity, then the act of tithing itself must be turning them
into superior money managers. And she had decided to do more than
tithe. Twenty percent of her income, and as much of her time as
possible, would be set aside for causes she felt strongly
about.

"I want to expand the tennis program for
inner city children, and I want to provide shelters for battered
women and unwed mothers," she told Brad. "To the extent that my
money can accomplish it, I want to give people without hope,
another chance."

* * *

Talk show hosts scrambled to have Bouncer on
their show, and Playboy offered her a million dollars to be the
December playmate. Betty-Jo had never been able to understand why
numerous celebrity-women, who had all the money they could use,
were willing, even eager, to show all, in a men's magazine. Now she
knew. What she couldn't understand, was why she wanted men see her
that way.

I want to be a Playmate. Problem is, I'll
have to tell Brad, and for sure he won't be pleased.

Brad didn't say much when she told him about
her centerfold plans, but she knew she was in trouble when he
undressed her in front of the mirror in their room at the Plaza
Hotel. All he left on her were the large gold TC-earrings he had
given her on Valentines Day, her choker, and her gold-wafer
necklace.

"What are you up to?" she wanted to know.

He just grinned at her. "I'm putting your vow
to obey me to the test. Put your hands behind your back and stand
where you are."

"If you don't want me to be the Playboy
centerfold, why don't you just make like a dictator and tell me I
can't?"

"Because we're partners."

"Some partnership."

"Admittedly, on this occasion I seem to be
the partner with the advantage, because you, my princess, don't
have any clothes on."

"You think you're clever, don't you?"

"Clever enough to get you the way men's
magazines want you." He patted her rump. She thanked him by kicking
his shin.