Innocent 4: Alicia: The League of Worldly Wise Innocents, #4

By L. A. Zoe

Alicia Wu hates her hymen.

She's not in a rush to break it, but she wishes everybody would quit making such a fuss about it.

Her parents. Her pre-fiance's parents. Him, though he claims it's not a dealbreaker.

That small piece of thin skin is not important to her. It's not like she even believes in love.

She is ready for marriage, though her accountant nerd pre-fiance underwhelms her. His father is a wealthy businessman. Having worked hard in her parents' chop suey joint since a child, Alicia is ready to join the country club set and spend the rest of her life playing tennis and golf, in between having the grandchildren her future in-laws want.

After the families finish exchanging letters, they must hire an astrologer to choose an auspicious day for the official engagement celebration. And, after that, a lucky weekend day on which they can hire a suitable hall.

Then, at a college party, Alicia meets Bran.

He delivers the pizza.

She delivers the fried rice and egg rolls.

Blonde. White. Blue-eyed. A fan of Goth rock. Like Alicia, Bran doesn't believe in love, he just wants to have a good time. 

And, a victim of the Great Recession, he's given up his college ambition, and just wants to remain a pizza delivery dude for the rest of his life.

Alicia's parents automatically hate him.

So why does Alicia feel compelled to offer her unbroken hymen to Bran?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386348320

Book preview

Prologue to the Entire League of Worldly-Wise Innocents Series

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The long table covered with a white, Italian damask tablecloth seated nine gorgeous young ladies wearing glamorous, cocktail party dresses.

Ten, gorgeous young ladies counting herself—Veronica Orlando.

She allowed her heart a few moments to savor the pride of bringing the ten of them together. She deserved it.

The grandfather clock in the Cromwell Deluxe Hotel’s Presidential Suite’s front room chimed 10:00 P.M.

A waiter in white pants and a red suede jacket wheeled a rattling, clanking room service cart containing the last of the dinner dishes and silverware over the threshold, then shut the door behind him.

The air was still redolent with the odors of the filet mignon, asparagus in a white cream sauce topped with sliced roasted almonds, herb salad with vinaigrette dressing, baked potato, and mince pie topped with whipped cream.

Time to begin.

Before the others began drifting off, or drank too many glasses of the incredible Moet & Chandon champagne. Several bottles of it sat in aluminum ice buckets.

Veronica Orlando used the remote to shut off the background music of Brahms’s Piano Concerto No 1, and tapped the bowl of a shining spoon against the rim of her fine crystal water glass.

Ladies, ladies, she called out in a loud but still sweet voice, then clapped her hands to get their attention.

To Veronica’s immediate left, Simone Beverly sat up straight, hands in her lap, prepared to listen to Veronica as attentively as she did all her college professors. She wore bright emerald to set off her green eyes, milk-pale skin, and long auburn hair. Her dress was more conservative than the others, close to a formal gown. It went below her knees, and, between her neck and waist, left no inch of skin uncovered except her forearms and hands. However, the glowing scarlet of her lipstick hinted at repressed passion, despite the sharp aristocratic features of her face.

Veronica continued: In one week, next Saturday afternoon, we will all graduate from Miss Irene’s Finishing College of Fine Arts for Girls.

They chuckled, and Veronica paused to let them digest her wording. Of course they recognized the original name of their school. Though both school and name had long since been upgraded and modernized and, since a National Organization for Women (NOW) lawsuit filed in 1995, young men also attended The Cromwell School of Fine Arts.

Seated to Simone Beverly’s left, Elena Morales smiled broadly at the joke. Besides her incredible beauty, her relaxed good humor made her welcome at every social event. She had the gift of not only enjoying life, but helping others to see the joke. Her light-yellow dress accented her brown skin. As well as native-level English and Spanish, she spoke fluent French and passable Mandarin. Yet she cut her hair in some complex, weird hood-style. With her broad, curved figure and high, large breasts, Veronica preferred to call her the more romantic and sexy ‘Latina’ rather than the more politically correct ‘Hispanic.’

We are different in many ways, but in many, more important ones, we are a lot alike, and therefore different from the ordinary female college students, at CSFA, or anywhere.

Next to Elena Morales, Brandy Ewing. In contrast to Elena, Brandy was the skinniest of the ten. The chiffon dress hanging by straps from her shoulders should have clung to her figure, but instead hung loosely, emphasizing how little bone structure Brandy had. The dress’s dark blue color blended in with her dark brown skin, so Brandy seemed almost to fade into the background. Yet she stood tall and proud, and her features were as long and noble as Simone’s. Her basic shyness was often mistaken for standoffishness.

A stranger looking at us all right now would not guess it, but we all come from humble backgrounds. Only a few of us got any financial help from our families to attend this school. We made do on grants, scholarships, part-time jobs, and student loans. To have come this far is, for all of us, something we can always be proud of.

Alicia Wu sat next to Brandy Ewing. Except for her clothes, she was a classical Chinese beauty with almond black eyes right out of a Ming Dynasty painting. Shiny black hair that reached nearly to the small of her back, held in place by a shiny gold clasp. She wore a little black dress of shiny bangles. No shoulders at all. It began just above her breasts and went to just below the middle of her sleek thighs. Nearly as small around as Brandy, Alicia did not look skinny only because she was much shorter, and her thin body curved. Not large curves, but definitely feminine.

We all want more out of life. We’re not going to be satisfied with just working our way up to an ordinary standard of living. Our meeting here at the luxurious Deluxe Hotel, wearing clothes we had to stretch to rent, symbolizes our commitment to the best in life.

Janeesia Williams sat at the other end of the table, across from Veronica, swigging down champagne. She was the largest of them all. Not the tallest, but certainly the largest. What personal ads described as full-figured. Although she didn’t look like Oprah, people kept comparing them, because of her size, and because Janeesia radiated so much charm. Elena made everyone part of the party, Janeesia made everyone her personal friend. She wore a strapless glitter dress down to her ankles, making her look like a torch singer out of an old movie, such as Lady Day.

And, of course, more out of life. Including the best men. Not ordinary men, no matter how good they are. We demand extraordinary men. The best available. As part of the good life. And, perhaps, though we aren’t golddiggers, as our ticket to the good life.

To Janeesia’s left, the first woman seated on Veronica’s right side, Cynthia Desperes was trying to keep her brave face on, Veronica could tell. Trying to keep her insecurity under control. In her brown dress, so ordinary she could wear it shopping or to church, Cynthia was the one Veronica had to work the hardest to convince to attend. With her brown hair and hazel eyes, and her mid-sized figure, she had trouble believing men could find her beautiful. Yet her very modesty, plus her fresh Grade A whole milk, American girl next door look attracted many boys.

We are all beautiful. We are all smart. We are all sophisticated. We are all ambitious. We are all hardworking and diligent. We are the crème de la crème of young American women.

Here! Here! Sarah Khampone shouted as she banged her spoon against her glass.

As though to compensate for her grandparents escaping a country few Americans had ever heard of—Laos—Sarah seemed determined to make certain nobody could overlook her. She wore a skimpy, dazzling bright red dress. It set off the streaks of red she dyed into her short black hair. Sarah drank more than the rest of them, or seemed to, because she was often the noisiest and loudest at mixers and keggers. Yet her final essay on Mark Twain earned her the first A grade Professor Kelly awarded in the past five years.

As proud as we are, we are prouder still of what we’ll accomplish with our lives. We are living at the best time ever, to be young and alive, and ready to seek our fortune.

Beside Sarah Khampone, Katrina Manchester sat in her sky blue dress, smiling at some private joke. Nothing and nobody could stop her inner wheels from turning. Although she majored in the classical languages—Latin, ancient Greek, and ancient Hebrew—she was their class’s summa cum laude. When in class, she wore thick glasses in unstylish frames, without seeming to care what they looked like on her. But without them, her broad, smooth face had a healthy, friendly beauty. Tall and somewhat thin, she intimidated boys without trying. The man who saw past her tough style and glasses would be greatly rewarded.

Veronica continued: So I propose a friendly contest between us. In five years we return to this room. Each will tell her story, and we will decide who has won. Who has won the heart of the best man?

Seated on Veronica’s right hand was Valentina Perez. She wore a delicious pink dress, and looked years younger than twenty-one. The figure of a Latina Barbie doll. With her sweet smile, she seemed the most sheltered and immature of them all, despite the solemn beauty her fingers called forth from the fingers of a violin. Yet her childlike mask hid a core strong as solid granite. She enjoyed parties, but the boys who thought they could easily lead her outside soon learned otherwise.

What are our criteria for the best man? Simple. Seven. He must be obedient, faithful, rich, in good health, handsome, available, and good company. Love? That seems to me overrated. If he’s obedient and faithful out of love, that fulfills my requirement. The rest of you will order your priorities as you see fit.

And, herself, of course: Veronica Orlando. Wearing a rich, royal purple gown. Tall and slender, with blonde hair and blue eyes. The original Barbie Doll, if somebody wanted to be rude and insulting. But ready to take on the world.

And, of course, Veronica continued. We have one other trait in common, one not held in much esteem by our society. Unlike most other undergrad college women, we did not casually give boys access to our bodies. Not that we are boring and repressed, obeying old-fashioned religious proscriptions. Or naive and ignorant. Not at all. We are modern women who recognize our worth. We place a high value on our beauty, the better to attract the highest quality men—who prefer fresh ladies.

They all applauded, then began filling their crystal glasses with champagne from the bottles left on ice.

Veronica held up her glass full of sparkling red. Ladies, here’s to the League of Worldly Wise Innocents!

Chapter One

Moonings

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It was a great night for a party.

As Alicia Wu drove with her window down to enjoy the blanket warmth, a quick stab of regret pinged her heart. So many carefree memories of the parties she attended during her four years of college rose up in the back of her mind.

Good times. Laughs. Reckless alcohol consumption. Surrounded by friends. Wrestling with boys in the dark, though never giving them what they wanted. Not everything, no indeed.

Because she didn’t take the parties or the boys seriously, which is why she enjoyed those nights so much.

Over now, alas. For a brief second, she felt old. Not elderly, but grown-up. Adult. Saddled with responsibilities.

And it sucked.

She drove her ancient Dodge Neon the color of pre-faded bluejeans through Argonne Forest Estates. The odors of cooking oil, soy sauce, and shrimp drenched the upholstery and carpeting. She couldn’t remove them without a steam cleaner.

One of the wealthiest towns in Cromwell County, Argonne Forest Estates contained large mansions on acres of land, with plenty of woodlands separating the estates, and narrow, twisty roads.

Within the dark clumps of bushes, crickets chirruped and lightning bugs lit up their tail ends to attract mates. The moon stared down like a silent but amused jester.

An early September Friday night, and she was working.

She wanted to live in Argonne Estates. Those wives didn’t work on Friday nights. They ate out at their country clubs. They enjoyed movies and concerts. They attended fancy parties. If they stayed home, they lounged in home theaters and entertainment centers.

No upscale wives would be at an affair that ordered six whole shrimp fried rice and fifty egg rolls. Miley Cyrus’s Wrecking Ball blasted out of the receiver as Alicia’s mother talked to the caller.

College kids, for sure.

She turned onto Green Woods Lane, and soon realized she wouldn’t need to hunt for the address on mailboxes. Cars parked half on, half off the pavement lined both sides of the narrow street.

No junkers, either—sports cars, Priuses, and BMWs borrowed from or given by parents.

The last car sat just short of the entrance to a driveway, so Alicia took a chance. She backed into the driveway, hoping nobody would be arriving or leaving at or from that house while she carried out her delivery.

Just as she finished filling her arms with the big, heavy brown bags of fried rice and egg rolls, yellow headlights lit the concrete in front of her, and bizarre, discordant, haunting music thundered through her ear drums.

A Toyota Tercel old enough to have a long gray beard turned into the driveway behind her, backed out so it did a one-eighty, then came to a sudden stop in the middle of the front lawn across the street. A red, white, and blue Pizza Store topper shone brightly on its top.

The ignition cut off, the gruesome music immediately collapsed in on itself.

Just what she didn’t need, to walk to the front door with a pizza delivery dude. She speed-walked down the road, her long hair trailing behind her.

Hey! he shouted. Wait up!

Alicia kept going.

She thought she knew all the guys who delivered for the Pizza Store, just a few doors down from Wu’s House of Chinese Food, but he must be new. She didn’t recognize his voice.

Maybe that’s why it sent a warm quiver down her spine, tingling nerves she vowed not to stimulate until after marriage.

Never mind. She just needed to complete the delivery so she could drive back, help her mother finish cleaning, count her tips for the day, and go upstairs to bed.

His Reeboks scraped gravel over asphalt as he ran to catch up, two insulated pizza bags in his arms. Ten large sausage and pepperoni, he said. It’ll take me two trips, or the bottom pizza might get crushed.

I’ve never met you before, she said.

My name’s Bran, he said. I’d shake hands, except both our arms are full. I thought maybe...you know, you’d rather have protection walking down the street.

He wore the regulation Pizza Store ball cap, but tilted to one side, and the red and white vertically striped button-up shirt. She had to look up to speak to him, but somehow, despite how he towered over her, he didn’t make her feel short.

Unlike so many guys, he had both broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Of course, he was new to the job. Wait until he spent a year eating pizza every night.

He exuded strength and a sense of careless, relaxed strength. As though he always wore his Zen face.

Alicia’s heart fluttered like popping grease, annoying her.

In Argonne Forest Estates? Alicia said. When I’m scared to deliver here, I better quit.

College party, Bran said. Guys drink too much, get out of control.

He had a point, but the girls at the party, especially off alone with their boyfriends or dates, were far more at risk than one young woman there five minutes to deliver fried rice and egg rolls.

All right, thanks, she said, not missing a step.

The cars seemed to stretch endlessly in front of them into darkness mottled with the far-overhead street lamps. In Argonne Forest Estates, one front lawn was as long as half a normal city block.

It’s usual, he said, when someone introduces themself to you, to give your name back.

Oh?

Of course, if that’s not your personal style or your cultural custom...I’m not trying to give offense.

‘Cultural custom?’ Asshole. Or politically overcorrect idiot?

Me little Chinee girl. Me no savvy. Chop chop.

All right, I’m sorry. Don’t tell me your name. I don’t want to know it.

Alicia Wu.

Are you related to the great Hong Kong director John Woo?

Are they spelled the same?

Not in English. I just figured the Chinese character was the same.

The house hosting the party was close ahead, lit up by spotlights, especially in the back. Fortunately, it had a relatively small front yard. That indicated the main action was in the back, where they probably had acres of grass, a swimming pool, horse stalls, and maybe tennis courts.

From the rear of the building, Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance pounded.

Coming out of the shadows into the glare of the lights from the front picture windows, Bran’s face looked smooth, handsome in a boyish way. Like the old Marlboro Man before he tamed the Wild West, then succumbed to lung cancer.

They are the same, Alicia said grudgingly. But there’re a hundred million of us. He doesn’t invite my family to his dinner parties.

Oh, too bad.

Anyway, I like Jackie Chan better.

That got him.

Bran stumbled, nearly dropping his pizza bags. I figured you’d like Hong Kong chick flicks.

To me, a ‘chick flick’ is when a woman kicks the bad guys’ asses. Like Michelle Yeoh.

They went up the front walkway of rough limestone blocks set into the ground at irregular intervals. Up three marble steps to the front porch. Alicia rang the doorbell. Chimes loud as church bells reverberated in the front room.

No answer.

Loud as the bell was, it couldn’t compete with Lady Gaga for the attention of the party goers.

Bran set his bags down. I’ll go get the other pizzas.

Although Alicia kept ringing the doorbell, Bran was returning with his second load of pizzas before a short, overweight redhead pulled the door open while giggling at something a boy behind her said.

The loud music switched to some lyricless trance-adelic, endlessly repetitive dance mix.

The redhead led Alicia and Bran into the house, through corridors like hallways in the Louvre, down a plush stairwell, and had them place their food on a long table already overloaded with a round Subway sandwich, cheese and cracker plates, bowls of guacamole, red salsa, and spinach dip, barbecued buffalo hot wings, potato chips, M&Ms, mixed nuts, and wheat thins and rye crackers.

A large cooler full of ice cubes and cans of Pepsi, Country Tyme lemonade, Sprite, A&W Root Beer, diet versions, and Red Bull, Monster, and Rock Star.

A large cooler full of ice cubes and bottles of Bud, Michelob, Mississippi Bottom Mud, Samuel Adams, and Coors.

A table devoted to bottles of white and red wine, In Your Eye whiskey, rum, vodka, gin, and mixins. Tomato, lemon, and orange juice. Sprite and Pepsi. Ice cubes and tongs.

Yes, just like so many college parties she attended, only with more food and drink going to waste.

The redheaded young woman filled out and signed the credit card slips presented by Alicia and Bran.

As she handed them back, however, the party guests switched from being in random groups talking, laughing, dancing, and smooching, to one crowd clapping their hands in unison while chanting, Go! Go! Go!

What was going on?

A roly-poly blonde woman and a dark-haired man shaped much like the woman except without breasts danced in front of Alicia and Bran, standing together, watching.

The crowd shouted, One! Two! Three!

The man and