Chapter 17

Dawn broke, warm with clouds in the sky. I sat on the patio sipping coffee while Rufus did his business, meandering through the flowerbeds, around bushes, and inspecting tree trunks. The daily L.A. Times lay on the table unopened. A very unusual event was forecast; rain. I’d believe it when I see it. Early August was far too hot for precipitation.

I thought back to the conversation Amelia and I had had two morning ago.

I’d woken up to find Amelia awake and naked in my arms, a wholly wonderful way to greet the day. She’d studied my face and smiled softly.

“I think I’d like us to go all the way, Mike ... make love,” she said seriously. “Can we?”

Despite a knee-jerk reaction to agree, I didn’t. The memory of how small her pussy was had lingered in my mind. “I think you’re too young.”

“I’m not,” she answered immediately, still serious.

“I didn’t mean young that way. You’re too small.”

“I’m five feet and four inches tall. I’m not too small,” she informed me.

Grinning, combing her dark, shorn hair back, I clarified. “I mean down there. Too small to take me.”

“Oh.” Silence followed. “Can we try?”

I kissed her brow. “I think it would hurt a lot.”

Her finger touched my lips and traced the edges. “I’d like to try, Mike. Don’t you want to have sex with me?”

I did. I really, really did. However, the thought of causing her pain outweighed my desire. “Yes, I want to. But give me a couple of days. I need to check something.”

Amelia smiled, eyes bright. “Kay. Friday night, Mike,” she informed me, as if I didn’t know what day that would be.

Today was Friday. I’d researched about sex and young girls. As it happens, fourteen-year-old girls are capable of having intercourse. All the references I could find talked about emotional maturity being the most critical aspect, that real love, not a crush or infatuation, made first times better. So physically, Amelia was capable. I knew she loved me. Emotionally she was capable. But was I?

She was back there, behind me, still sleeping in my bed. Did I want to make love to her? Hell, yes! Did I have enough self-control not to hurt her? Hell no! And that was the dilemma I wrestled with. She could kiss me into a fog of desire, that state where I forget, where I want, where I become selfish.

The cordless phone trilled on the table. I checked my watch. Six-fifteen. Early.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mike. You’re up early,” Peter said.

“If you thought I’d still be in bed, why call this early?”

A moment of silence ensued. He really could say the nuttiest things.

“Good point,” he finally admitted. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this. Amelia’s trending on Twitter.”

Had I entered the twilight zone? Maybe I needed more coffee. “She’s doing what on what?” I asked.

“Trending, Mike. On Twitter? ... The Internet? ... Social media? ... One hundred and forty characters?”

“Oh. Got it. I heard about that. How can anything intelligent be expressed in a hundred and forty characters?”

“That’s not the point. Hashtag Amelia Destiny and hashtag A Song To My Parents is trending!” Peter informed me excitedly.

I was still confused. “Trending how?”

“Jesus, Mike. Someday you need to join us in the 21st century. Trending means she’s a hot topic.”

“Why?”

“The video of her singing on YouTube. Can you believe she’s had almost a million hits?”

“A million what? Hey! Hold on! How did that video get on the Internet?”

Another silence. “I posted it,” Peter finally said.

A burst of anger hit me. He’d gone too far this time, invading our privacy. “I can’t believe you’d do that without permission, Peter,” I snarled.

“Hey! Take a chill pill! I did have permission. I asked Amelia. She said to go ahead.”

“Sorry. It’s early. I haven’t finished my coffee.” I took a sip, hoping caffeine would hit my brain soon. “So what’s the big deal?” I asked.

“Big deal? Amelia’s a star! I’ve had calls from the media. Even Ellen’s booking agent called. They want her on the show.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’, Mike? Maybe you should ask Amelia what she wants.”

“No. I’m her guardian and I’m telling you, no. She’s fourteen years old, for God’s sake!”

Peter grew firm. “I’m going to talk to her. Is she awake?”

Drawing a deep breath, I tried again. “Peter, she’s still a kid. She doesn’t need this distraction. Her plate is full as is. And I don’t want her in the spotlight so young. It never works.”

Peter was silent for a moment. “Okay. I’ll brush off all the calls.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“No. Are you coming into the office today?”

“I think I’ll skip it,” I advised him. Somehow my mood had deteriorated. I cut the connection and dropped the cordless phone onto the glass tabletop, my mind preoccupied.

Rufus barked and raced back from the end of the garden, tail wagging. Amelia must have woken up.

“Hi, Rufus,” she said. Her arms wrapped around me from behind. “Hi.” She kissed my cheek. “Can you make me breakfast?”

“Okay.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Amelia followed me into the kitchen, parking her butt on an island counter stool.

“What do you want?” I asked, still upset with the news about her music video. I couldn’t understand why it bothered me. Perhaps it was the threat of a media spotlight being shone on us, the risk of discovery; a Roman Polanski-like future. Or was it the threat of how attention would change Amelia? She was so sweetly innocent, with no trace of arrogance or entitlement. Media attention - stardom - always came with a price, especially when young. The thought of Amelia turning into a diva worried me.

“Fried eggs and sausages,” she announced. “With toast, please. So what’s bothering you?”

Pulling out the frying pan, hunting in the refrigerator, and setting up, I asked, “Did you tell Peter he could post that video of you singing on the Internet?”

Amelia looked confused. “Yes. Why? He asked if he could. What do I care?”

“Maybe you want to be famous,” I suggested.

“Why would I want that?”

“You love singing. Don’t you want people to hear your songs?”

Amelia stared at me, her gray eyes inquisitive, a serious expression on her pretty face. “Is that what’s bothering you? Me maybe being famous?”

“No ... Well, yeah. You’re still so young. I love you the way you are. Fame changes people.”

Amelia thought about it. “You really are clueless, Mike. I want to sing, and maybe write music, too. But, I only need an audience of three; Mom, Dad, and you. I don’t care about anyone else.”

Eggs sizzled when I cracked them into the hot frying pan. The toaster popped. I turned the sausages in the second pan, browning the other sides.

“That’s what almost every celebrity thinks before fame hits.”

“Mike?” Amelia paused, waiting for me to look at her. Her face was very serious. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m scared of performing alone in front of people. I don’t want to. A video doesn’t bother me. So, see?”

I didn’t see. Almost every actor I’d worked with suffers nerves before a performance. Their acting was more compelling for it. Egos inflated post-performance, when they bathed in the adulation and attention after the fact. I didn’t think Amelia understood.

“You’re trending on Twitter. Peter called this morning to tell me. Your video has been watched almost a million times,” I informed her, plating breakfast.

“Really?” she asked, eyes bright.

I slid a plate across the counter to her. Resting my hip against the island counter, I took a bite of egg and nodded. I didn’t like the brightness in her eyes.

“Eat,” I ordered.

“Boy, you’re in a pissy mood,” Amelia observed. “Drink some more coffee.” She started eating.

My grumpiness followed me through the morning and into early afternoon; an unpleasant, prickly ghost haunting me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was on the cusp of changing just as I was finding happiness and fulfillment with Amelia. Even her laughter and play with Rufus didn’t bring my spirits up.

Just past three in the afternoon, as I puttered around in the kitchen - my day having been completely unproductive and unsatisfactory - Amelia emerged with her iPhone.

She smiled at me, her magnetic eyes twinkling. “I’ve got something that will make you feel better.”

She dropped her iPhone into the dock on our music system and swiped the screen, tapping something. She was dressed for early August heat; sky blue shorts, bare feet, and a matching sky blue and pale green short-sleeved cotton top. She was a study in gorgeous, her dark, shorn hair feathery with soft spikes, frameless glasses adding to her elfin-like cuteness, and a slender, very attractive adolescent body. She was perfect. My mood darkened.

“Ready?” she asked brightly.

I nodded.

She tapped the iPhone and dance music started, a light electronic bop. Bright, electric keyboard notes joined in, and, when drums and bass added a deep, rhythmic beat, Amelia smiled at me and began to sing, accompanying the singer on the stereo. Amelia’s voice was more powerful, more radiant, and much more compelling.

With a bright, bright grin, Amelia started dancing as she moved into the chorus; her nutty, wonky, loose-limbed dance that, with music, became mesmerizing, absorbing, and so damn cute. I laughed with delight. Her eyes twinkled with pleasure.

Amelia smiled sneakily, stopped dancing, her hips now moving in time with the tempo. She pointed her finger at me. Damn, she was communicating with music again!

I couldn’t help laughing when she started dancing again at the chorus; her manic, loose-limbed, fascinating movement was riveting.

The song ended. My chest ached with love and adoration. I was grinning like a fool. Amelia was cute and sexy, and bursting with personality when she sang.

It hit me. All my objections to her being a public personality were driven by jealousy. I didn’t want to share her. In that moment, I realized Amelia was Amelia, unique and different and unstoppable. She’d always be Amelia no matter what happened.

“What was that song?” I asked. “I don’t recognize it.”

“David Guetta’s Night of Your Life. Jennifer Hudson sings it. So? Did you get the message?” Amelia asked, smiling at me, eyes bright.

“Yeah. You’ll always be you, no matter how famous you’re going to be.”

Amelia’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re so clueless, Mike!”

“What?”

Amelia grinned at me and sang a cappella; without music accompaniment.

“Oh! That.”

She grinned. “Yeah. Oh. That. It’s Friday, Mike!”

Suddenly my day brightened. We were going to make love! Sexy Amelia and me! Amelia sashayed over to me, eyes twinkling. She moved close, looked up at me, her arms slipping around my waist. She smiled.

Bending my head down, I kissed her gently, lips brushing, a soft loving touch. She hugged me, pressing her cheek to my chest when the kiss ended.

“Tonight, Mike. I’m so excited.”

Now I was, too. I gave her a tight hug, loving how she fit against me, the top of her head under my chin.

The rest of the afternoon and evening couldn’t pass fast enough. Amelia was her usual self, but to me, she was ever more sexy, her bare legs long, her small feet cute, toenails painted sky blue to match her short shorts. Her cotton top draped suggestively hinting at the delicate mounds of her breasts, and, in a moment of weakness, I cupped one in passing just to check. Amelia laughed brightly and twisted away. Yup. No bra. That only enhanced my desire; they were so firm they hardly moved when she did.

By eight-thirty, I was fidgeting on the couch. Light rain had arrived, enough to tease a parched Los Angeles, but not sate its voracious thirst. It was still light outside. I couldn’t wait.

Standing, I grabbed Amelia’s hand and pulled her up off the couch. “We’re going to bed. Now,” I insisted firmly.

Amelia laughed brightly. “Okay.” She stood, eyes glistening with amusement. Clearly, she liked being desired.

Waiting in bed, I was partially erect. Amelia had tugged her hand out of mine and disappeared into her room. I was excited and impatient. Rufus trotted into the bedroom, heralding Amelia’s arrival, and jumped onto the foot of the bed, tail wagging as he grinned at me, tongue hanging. He chuffed at me. Maybe he was talking, telling me what a lucky bastard I was.