"Amelia Jones: American Beauty"
Alice scoffed at the poster hanging up, shaking her head at the girl portrayed on the faded paper. Her hips were wide and her breasts were big. Curly hair fell in perfect ringlets down her shoulders, and her lips were plush and probably the brightest shade of red in real life, reduced to only a mere yellowed black and white. Eyes half-lidded seductively, Miss Jones was practically a sex doll in that tight dress cut to reveal one thick thigh. Alice's eyes were stuck on the actress' legs, her fascination hardly masked.
What was there to learn from this joke? Miss Jones probably didn't even have a brain in that pretty little head of hers. Alice couldn't have cared any less about her personal life or achievements, but her boss had insisted on writing an article.
"A true story of the American dream," Alice had to listen to that morning without vomiting all over her new shoes. "Absolutely amazing for a woman to achieve so soon in her life." Yes, so amazing. Amelia Jones was nineteen and already had men cumming in their pants at her pictures in the magazines. Alice snorted and rolled her eyes.
"Miss Jones?" Alice called, knocking on the wooden door with her fist. Her knuckles ached, but she absolutely refused to use the brass knocker. Who the hell would want to live every day of their life knowing they used a knocker in the shape of a handbag?
No one answered.
Alice scratched her head and adjusted the strap of her camera that weighed down her shoulders. "Miss Jones!" She gave up on knocking and instead started kicking the door with her leather shoe. "Goddamn," Alice hissed, glancing to the side to make sure no one heard her. "Miss Jo-"
The door swung open, and Alice's foot slammed into something thick and sturdy. "Holy fuck-" the door-opener gasped.
"Oh my god," Alice said, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "I-I am so sorry-
But the person leaning down to rub their ankle was stunning, frizzy hair pulled up and large ass sticking up in the air. Alice's eyes grew huge, her cheeks flushing with warmth and her hormones were going out of control. "It's- Christ, there's a knocker, you know?" The person straightened up, and of course, it was none other than-
"Miss Jones," Alice blurted, sticking out her hand. "I-I'm Alice Kirkland, the, um, the reporter. We spoke on the phone? And, my god, I am so sorry about your leg."
"It's fine," Miss Jones insisted. Still, she lifted her left foot a little into the air as she limped forward to shake Alice's hand. "Please, drop the stage name. It's Amelia."
"Amelia." The name sounded much different out loud than in Alice's head. She had never actually said it herself other than sarcastically to her friends and coworkers in conversation.
"Yes." Amelia put her heel down with a grimace. "Please, come in. Just don't stomp on my cat or anything."
"Of-Of course." Alice stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Amelia gestured at a coat rack beside the entrance before walking towards an entrance, putting most of her weight on her right foot with each step. Alice watched her go before taking her jacket off and carefully putting it on one of the hooks. She hovered around the door, checking the film in her camera and flipping to an empty page in her notebook. After Amelia spent too long in the kitchen, Alice walked away from the door and started to roam around.
The front hall led out into three different halls. Amelia had hobbled through the right hall, so Alice decided to go through the middle. She froze as soon as she stepped into the room, eyes huge. It was gigantic with a staircase that curved up onto a catwalk. The floors were chiseled marble, and gold trim lined the railing of the stairs. Alice walked forward in awe, running her hand along the dark wooden rails.
