I haven’t been up in this space in a while and I can’t recall the last time I did some serious blogging – probably my Love Letter to Rihanna. I could be a punk and blame my silence on writing JUMA and editing DUTCH and beginning DEATH, but the fact of it is I’ve just gotten a little lazy about blogging.
And I don’t know why because I’ve always loved this space, but the reality of it is I’ve been scarce and the traffic on these pages has been minimal. Sure, I’ve posted the random poem here and there, but even that hasn’t happened with any sort of consistency.
This morning, intending to reverse this trend, I considered a revival of my “Thursday Thoughts” posts. Considered being the key word in that sentence because although those posts are an easy and quick fix, they hardly get me hot and bothered about blogging.
Then today as I was sitting in my office lawyering – and fighting with a Trump troll on Twitter – it hit me: AMAL
My little experiment in writing about humans and love and sex, my contemporary adult romance exercise that bored me to tears as I wrote it because all I wanted was to strap a machete to Amal’s back and turn Andrew into some kind of sexed-up, hot as fuck shifter. But contemporary adult romance is about humans and humans don’t morph into other beings at will and although some of us might carry a blade on a daily basis, it’s usually not a poison-tipped machete named Bonnie.
AMAL, my love triangle romance, or at least I think it’s a love triangle. It could very well turn into a ménage, mostly because I’m a horribly filthy-minded girl and nothing satisfies that aspect of my personality more than a little group sex. But for now it’s a love triangle made up of fabulously gorgeous humans who like nothing better than to fuck with each other…and fuck each other.
Anyway, this ditty will never see the light of day because this writer-girl cannot abide the mundane world of Manhattan sans magic murder and mayhem. So I figured instead of letting it sit on my laptop, unfinished and unread by anyone except my fellow WRITE BITCHES, Laura and Kayti, why not post it to my blog…as a series…of snippets.
So that’s the plan. Once or twice a week, I’ll post a little of AMAL, y’all can read it, and maybe if you’re feeling generous or verbose, you’ll leave me some comments, your thoughts, ideas, suggestions. Feedback – every author loves it, we never get enough of it.
Although now that I think about it, how fair is it to want feedback when I don’t know how much more of Amal and Jackson and Andrew I can bear to write…
But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now, let me shut the fuck up and post my first snippet.
CHAPTER ONE – AMAL
We were young, fresh, and happy. We were laughter, light, and love. We fit together, everything about us complimented the other, we were everyone’s ideal. Jackson Rashard Davis and Amal Warrier Naipal. The perfect couple. Until we became a threesome.
“Every woman on this campus takes David Andersen’s course.”
Spoken with amused disdain, and a low growl of a whisper, masculine and deep, meant for my ears only, as if the fact I held Professor Andersen’s syllabus in my hand both irked and disappointed. Any other moment in my twenty-one years of living on this planet, a stranger getting so close, invading my space the way this one did, warm breath on my neck, heat at my back, would have resulted in all kinds of fuckery. But this stranger’s voice did things to me, made it difficult to put up my walls and lash out in irritation, so instead of stepping out of his orbit and away from his trespass, I found myself welcoming it with a slight curve of my mouth and a rasp in my voice.
“That is because every woman on this campus dreams of fucking David Andersen.”
For two beats of reality, I wasn’t living it. For two beats of reality, I stepped outside myself and became someone else. Those two beats became everything.
The stranger chuckled and I melted and silently asked myself, what the fuck, Amal? Since when did faceless men with deep voices and perfect enunciation affect me? Without turning his way, I could picture him already: blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect haircut, button-down shirt, navy blazer. Upper East Side. Blueblood. Looking to amuse himself, dip his toe into the colorpool before running back to whatever blonde-haired, blue-eyed Chrissy waited back home.
His question shook me from the thoughts banging around in my head and I jumped, only to feel his low laughter behind me.
He was standing so close, like he had the right, as if it was okay to share my space. As if I wanted to share it with him. And I would have gotten mad but he smelled so fucking good and I forgot myself. Any righteous indignation I would have thrown at another who dared get so close dissipated into the air between us.
“Including me,” I agreed with a smirk as I stepped to the register to pay for my books, hardly wanting to fuck the professor but definitely wanting to fuck with this man. He moved with me, I knew this because that heat and his scent remained wrapped all around me, making it difficult to focus on my books or my change or much of anything besides him.
And that was wrong because I was Amal Warrier Naipaul, future best-selling author, current Barnard senior, girlfriend of Columbia graduate student, Jackson Rashard Davis.
That tall, perfectly sculpted, dark brown, beautiful catch of a man who sauntered up to me in that club downtown, cupped my ass, pulled me close, and proceeded to fuck my ears with all kinds of delicious wickedness. I had melted into him that night, my lack of inhibition a product of too much studying, too much Johnny Walker, and not enough sleep.
We danced and kissed and dry-humped each other silly in that alley and just when he probably thought he was going to get some and it was going to be easy, because he was beautiful and women were a dime a dozen, I pushed his hand away from my panties, straightened my skirt, and blew him a kiss.
“Goodnight, Jackson Rashard Davis,” I smiled and walked backwards, biting my lip and watching him watch me because he was too fucking sexy not to watch.
He stood in that alley, a crooked grin curving his lips, and ran his hand over his head, contemplating me and my blue-balls-inspiring departure. “Goodnight, Amal Warrier Naipaul.”
I stopped for two beats, then turned and walked back to him as my girlfriends bemoaned my change-of-heart. Grabbing his shirt, I pulled him down to me, and kissed him long and hard and deep. Because after remembering my full name, a simple detail almost always overlooked by damn near everyone who crossed my path, and saying it like it mattered, he deserved that kiss and because after remembering my full name, and saying it like it mattered, I wanted him to keep remembering it. And me. For a long time.
“Call me,” I whispered before running back to join my girls and disappear into the waning minutes of the night.
“I don’t have your number,” he called out.
I turned back one more time and smiled, “work it out, smart boy.”
And he did just that, tracking me down on campus, the same campus unbeknownst to each other we shared, because he was Jackson Rashard Davis, he was perfect, and when he decided he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly until it became his. I didn’t require anything close to relentless – I was kind of his the second he spoke my name with that gleam in his eye.
So why was this man, this faceless man and his sexy voice and his warm breath and his scent, good fucking god, his scent – why was this man making me forget all of my days and nights with Jackson, all of my I love yous, your mines, and we belong together forevers? And why was I Ietting him?
There you go. A little taste, a tease of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Come back in the next few days – or a week, or a month – for another installment.