An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 4

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I’m back.

Back from the shock and despair, the disbelief and fear of the election results. I’m coming to terms with this new Amerikkka, this one built upon the falsehood that is the electoral college, by chanting in my head like a mantra

SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE
SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE
SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE

But I needed a night to be quiet, chat with a friend, watch The Kid and his crew destroy my house in their liberated, free-from-this-madness-because-they-trust-we’ll-protect-them, anarchic play. I needed to turn inward, to scroll instead of comment, to listen to music. I needed to turn off the lights. I needed to dance.

I did all of that and you know what?

I woke up this morning, still scared and curious about what is to become of me and The Kid and The Daughter in this Amerikkka that has made it pretty clear it doesn’t like our brownness, and realized one thing: National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo 2016, has gone nowhere. It’s still sitting there, waiting for my daily word count updates, challenging me with my writer buddies’ ever-growing novels, taunting me like the monster it is.

And I smiled and said yes, let’s do this.

Well first I said she won the popular vote and then I said fuck Trump and then I said let’s do this.

But before I get to NaNoWriMo-ing my little heart out, it’s time for another taste of AMAL, that weird writerly thing called Contemporary Romance I considered giving a shot until I realized my writing world cannot exist without blood and blades and badass demons running through the streets.


CHAPTER THREE – AMAL

Three years of dating Jackson Davis meant I had three years under my belt of his father’s lavish parties, red carpets, award shows, and all kinds of other trappings of the rich and famous. Three Oscars and seven Emmys made for some serious swagger and the elder Davis threw it around like the best of them. 

For a girl who avoided her own family’s fundraising events on the Hamptons and at Lincoln Center like the plague, the fact I attended much of the same with Jackson was an irony not at all lost on me. In the beginning, I did it because I loved him and there was nothing more I wanted to do than go everywhere together. But as we settled into the comfortable spaces of our union, I balked more often than not at the invites and entreaties, preferring my laptop and camera, the beautiful solitude of my imagination, to the Tribeca lofts and glittering soirees. 

So as we stood on the precipice of the first party together in almost half a year, laughing and touching, licking and sucking, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden need to catch my breath and prepare myself for the bullshit on the other side of those doors.

“You’ll be fine,” Jackson squeezed my hand and kissed me, “because you’re goddamned brilliant and every man and woman in that room is going to be putty in your hands,” he kissed my fingers and licked the shell of my ear, soaking my panties for the umpteenth time that evening.

“If I give you the look, will you fuck me in the bathroom, no questions asked?”

“Amal Naipaul, I will fuck you any time, any place,” he smirked and pressed me to him, pushing his big dick into my body, letting me know he was not playing. Jackson then released my waist, interlaced our fingers, and opened the door.

Music, laughter, the tinkling of glasses and ice, a host of party cacophony greeted us as we entered the room. The perfect couple, impeccably dressed, him in Hickey Freeman, me in Burberry Prorsum, gorgeous smiles, firm handshakes, genuine laughter. We worked half the room side by side in seconds flat, then split to joke with friends, rub shoulders with actors, talk politics with directors. It was the shit I hated, and the arena where Jackson excelled. Smooth and sexy, gregarious and charming, he was a wonder to watch, a force of nature to be reckoned with. Every so often he would glance my direction, toss me a conspiratorial smile, touch the small of my back as he passed. Tiny ways of letting me know he knew. 

“You good? Because you look goddamned edible,” he whispered to me as he crossed behind on his way to greet his graduate school advisor.

“I am,” I smiled and winked, “edible, that is.”

Jackson’s eyes flashed dangerously for a second and I knew if we were near the bathroom just then, we would have fucked each other stupid. Instead, I settled for his warm palm on my ass in plain view of everyone in the room, heating my blood and making my nipples hard. 

“Stop it,” I laughed as he glanced at my chest and smirked, knowing his effect on my body and mind.

“Never,” he replied and then was off, so serious and studious as he pulled his advisor into his magnetic web, impressing the woman, probably making her wish she could do a little more than advise him.

I turned to catch up with a writer I knew, smiling to myself about Jackson and his everything, when out of the corner of my eye, a hint of black stopped me in my tracks, hitched my breath, and froze me in the moment. The party raged around me but I hardly noticed, oblivious to most everything but a waiter floating by with a tray of whiskey. And that hint of black. I grabbed a glass, tossed back the drink in two gulps, then went for another, my sobriety be damned. 

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathed deeply, then searched and found Jackson across the room, needing to ground myself in the familiar, in the norm. He and his advisor were huddled close, laughter on his lips as a smile curved hers. She wore her age well, striking and regal, a mixture of good genes and good luck wrapped in Victoria Beckham, bejeweled in someone I wouldn’t know even if I tried. I wondered whether Jackson ever thought of her as he fucked me and just as quickly I realized I would love to watch Jackson fuck her and just as quickly, I knew I was drumming up all sorts of ridiculous fantasies to avoid that hint of black glimpsed seconds ago from the corner of my eye.

Him.

The man from the bookstore all those months back with that voice of gravel and smoke and those eyes that stripped me naked and fucked me blind without touching me at all. The man I wondered about at the most random moments. The man I hoped never again to see because the fact remained, he did things to me.  

He wore a suit and I could only see his back, but the touch of ink peeking out from his shirtsleeves and the way he stood, as if he should have a skateboard in his hand instead of a lowball, told me all I needed to know. 

The wrist-kisser. 

Mr. Downtown to my imagined Upper East Side. 


And there you have it – part IV of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because like I said before, ugh…humans…they’re so boring.

At least these humans didn’t vote for Trump.

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4 thoughts on “An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 4

  1. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 5 | Madhuri Writes

  2. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 7 | Madhuri Writes

  3. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 8 | Madhuri Writes

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