An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 5


I’m watching episode 4 of The Walking Dead, the one where Negan visits Alexandria and I know I shouldn’t like him, but my dark twisted soul rather loves him. He’s such an asshole and does all kinds of evil shit with that smirk on his face, looking all tall and sexy.

And when he met Father Gabriel – ha. I laughed aloud at his “creepy smile” comment – I’ve always thought the same about Gabriel – creepy.

Anyway, I’m going to keep watching Rick look sad and pathetic in the face of Negan’s sadistic, disgusting, horrifying behavior while y’all read some more of my Amal-Jackson-Andrew love triangle.

Oh, and for those of you just joining the party, here are parts ONE TWO THREE FOUR



“Amal! Oh my goodness,” warm arms surrounded me and my cheeks were kissed, not once, not twice, but three times, “my smutty little filth-monster. Look at you, lovie, studying that very bad boy over there. Thinking up another one of your tales of sex and bondage?”

Reena Amado, my god-sister and freak of nature, with her ass that stopped traffic and waist I swear I could put my hands around if she would let me try. My godparents and Jackson’s parents were friendly enough that bumping into her here was not a surprise, caught ogling another man certainly was. My cheeks flushed pink as a vehement denial played along the tip of my tongue, but before I could make any excuses, tell any lies, Reena waved me off with her perfectly manicured, hennaed and bejeweled hand.

“He’s gorgeous,” she whispered for my ears only but before she could say anything more revelatory, I hushed her.

“Stop. Don’t do it.”

Reena leaned away and gave me a once-over, a wicked gleam in her eye, before moving close and whispering, “don’t do what, sweet girl?”

I glanced at Jackson again, still wrapped up in whatever his advisor had to say, then returned my gaze to the tall tatted man in the perfectly fitted suit, the man who haunted my most private thoughts and filthy desires, the man I needed to keep at a distance.

“Don’t tell me his name,” I finally managed to utter, my breath trapped in my lungs, my voice sounding more plea than demand. 

Reena raised a perfectly shaped brow in my direction, then kissed my cheek, and continued as if our exchange never occurred, as if I did not just suggest another man – one who was not my very perfect boyfriend of three years – did things to me.

“Like I was saying, he’s stunning,” and we both glanced his way, because it was impossible not to, “and a total whore, but aren’t we all? They call him one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, so you can imagine the pussy coming his way, from all directions. He has two older brothers, lawyers,” and here she rolled her eyes because Reena hated lawyers, “and his dad, CEO of some shipping company. His mom was a professor at NYU, but she passed away when he was a teenager, which gives the mothering types total girl wood, thinking they can fill some feminine void in his life.”

Reena laughed and swiped a glass of champagne off a tray as it passed without missing a beat, looking impish and sexy and chic all at once.

“That man has no voids in his life, just look at him,” and we both stared again, watching as he moved towards two model-types and a politician. He seemed genuinely interested in their conversation and I briefly wondered if he was more Upper East Side than he let on. But when the waiter came around with a new tray of drinks and everyone’s attention was turned, he stole a glance at his watch and grimaced and I knew: downtown all day. 

“Nobody who looks like that has voids in their life,” Reena whispered into my ear, mischief on her tongue, her eyes full of mirth. 

I pushed her like I used to when we were kids and she was talking nonsense.

“Stop being so superficial,” I replied in a semi-serious voice, then I pulled her close and rested my hand on her ass.

“I knew you would cop a feel. I was just wondering what took you so long,” she joked and I kissed her and we laughed, our attention diverted from Mr. Downtown, ensconced in our bubble of sisterhood, our girl gang of two.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I whispered and she kissed me again, “me, too, baby girl.”

We joked and talked shit about everyone at the party until both of us were nicely drunk, highly amused, and fit to outbursts of silly laughter. And when the woman with ebony skin and eyes like fire caught Reena’s attention and held her stare for two beats longer than most, I knew my god-sister was gone. Reena squeezed my hand, whispered something incredibly dirty in my ear, kissed my neck, and moved through the crowd toward her conquest for the evening, leaving me alone with my giggles and an Old Fashioned.

“You surviving?” Jackson’s voice caressed my ear as he slid in next to me, a smile on his lips as he cupped my ass, “because if I don’t fuck you soon, I’m going to die.”

I leaned into him and brushed his lips with mine, “I have been told my pussy is deadly.”

He groaned and I knew he was imagining me pressed against some wall, skirt hitched around my waist, my peaked nipple in his mouth while he big-dicked me fast and hard and like we both liked it.

“Worth dying for every goddamned time,” he whispered and squeezed my ass before moving towards his aunt and father and someone else they probably wanted him to meet. I had already suffered through our awkward, obligatory hellos, there was no need to throw myself at their feet again, so I stayed put and watched their faces light up as Jackson approached. 

God, he had that affect on everyone, I thought to myself as I sipped my drink and watched him work his magic. I relaxed into the sounds of the party, the constant chatter and laughter and underneath all of it, a steady beat maintained by the brilliance of Thelonious Monk. The music pooled in my blood, sunk into my soul, and made me forget most everything but that beat, that melody, that perfect rhythm. 


“Amal Warrier Naipaul, have you fucked your professor yet?”

And there you have it – part V of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. There’s more to come, pun intended.

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