Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
Fifty Shades
Of
Jungle Fever
L. V. Lewis
~*~
Jungle Fever Press, Georgia
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 reserved below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of parody and fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used in parody or fictitiously. Any resemblance or similarity to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2012 L. V. Lewis
Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever Volume 1/L. V. Lewis — 1st Ed.
ISBN-10: 1479332321
ISBN-13: 978-1479332328
1. Romance
2. Contemporary
Cover image design by © L. T.
Romantic Couple on back © Suprijono Suharjoto via Dreamstime.com
Vintage Carriage Return © Editorial via Dreamstime.com
Cover template and formatting by L. V. Lewis via CreateSpace
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
DEDICATION
To my family who may think I’ve lost my mind for writing this, but alas, I couldn’t help myself.
~*~
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
Table of Contents
Chapter One 1
Chapter Two 15
Chapter Three 29
Chapter Four 40
Chapter Five 53
Chapter Six 71
Chapter Seven 85
Chapter Eight 102
Chapter Nine 114
Chapter Ten 134
Chapter Eleven 149
The Author 160
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the creator of the phenomenon that is Fifty Shades of Grey, E. L. James, whose story led me to say, “what if . . . ?”
~*~
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Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
Chapter One
I purse my lips in frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my weave—it’s jacked. Time to take out these tracts. My hair has grown out too much anyway. Damn my home girl, Jada Jameson, too, for hogging all the hair product before she began her week in Vegas. She left only a corner of gel in the jar for me to smooth my hair down. I should be getting ready for the opening of our studio and record store; instead I’ve spent all day cramming for an investment meeting.
I twist my mouth into a full-on frown as I gaze at the warm, olive complexion and hazel eyes too luminous for my face staring back at me. “Fuck it,” I say. I wanted to wear my hair down, but I guess a stiff ponytail à la Olympic gymnast, Gabby Douglas, will have to do.
Jada, my roommate and business partner, took off on a red-eye to a weeklong sorority getaway. She left me, the artist, with the least business acumen, to discuss investment in our business with mega-gazillionaire, venture capitalist, Tristan White, alone.
In addition to receiving capital equipment at the studio, I’m in the middle of working my two week notice at La Perla on the Magnificent Mile. I have to take the “L,” Chicago Transit Authority’s elevated rapid transit system, all the way into Downtown to meet Mr. Moneybags, the CEO of White Enterprises, Inc. As an entrepreneur and capital investment broker (or white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth), it’s like winning the fucking lottery to score a meeting—but he granted Jada one. It just happened to be on the first day of her trip, and her plane ticket was nonrefundable.
Jada calls me on my cell phone as I’m preparing to leave.
“Keisha, I’m sorry. With our grand opening just a month away we can’t afford to miss this opportunity. My dad called in a multitude of favors to help us get this meeting, and we may never get another one if we reschedule.” Mr. Jameson, a state senator in Springfield had apparently rubbed elbows, or at the very least, sponsored a senate hearing or two in which Tristan White had been in attendance.
“I know. I’m unpacking equipment in preparation for it every day. Don’t we have enough cash to get by a few months until you can pitch the business to him?”
“As the CFO of this venture, I’m telling you girl, we don’t have the capital to pull this off on our own. The break-even figures don't lie. Please,” Jada begs me in the voice she usually reserves for the men she’s trying to charm.
Even over the phone she’s more charismatic and articulate, (read: savvy enough to converse with the one percent), than I’ll ever be. I ignore my pang of irrational jealousy.
“You know I’m going, Jada. You just do your whatever-happens-in Vegas-stays-there thing, and I’ll handle White; you know what I’m saying?”
“I know you got my back, Keke.” She uses my neighborhood nickname laying it on real thick. “I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”
I roll my eyes at her disingenuousness. “Mm hmm.”
“You’ve got the business plan I prepared, right?”
“Yeah, but you know I don’t know a damn thing about financial statements and break-even analyses.”
“The business plan will speak for itself. Make sure you’re not late catching the ‘L.’ You know, you really should take my car.”
“And get caught up in downtown rush-hour traffic? No, thank you.” I cringe when I think of myself panicking and wrecking her fancy BMW on the Dan Ryan, killing myself.
“Well, good luck, and thanks again, Keisha. I owe you one.”
I slip on my stilettos, grab my bootleg Prada bag, and depart. I usually don't do knockoffs, but this bag was the perfect shade of blue to match my suit. Once on the sidewalk, I immediately begin to ruminate about how I can’t believe I let Jada talk me into this shit. Jada is a phenomenal black woman, and my BFF, but she’s so persuasive; she could talk an Eskimo into buying ice. She’ll be a formidable CFO for Kente Studio Records. I only hope I can measure up as the COO and creative brain of our business venture.
Two years earlier after my father died, the insurance settlement I got from his death burning my pockets, Jada and I smoked a bong on the fire escape of our apartment until we were zoned. We had a philosophical conversation about how the economy was so wack and how we wanted meaningful jobs straight out of college.
We began to brainstorm about what we could do to capitalize on our combined talents. Being a music aficionado and an accomplished musician resulting from my father's Brazilian musical background, and my mother's history as a blues singer, I majored in music composition and performance at DePaul. Jada, a numbers girl, got a dual degree in business and accounting.
We conceived Kente Studio Records, a physical and online recording studio, vinyl shop, and music store, all rolled into one. We wanted an ethnic name that described the various shades of clients to whom we expected to cater. Our music would be for people of all colors.
I settle on the “L” for my trip into the city, and try not to listen to the homeless man in front of me reciting what sounds like Quantum Physics or some shit. He feels obliged to tell us what the maximum load-bearing weight is on the train, what speed we would need to go to get to Waukesha, WI in an hour, and other shit nobody’s even asked him. I tune his nonsensi
cal ass out, because I have my own inner voices whispering in my ear on the regular.
There are two entities that war inside me, but I'm the only one who sees them manifested physically. This may mean I'm certifiable, because they actually communicate with me, but I don’t care. They're like the little football fairies in the DirecTV commercials except without the football gear, and they look much better than Deion Sanders, and his companions, if I have to say so myself.
These are miniature replicas of me that usually sit or hover around on my shoulders, but sometimes I even see them in my mind's eye with extraordinary clarity. On my right shoulder is my Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble, and typically roots for me to do what's right. The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama aka the bad girl, resides on my left shoulder. She generally wants the exact opposite of what my Triple-G finds to be prudent. Yeah, I have an angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other, as good and evil has been depicted for centuries, but who doesn't?
Before I know it, we’re downtown. My destination is Mr. White’s thirty-something story headquarters building in the Loop. The map app on my Smartphone gets me right to the glass doors, on which the name White is emblazoned in what else—white letters. It’s a quarter to five when I arrive; glad I’m not rocking CP, or colored people time today. The lobby is spartanly decorated in white and black leathers, stones, and chrome contemporary furnishings, which sort of remind me of the yin and yang symbol.
Behind a black, marble desk sits an attractive, androgynous man. I feel as if I’m trying to get into a gay nightclub, and he’s the bouncer.
“I’m here to see Mr. White. Keisha Beale with Kente Studio Records.” Absent one Jada Jameson.
“Excuse me one moment, Ms. Beale.” He clicks open a file on his white Mac Book. I don’t feel self-conscious at all because I know I look fly in my navy power suit. The pencil skirt hugging my generous, round apple-bottom is lost on the receptionist, whose hand movements are more graceful than my own. There is no doubt he is gay.
“You’re early,” he says stating the obvious. “Please sign in using the Electronic signature pad, Ms. Beale. The fourth Elevator bank will carry you to the thirty-second floor.” As I sign in, he pastes on a friendly, perfunctory smile.
He reaches into a drawer and hands me a white badge that has “White Enterprises TEMPORARY I.D.” printed on the front, bearing a single magnetic strip on the back.
I arch an eyebrow.
“You’ll need it to access the elevator to the penthouse office suites,” he explains.
I thank him, and walk over to the elevator bank guarded by security personnel that look like secret-service men in dark suits, with conspicuous communications earpieces seated in their ears.
The elevator conveys me at warp speed to the thirty-second floor. The lobby there eclipses the one on the first floor. I am greeted by another impeccably-groomed effeminate man behind a granite desk.
“Miss Beale, please wait here.” He says, orchestrating an elaborate spokesmodel-esque sweep of his hand toward a cluster of black leather chairs.
Across from the chairs where I’m seated is a concave window with a view of the Chicago skyline which overlooks the city toward Lake Michigan. I feel as if I’m seated in front of The Bean, the skyline looks so distorted and close. I drool at the view.
So, this is how the one percent lives?
I go over the business plan while I’m waiting, calling Jada every kind of bitch I can conjure for not providing me any additional information on the man I’m about to meet. He could look like Eric Northman that sexy vampire on True Blood, or Gandalf the Grey from Lord of the Rings, for all I know. I have no idea. I should’ve checked him out on the internet. I hope like hell he’s an Alexander Skarsgard look alike, because if I’m going to mack on him, I at least want his ass to be handsome.
I’ve also lived vicariously through movie and book characters since I was a child, sort of as a coping mechanism. As life throws me curve balls, I have an endless fount of pop culture references to draw from that, for all intents and purposes, keep me sane.
My nerves get the better of me, and I chew a piece of gum to calm them. When I pop the gum, it sounds as if I’ve detonated a bomb in the lobby. The receptionist looks impassively up at me, and I swallow the gum, accompanied by a gulp I’m sure he can hear across the room.
I have never been fully comfortable around white people, not to mention the rich. I grew up on the south side of Chicago—a ghetto girl with lofty dreams. I prefer chilling with my homeys to perpetrating in the business world. To be honest, I’m even better alone, listening to tunes on my iPod, or better yet, vinyl—dancing, and writing my own songs—not sitting in a sterile office building waiting to ask a rich white man for money to start my dream business.
I purse my lips. Stop tripping, Beale. Judging from the aesthetic of the building, I guess that White’s in his sixties: from old Chicago money, the country-club set, white-gray hair, and gay as the rest of his personnel.
Another well-dressed dude comes out of the door on my left. What is it with all these men who look as if they get grooming tips from the artist formerly known as Prince?
“I’m Darryl Sykes, Mr. White’s personal assistant. Mr. White will see you momentarily, Ms. Beale. He’s wrapping up his previous meeting.” He says. “Can I get you anything? We have water, sparkling water, organic coffee, oolong tea . . .” He’s about to continue his list of refreshments when I stop him.
“Nothing, thank you.”
He retreats from whence he came, and I begin to sing a Maxwell song in my head.
While humming "Pretty Wings," I marvel at Mr. White’s office staff. Doesn’t he realize this setup is an EEOC law suit waiting to happen? The ACLU, the NAACP and all the alphabets would jump on his ass in a heartbeat if someone reported him.
When the door opens on my right, a tall, biracial woman exits. I immediately recognize her by the signature blonde micro-braids. She’s Princess Danai, the rapper. “See you at Wicked next Friday, Tristan?” My mouth falls open.
“Maybe,” comes the faint reply in a smooth, surprising baritone. Princess Danai closes the door, and upon seeing me, smiles and hands me a CD. “I’m doing a live show next Friday night at Wicked. You should come,” she says.
I take this opportunity, which I’m hoping will be the first of many, to promote Kente Studio Records. “I might just, if you can hook a sistah up with some backstage passes.”
“Mr. White is ready for you, Ms. Beale,” the receptionist says. “You may go in now.”
I stand up. Princess Danai looks me up-and-down, fishes into the pocket of her low-slung, linen cargo pants, and hands me a lanyard bearing three badges. “Yo, what’s your first name?”
“Keisha.”
“See you next Friday, Keisha Beale.” She strolls onto the waiting elevator and winks at me. I heard she batted for the other team, and her scrutiny, topped off by a sexy wink, seals it for me. I manage a nervous half-smile as the doors close on her brilliant one.
I scoop up my bag, the binder which holds our business plan, and walk to the door. I take a deep breath, open the door, and walk smack into a man who is at least a foot taller than me in my ambitious hooker heels.
“Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” I hope my apology is heartfelt and profuse enough so he won’t be ticked off at me. “I should’ve knocked first.”
“No problem, Ms. Jameson.” His brawny hands encircle my petite biceps, which I am proud to say are more toned than Michelle Obama’s. Once he’s sure I’m steady, he takes a step back. “I’m Tristan White.”
My eyes travel up to an undeniably handsome face, all chiseled features, dimpled chin and sun-drenched bedhead with sharp blue eyes. They then move back down a six-foot plus body occupying a kick-ass, tailored summer suit. Against his tanned skin, a crisp white shirt is accessorized by a tie in brown multi. Me, my Triple-G, and my Fairy Hoochie Mama—the whole trifecta—become riveted by the most delectable specim
en of man we’ve ever had the good fortune to encounter.
I take entirely too long to respond.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
“Yes. I’m fine.” And so are you! I wave him off, and project what I hope is a sophisticated nonchalance but, in my mind, I’m comparing him to Brad Pitt’s character in Legends of the Fall, the only other Tristan I’ve ever had the pleasure of fantasizing about. I would be his fucking Isabel II any day of the week.
“I grew up kicking it with four brothers who played sports. It would take more than that to put me down for the count.” I realize I’m babbling like an idiot, so I offer him my hand to shake.
Damn he looks so familiar!
His touch, good looks, and youth unnerve me more than our collision. When his eyes crinkle questioningly, I close my gaping mouth and kick-start my stuttering heart again.
"Are you Nathan White's brother?" He looks uncannily like the point guard for the Chicago Bulls, except Tristan’s hair is shorter.
"Yes, we're twins."
That explains it. I decide to play it chill and not act like a rabid fan. “Oh. Um, Ms. Jameson is out of town,” I explain instead. “So, I’m taking the meeting for Kente Studio Records solo. I’m Keisha Beale.”
“And your role in the business would be?” His voice is deep and sonorous, sort of like my Dad’s when he wasn’t manic. His implacable expression doesn't clue me in on how he's receiving just me and not Jada, as well. She is the one after all who pursued him. For months.
“Chief Operating Officer. Well—Jada, I mean, Ms. Jameson gave us those distinguished titles. We’re partners.”
He gestures toward the binder in my hand. “Your business plan, I presume?”
“Oh yes,” I say and hand it to him. He maneuvers to close the door over my head, and his chin is inches from my line of sight. I close my eyes and breathe in his intoxicating scent. The cologne he’s wearing makes me want to lick that clean shaven, dimpled chin.