Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever Read online

  What the fuck was that?

  “Would you like to sit, Ms. Beale?” My face grows hot as I open my eyes to find he’s looking down at me, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, acutely aware I was almost busted sniffing him. I walk to one of the black stuffed leather chairs facing his desk and take a seat. He surprises me by not going around to his desk, but slides into the chair next to me, unbuttoning his jacket before he sits, his eyes scanning the business plan in his other hand.

  While he’s studying the proposal, I look around his office. It is decorated in the same black and white design as his lobbies, but it’s accessorized with astonishing splashes of vivid color in the four corners of the room—red, yellow, blue and green. A red floral arrangement in a black vase sits in one corner, a yellow sculpture in another, a blue mural behind a corner-shaped fishtank in one, and a green tropical plant in the other.

  The wall behind his desk is a window from floor to ceiling, affording a different view of the downtown skyline. On the wall behind us are pictures of him: at various groundbreakings, flanked by luminaries from the city, with business people around the world, and receiving a bevy of awards.

  When I look back to him, he’s eyeing me with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Primary colors,” I say apropos of nothing. “You’re a man of unassuming tastes in a world of extravagance.”

  “That I am, Ms. Beale,” he agrees.

  “So, what do you think about our business plan?” I ask.

  “You get an A for originality, but I’m afraid you get a D for fiscal viability.” He frowns. “If we take what you intend to do here out of the south side, financial viability goes up to a B plus.”

  “That’s a deal breaker,” I say. “The current location is mortgage-free, and we can’t afford to buy property near Oprah’s business address, or yours.”

  “Who owns this location?”

  “It was my father’s.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes. He left it to me when he passed away two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in a kind tone, then continues his questions. “Who’s fronting the other half of the start-up capital?”

  “Myself, Ms. Jameson and her family.”

  “It’s a terrific idea in principle. The right financial guidance and mentorship would make it even more viable. This could work.”

  “Guidance and mentorship? We’re not in the market for another partner. Ms. Jameson has a dual business degree, complemented by mine in music. The idea and all the intellectual property of Kente Studio Records will only be ours and will only be managed by us.”

  “I’m a silent partner in all the projects I back until some foolhardy move compels me to break my silence. Also, location is paramount if you expect to get any crossover clients, and neither I nor the clientele who can keep you in business will be willing to drive into south Chicago on a regular basis to patronize a fledgling business.”

  “You can’t tell me there isn’t sufficient clientele to support what we want to do on the south side.”

  “The talent may be there, but I would require you to be in a thriving business corridor if you’re going to use my money to fund this project.”

  “Sounds as if you want to control us, Mr. White. Like I said, we’re looking for venture capital only, not a partner.”

  “I haven’t achieved the success I have without exercising control in every aspect of business and life, Ms. Beale.” He smiles. “One doesn’t just hand over a quarter of a million dollars to a couple of upstarts without as much as a ‘fare thee well.’”

  “We’re not upstarts, we’ve been out of college more than two years, and we’ve made all the capital improvements to the building, and done the due diligence to get this business up and running.”

  “Regular audits of your books and site visits will be part and parcel of this deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “Do you make personal visits to every project you fund? Or just the ones managed by African Americans?” I did not just go there with this good-looking fucker, did I? Either it doesn’t register, or he chooses not to react as I expected.

  “Yes. Annually to the ones that have been in operation for a while. I have my hands, literally, in over forty-five ventures, not to mention employing a large number of people in the companies I hold personally.”

  “Is that level of control necessary?”

  “If I don’t keep my finger on the pulse of things, it could all spiral out of control. If I allowed that to happen, and had to divest myself of my personal holdings, I would put those people’s daily livelihoods in jeopardy and most of their homes in foreclosure.”

  “You have an extremely high opinion of yourself, and the power you wield,” I say with more than a modicum of disgust at his arrogance.

  “You have no idea.” His eyes light up as if he's recounting a private joke, and I just might be the punchline. What I wouldn’t give to be able to read his mind at this moment.

  “You need to take a chill pill,” I say, standing to indicate that I’m done. I wouldn’t take this guy’s money if someone guaranteed we would pay it back with triple digit returns in the first year.

  He puts on his million megawatt smile then, showing the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen against his tanned skin. Tristan White is even more impressive when he smiles, and it should be offensive for any man to have as much swag, or be as wealthy as he is. Smug asshole.

  “Whether I’m working or playing, you can be sure I’m always relaxed, so I don't need any chill pills,” he says. “In fact I’m even more relaxed when I’m in control.”

  There’s a knock, and his personal assistant pokes his head in the door.

  “Your car is here, Mr. White.”

  “Please have Moses wait.” Darryl gapes at him dumfounded, flushes as if he’s embarrassed, and leaves.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one who reacts to Mr. White with awe, and in Darryl’s case, fear and trembling. “Actually, I was just leaving,” I say and begin to stalk past him.

  Tristan stands, blocks my egress and grabs my hand. Oh Man! He has quick reflexes.

  “I have another matter I’d like to discuss with you, Ms. Beale. Another offer, if you will.” As our hands touch, a jolt of electric current courses through me. I hesitate, and look up into his face to see if he was likewise affected, but he doesn’t appear to be.

  I have a strong desire to unnerve him as much as he has me. If my unwillingness to give him unhindered access to Kente Studio Records didn’t kill our chances of getting the venture capital we need, I know my next question will. “Do you even like women, Mr. White?”

  He raises one eyebrow like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is famous for doing, but he doesn't look comical. He looks pissed. “I can assure you, I do, Keisha.” He pulls me flush against him, and I feel something that indicates to me that he does.

  I even like the way the arrogant fucker says my first name. However, my Fairy Hoochie Mama encourages me to provoke him further. I look down to where our hips are joined. “How do I know this isn’t a reaction to your assistant?”

  In a split second, I'm all trussed up in his arms, and his mouth covers mine. This is not a speculative, cordial first kiss. In fact, it's so brutal I can feel my lips bruising from the onslaught. His tongue wraps itself around mine and fills my mouth so thoroughly, I can't breathe. Simultaneously, he rolls his hips against mine like he's about to bore into my center through our clothes.

  I want to fight him, but I can’t, and with reluctance admit to myself that I haven't been this turned on by anyone since—well never. I've had a drought when it comes to men in my life, due in large part to all the time Jada and I have spent trying to get Kente Studio Records off the ground. The last real boyfriend I had was the first semester of my junior year at DePaul, and he wasn’t anything to write home about, believe me.

  Incredibly, my sex-deprived body resp
onds to Tristan White. Traitor, my Triple-G sneers. My Fairy Hoochie Mama sings “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa as she jerks her pelvis with the beat. A wetness blooms between my legs, and an aching radiates from my belly. I drop my purse, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him back with an alacrity that bewilders me.

  Tristan cups my ass and tries to hoist me up around his waist, but two things happen which prevent him from doing so. My pencil skirt is so tight, it’s impossible, and a knock on the door sends us scurrying away from each other as if we've each been seared by a hot poker.

  "What?" He bellows in frustration.

  Darryl opens the door and stutters something about the driver and the traffic, and I take the opportunity to get out of there. I practically bowl Darryl over and run from White's office, straight onto the waiting elevator. I push the button in rapid succession, knowing it won’t cause the doors to close any faster. Tristan appears at the threshold a split second before the elevator panels slide shut.

  I exit on the first floor, my heart in my throat, and struggle to get some semblance of control of my breathing again. I am petrified that Tristan has called down and told his security henchmen not to let me leave, but they remain at attention by the elevator doors as I return the badge to the receptionist and hightail it out of the building. As I leave, even the clicks of my heels on the marble floors don’t reverberate with as much confidence as they possessed coming in.

  ~*~

  3

  Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

  Chapter Two

  Lips still smarting from Tristan’s kiss, I spill through the doors of White Enterprises, Inc., welcoming the humid summer evening air. My heart beats in unison with my heaving chest. I stumble to a stone sculpture, and sit on the edge of it, to get my bearings before I make my trek back to the “L.” Then I notice the white limousine in front of the building.

  Oh shit! His car!

  I dart behind the sculpture and peer around it just as he’s coming out of the building followed by a flustered Darryl Sykes. Tristan has my handbag and the business plan tucked under his arm like a football. Damned if I’m about to call out to him to retrieve them at the moment.

  Chicken, my Triple-G teases me. Where were you, heifer, when I needed you to warn me beforehand about Tristan White’s thermo-nuclear sex appeal? She slinks away and disappears in a poof of smoke.

  My Fairy Hoochie Mama stays put, and salivates like a Pavlovian dog. She fans herself with an enormous church fan when she gets a look at Tristan’s ass in that suit. I roll my eyes at that bitch, and watch with her as White slides into the car, Darryl behind him, and they pull away from the curb.

  This is a first. I’ve never known a man to affect me the way Tristan White does, and I’m clueless as to why. He’s a good-looking fucker, I’ll give him that, and richer than a Saudi Oil Magnate. I just can’t figure out why I’m hiding from him—behind a damned sculpture, no less. I calm as his car disappears into the rush of traffic, and I step out from my hiding place. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realize I don’t have any money or I.D.

  “Damn,” I mutter and thrust my hands into both jacket pockets at once.

  I feel my cell phone, and the backstage pass from Princess Danai in one pocket, my CTA pass and a tube of lip gloss in the other. All is not lost. I walk toward the “L” stop, pondering what just occurred between me and one of the richest men in Chicago. I can’t believe I played the race card with him in our first, and no doubt, only meeting.

  He caught me off guard looking like a Nate White clone, and talking about our business as if he planned to run it himself. Jada and I could do that on our own, thank you very much. We didn’t need some obscenely rich, bourgeoisie, arrogant, gazillionaire telling us what to do.

  Who was I kidding? Jada would kill me! But then again, she’s the one who sent me to the damn meeting at the last minute without going in shotgun with me.

  While zipping along on the “L,” I watch as the landscape changes from the opulence of the Loop and downtown Chicago to the simpler less well-kept properties further south. I’m baffled as to what made Tristan kiss me: Keisha from the block. Was he bored with rich, white girls or was that just a desire to have a little coffee in his cream? No, it seems Mr. White has a raging case of jungle fever. And me provoking him by saying his hard-on had been for his assistant. Fuck! I cringe.

  “Did I say that?” My Triple-G whines in her best impression of Steve Urkel. My DePaul liberal arts education has given me just enough ammunition to be dangerous in mixed company. I can vascillate between the ghetto and the private sector, but only in small doses. I’m too much of a “keeping it real” kind of girl.

  I want to hurl myself off the speeding “L.” Now, every time I see a Bulls game, I’m going to look at Nate White and think about how I ruined our best shot at making Kente Studio Records a success by grossly offending his twin brother. Triple-damn Jada Jameson for leaving me to my own devices for the most important meeting in the development of our business.

  I look around when I get off the “L” at my stop. Tristan has all my information, so if he wants to, he could fucking stalk me. I remember how his blue peepers looked as the elevator closed on him, and for some reason, I see that look in everyone’s eyes I pass. I shake my head when I realize he’s off doing whatever it is that multi-gazillionaires do on a Friday after work.

  Fuck it, Keisha, I berate myself. I am resigned to the fact that I’ve squandered an unprecedented opportunity, but I won’t dwell on it. Just figure out how to get your damn purse back and you’ll never have to see him again. That decision makes me feel better, and I straighten my poor posture and walk with my usual swagger down the street to our home, glad that I won’t have to face Jada until next Monday.

  I grab my cell phone out of my pocket and call my mother. The first order of business is cash, because I can’t do shit without my I.D. and my debit card.

  Jada and I live in the Marquette-Gage Park area, a mixed community of Latinos, African Americans, and a smattering of Caucasians. Our duplex was purchased by Jada’s parents, and my rent has been a fraction of what I might have paid the two years we’ve lived together postcollege elsewhere. I unlock the door and am about to slip inside when our neighbor, nosy Mrs. Dobbs who speaks with a distinct lisp, and can’t pronounce either of our names for shit, pokes her head out the door.

  “Keitha,” she says. “Some white man in a long limousine jus’ left here looking for you. I didn’t think he was a boyfriend or nothin’ ‘cause he looked kinda sweet to me, to tell you the truth.”

  “Darryl Sykes,” I mutter to myself.

  “Who?” Mrs. Dobbs says.

  “Never mind. Did he leave anything for me?”

  “Naw. Was he ‘spose to?”

  “I guess not. Thanks, Mrs. Dobbs.” I open my door and slip inside before she can follow me. If she gets in here won’t be any getting her out for the rest of the night, and I have to go to my mama’s and pick up the money she’s going to lend me. I figure if I can get through the weekend, I’ll tap into my finances at the bank next week.

  I also have to go to Wicked next Friday and speak to Princess Danai and ask her to front us the money for Kente Studio Records. Maybe then Jada won’t be so mad I fucked things up with Tristan White.

  I strip out of my power suit, and shower in an attempt to wash the yucky post-arousal stickiness away. While I’m at it, I cut the tracts away, take out the weave, and undo the braids on my scalp. I wash out a week’s worth of product, condition it, then take a dollop of mousse and work it through my hair. When it dries, it’ll be in tiny ringlets that frame my shoulders, not the curtain of hair which touched my ass for three months.

  I take the bus to my mom’s to get the Benjamin I asked to borrow from her.

  “Keisha, why do you need to borrow money when you just got paid, today?” She asks. She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not on that shit, are you?”

  I glower at her. Then step closer. “Mama, look at m
y pupils,” I say. “Do they look like I’m on any shit?”

  “Watch your mouth, girl. I’m still your mama,” she says, but steps forward, and looks deep into my eyes anyway. “Well, I asked you a question.”

  “I left my purse in this rich dude’s office where I had an appointment today about the record store,” I say. The truth never hurt anybody she likes to say, so I give her as much of it as necessary.

  “Why didn’t you try to get it back?”

  “Because he left his office, and I don’t know his cell phone or his home number. I’ll call his assistant on Monday and get it,” I say, not at all sure that’s going to happen. Tristan carried that cheap-assed purse under his arm like he wasn’t about to give it back without making some kind of trade for it. If that weren’t the case, he would’ve had Darryl leave it with Mrs. Dobbs to give back to me.

  I didn’t want to think about what he might have in mind, given that soul-swiping kiss he laid on my ass. And I wasn’t about to prostitute for a $35 Prada replica. I could get a new driver’s license and debit card, and I have an unused credit card at home that I can activate. No Big.

  Mama reached into her bosom and took five wrinkled-assed twenties out of an ancient leather coin purse.

  “When will you pay me back?” She asks.

  I roll my eyes. “You know I’m good for it.”

  I’m on the bus headed back to my duplex when my cell phone rings. It’s Jada. I don’t want to pick up, but that might make her suspicious, so I answer.

  “Keisha! How did it go with White?” I can hear the rhythmic pinging of slot machines, music, and people murmuring in the background from her end. “I was worried when you didn’t call me right after the meeting.”

  “Oh, I’m sealing the deal next Friday night at Wicked.” I will try to do that, just not with Tristan White, but she doesn’t have to know that.