Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (2 page)

“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 l
ike 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.
A
s 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 specimen 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
l
ooks 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. 

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.