Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (5 page)

“If there’s anything else you need, Mr. White, Ms. Campbell will be happy to help you.” I’m ambivalent now about handing him over to Emily, but I have no choice. I need to discuss some changes to the website with Jorge.

The phone rings and Emily holds up one finger. “Just a second, Mr. White, I’ll be right back with you,” she says, then to me, “You. Go to lunch.”

“Is Jorge your boyfriend?” His blue eyes have gone from teasing to glacial.

I’m taken aback by his question. “No. He’s my cousin.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

What?
  “Not at the moment.” The truth is, I haven’t had a boyfriend in more than three years, but he doesn’t have to know that; however, my lips keep moving as if I’ve acquired a severe case of diarrhea of the mouth. “Getting KSR up and running has been a priority. And, it’s not like there’s been anyone intriguing enough for me to make the sacrifice.”
Jesus polevaulting Christ. Shut the fuck up, now, Keisha
.

H
e changes the subject
on a dime. “I might have been too hasty in my decision on Friday, Ms. Beale. Would you be interested in taking another meeting to negotiate terms that will be acceptable to us both? And there is that other matter I’d like to discuss, as well.”

You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. He’s reconsidering after I accused him of racism
in an underhanded way
?

White has finally gotten to the nitty-gritty. I decide I will meet him again, but it’ll need to be on my terms, and in a public place. I know exactly where to meet him, and I can kill two birds with one stone, so-to-speak.

“How about we meet Friday night at Wicked? Princess Danai gave me a personal invitation to her show.”

White raises an eyebrow. “
You’re
not gay, are you Ms. Beale?”

Okay. I hadn’t bargained on this question. I laugh because I remember asking him the same thing, in so many words. “No, Mr. White, I’m not.”

“One never knows… ” he trails off.

“Thank you for reconsidering about the studio. If Jada had taken the meeting, I’m sure there would’ve been a different outcome the first time.” My voice is rife with gratitude. If I can pull this off, Jada will be so proud.
And you will see him again Friday night,
my Fairy Hoochie Mama sing-songs in a seductive rasp. I purse my lips at her. That’s wishful thinking if I’ve ever heard it.

“Let me know what time you’d like to meet.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. You’ll need to call before five. My driver, Moses, is prompt, especially on Fridays. My cell number is also there if you miss me at the office.”

“Okay,” I say, “But are you sure you don’t want to meet again when Jada comes back? She’s the numbers girl.”

“No. I prefer to see you on Friday night.” Just before I walk away, he adds, “Oh–and Keisha?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not altogether sure we’d be discussing the project any further if Ms. Jameson had taken the first meeting with me.” He smiles, then turns his attention to Emily, whom I’m sure will be all too happy to sell as much lingerie as she can get him to buy, and do everything in her power to get him into the sack. I’m not sure how I feel about that last part, but I leave to meet Jorge.

As I walk the few blocks over, I think about Tristan White.
I can’t possibly like him like I think I like him, can I? I’ve only exclusively dated men of color, never a genuine, unadulterated white boy. My Fairy Hoochie Mama deadpans,
There’s a first time for everything.

Okay–Okay, I want to fuck him till my vajayjay falls out.
There, I’ve admitted it to her, and to myself. I can’t hide my lust anymore. Never before have I wanted anyone like this. I find him attractive in the extreme, but nothing good can come of it. I know this.

It wasn’t just a coincidence; his coming to my job was deliberate. But, I can get my purse back from him, and listen to his proposition without giving it up—without going over to the “White” side, right? I can look but not touch until after I get Princess Danai to fund the record store. Can’t I?

If I’m going to make a fool of myself with Tristan White, I want to do it like Frank Sinatra, “My Way.” I certainly don’t want to be in business with him after he dumps my ass. Even if
he wants to just
scratch an itch, I think I might be willing to help a blue-eyed soul brother out, but I don’t want to mix business with what can quickly become displeasure. I smile, and hurry along to meet Jorge. I am a fucking genius.

~*~

27

Friday night, I dress in a purple designer band-aid dress I picked up for a song at H & M, and borrow Jada’s silver Louboutins and matching clutch to accessorize. I put my new driver license, a lipstick, a comb, my lone credit card, and a compact in the clutch. When I’ve applied my makeup, and spritzed myself with Ellen Tracey’s Bronze, my signature scent, I’m ready to go.

I’ve only been to Wicked once. It was New Year’s Eve, and I discovered it was where my ex, Blake, an aspiring rapper who took that name because it rhymed with Drake, hangs out. Puh-lease. Drake he ain’t. His real name is Byron McCaskill. I broke up with him in my junior year, because he was a cheater, and not that great of a lover, anyway.

Byron kept giving his package away to other girls with a big-assed bow on it, like a damned “dick in a box.” I told Byron he wasn’t Justin Timberlake or that Andy Samberg from Saturday Night live, and he needed to keep his junk in his pants if he wanted us to stay together. He didn’t honor my request.

The kicker was, I caught him, and some skank passed out at his place one Saturday morning. So what’d I do? I took a tube of super glue and attached his hand to her boob. If I could’ve done it without them waking up, I would’ve superglued her hand to his morning wood, too.

When I saw him before at Wicked, I spent a couple of hours moving around in the club trying not to run into him, because I think he was still raw about what I’d done to him and that heifer. After Jada, myself and our friends counted down to the New Year, we bounced, and I never went back.

As I walk into Wicked tonight, I almost shit a brick. Who’s the first person I see on the dance floor rubbing his junk up against the backside of a different skank? Blake—I mean Byron. Just as I’m about to turn to avoid him, he sees me, and actually smiles. I’m like the proverbial deer in headlights, frozen in place. He whispers something to the skank and makes a beeline for me.

I slip out of my shoes and get into my ass-kicking stance. I recoil when he leans in, and whispers into my ear. “Keisha, you look damn good in that dress.”

Shocker! That was so not what I was expecting. He picks me up and swings me around, and I have no choice but to throw my arms around him and hang on, the silver shoes dangling in my hands behind him.

“Where you been?” He asks.

“Um, I been chillin’, jus’ working with my girl Jada tryin’ to get our recording studio up and runnin’.” I speak ebonically to put him at ease, and flash him a nervous grin.

“Hey, no hard feelings about that shit that went down before, a’ight, Boo?”

I’m dumfounded, but I play it cool and say, “A’ight.”

“Hey, I’mma bout to kick it on stage and open up for Princess Danai, but I wanna buy you a drink later, okay?” The way he pronounces Princess Danai’s name sounds like Princess Danny.

“You know her name is pronounced Duh-Neye, right?”

“Danai, Danny, same difference,” he says.

I give up. “Where’s Princess Danai right now?”

“She up in VIP with the owner of da club.”

I hold up my lanyard. “You think this’ll get me in?”

#

Wicked is packed. Princess Danai is red hot in the industry and has been for a decade. I find my way to the VIP lounge upstairs which is guarded by two gigantic bouncers. I flash my pass, but they don’t budge.

“Don’t let me have to tell Princess Danai you didn’t let her girl in.” They look at each other, and then step aside and allow me to enter.

The VIP lounge is like a whole ‘nother club in the club. I wend my way through the somebodies, and the nobodies pretending to be somebodies until I see Princess Danai in a roped off private lounge area with her entourage in the back. She’s personally flanked by none other than Tristan White, and another white guy I don’t recognize. Tristan looks bored, and I shiver thinking he’s recognized me, but his eyes shift to the door, as if he’s looking for someone else. Then I remember, I’m wearing my natural hair down with a fuck-ton of makeup, and he might not recognize me from that distance.

I go to the bar and order a drink. Hopefully, I’ll be able to lure Princess Danai away somehow, so I can get a chance to talk to her alone. The sooner the better, too, because I want to get out of Wicked before Blake, I mean Byron, finishes his set.

I’m slurping down my drink too damn fast, and I realize too late I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since lunch. The alcohol goes straight to my fucking head, and I’m reeling on the bar stool like an old fashion spinning top that’s about to wobble and topple.

My Triple-G purses her lips and sucks her teeth like my mama used to do when I was at home.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I lick my tongue out at her, and attempt to give her the double middle finger which, I know, is overkill. But when I start listing to the side, I give up and grasp the edge of the bar to keep from falling off the stool. I’m usually not such a lightweight. I signal the bartender and ask for a bowl of nuts.

“And give me some fresh ones, not those you got sitting in those bowls over there. People are nasty, and I don’t want anybody else’s germs.”

He looks taken aback by my demand. I flash him my lanyard with all my backstage passes attached, and he acquiesces.

I gobble the mixed nuts like a starving person, then I remember I need to retain some dignity, because I’m cute and might just be turning off some interested party by being such a pig. I exercise self-control, act blasé, and eat as a proper lady should. I feel better in about a half hour, during which time I’ve turned down four guys who’ve asked me to dance, and two who just got down to brass tacks and asked me to go home with them.

“Do I look like a hooker?” I ask the last one who propositions me.

His face screws up as if I’ve asked him to do an algebraic equation in his head without the use of any scratch paper. I stand, rub my hands together to dust off the salt from the nuts, and walk away. In my periphery, I see Tristan White isn’t in Princess Danai’s section anymore, so I check my posture and make my way to the velvet rope cordoning her off from the other party goers.

I walk up to a solitary bouncer who eyes my passes and removes the velvet rope. Princess Danai smiles when she sees me approaching her. I knew the sister would recognize me, tracts or not.

“Keisha! I thought you weren’t gon’ make it before I had to go on,” she says, and kisses me square on the mouth. If the future of Kente Studio Records didn’t depend on me winning this bitch over, I would’ve clocked her ass for kissing me like that. We are not Madonna and Brittany Spears. However, I play it chill, and grin back at her when she pulls back.

Good thing she’s wearing a diamond-encrusted grill, so she didn’t try to give me any tongue action.

I take the seat Tristan occupied next to her, even though she makes room for me on the loveseat. “I wouldn’t have missed tonight for all the Russian Mob’s money in Chicago.”

“Blake’s going on now,” Princess Danai says. “We can watch from up here.” That’s when I notice the section we’re in is next to a glass wall that overlooks the stage and dance floor downstairs.

One of her entourage presses a button and the glass splits horizontally, the upper half disappears into the ceiling. We move to the lower half of the wall and look down over the throng of partiers.

Blake is on stage screaming, “Make some noise!” And the crowd obliges him. I roll my eyes when some girl throws her panties on the stage before he even gets going
. You might regret throwing those up there, chick, if you know like I know.
My Fairy Hoochie Mama yawns and hops onto her mini chaise to take a nap.

Byron was a selfish lover who rarely ever got me off, and his equipment ain’t all that impressive either. It was all about getting his, and forget any action from him downtown.

Oh, he wanted me to give him blow jobs, but he acted as if my vajayjay was diseased or some
shit
. He insisted the best girlfriends let their boyfriends come in their mouths, and I was like, “Boy, that shit don’t taste as good as those fucking porn stars pretend. Jizz is nasty!” We’d reached a stalemate. I stopped giving him blowjobs, and advised him that he wouldn’t get any more from me until he reciprocated. It never happened. Bastard!

Princess Danai presses her front to my back and leans over me to whisper in my ear. “I’m dedicating my show to you.”