Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (11 page)

“I’ll be going to my mother’s house for dinner.”

“Can’t you get out of it?”

“Haven’t you seen
Soul Food
, Mr. White? Sunday dinner is sacrosanct in African American homes.”

He was nonplussed. “I can come there. You can introduce me to her.”

Whoa. Why is he sweating me like this? 
If he meets my mother, it would be like
Guess Who
, on steroids, because he’s much finer than Ashton Kutcher. I don’t want to go there with my mama right now. She’s a female version of Bernie Mac if there ever was one. Besides, this is too new for me, even.

I hold up the binder he gave me. “I have to read this, and become educated so I can make an informed decision.”

With reluctance, he gives up. “You’re right. Do some internet research, and read the entire contract, Keisha. I’ll see you Monday morning.”

~*~

69

After taking Tristan on the gra
nd tour of Kente Studio Records
first thing Monday morning, he takes a phone call, but watches me as I unpack boxes of fixtures, and wait for him to finish. After about fifteen minutes, he wraps up the call.

“They want one point five million?. . . You’ve checked and double checked the figures? . . . Okay, make sure there is remedy language in the contract . . . And you have my
limited power of attorney
?. . . Good . . . Let’s buy it. Keep me abreast of progress.” He hangs up.

I marvel at the sheer number of transactions he must conduct in his business daily. That was some new investment no doubt. This is a powerful man. One who can drop a shitload of Benjamins every day and still not run out of money before he kicks the bucket. Why does he want a girl from the other side of the tracks who probably won’t even have social security when she retires? If I’m lucky and KSR catches on, maybe I’ll have something to leave as a legacy to my children.

“Why do you want me, Tristan?” My voice is soft. He regards me intently, his blue eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion. “Don’t you have
binders full of women
to choose from?”

“You keep making these veiled references to my political preference. I’m actually more
of
an independent. I’ve voted both ways. Am I safe to say you’re a staunch democrat?”

“Is Obama my homeboy?”

“He’s mine, too. We even have an alma mater in common.”

“Do you ascribe to the Buffet rule?”

“You mean do I believe I should pay more taxes than Darryl? Yes.”

“Good,” I say, then return to my former line of questioning. “Seriously, Tristan. Why do you want me as your submissive?”

“Well, when I kissed you the first time in my office, simply put, you rocked my world.” He pauses and shrugs. “I decided to seek you out, to see what we could do with all the passion we’d kindled there. Then when you were drugged—and about to be taken away from me again—I couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“So, you want me to be your girlfriend?”

“Keisha, Fifty Cent and I agree on one thing, only:
I’m into having sex, not making love.
I haven’t had a girlfriend in that sense of the word, since grade school.” His eyes lock with mine. “But
you’re not like any of my former submissives. I have a feeling you will be the best I’ve ever had, and I want you long-term. I will
take
extraordinary
care of you.”

He wants to take care of Me? Like I’m his kept woman or something?
I have to admit, I never in my wildest dreams figured I would
receive such an indecent proposal from
a rich white man, let alone
be
taken care of by one. It d
oes
n’t sit well with me, but what choice d
o
I have now? Kente Studio Records wouldn’t survive a year without his help.

“Listen, you may be into having sex, and not making love, but I’m not wired that way. One day I’m going to want the making love, the getting married, the babies, the commitment, so understand this: I’ll do
this
for now, because I need KSR to be on firmer financial footing, and I haven’t met anyone who fits the bill, but believe me, when I do, we’re history.” I say that with as much strength as I can muster knowing that, after a weekend of him literally fucking my brains out, I am so dick-whipped in the worst way, I don’t know if I could ever leave him voluntarily.

“Then we have an understanding,” he says.

I frown and return to checking inventory. My Triple-G screams,
She’s too traditional to do this forever, blockhead. Don’t you understand? 
“He can’t hear you, you little heifer,” I say in an inaudible taunt.

At least my Triple-G has the presence of mind to say
something
. I’m too much of a coward to voice my misgivings aloud, especially when he’s standing there looking so damn yummy. I’m like a kid at Christmastime who’s opened up all her presents on Christmas Eve.

“Ready to go?”

I nod. We turn and move toward the door.

“After you, Ms. Beale.” He holds the door for me.

I drink in the sight of him in his Savile Row bespoke tailored suit once more before I step outside. And to think, I fucked him all day Saturday. I even ran from him twice, got him mixed up in the whole rappers’ debacle
—
one
of whom
is probably going to sue my ass
—and after all the trouble I’ve caused
, he’s still here. What’s more, he still wants
me
for whatever reason. I don’t understand it.

I head out recalling his words—
I have a feeling you’ll be the best I’ve ever had
—
Well
you already had that distinction from
me
, Mr. White
,
and I intend to
do everything in my power fulfill that prophecy for you, too
.

As we walk toward his car, the neighboring business owners peer out their windows, wondering undoubtedly who he is. As Moses opens the door of the limo for us, I peek up at Tristan, and he looks out of the corner of his eyes down at me. I smile, and he has that ghost of a smile on his own tantalizing mouth.

We’re alone in the car, momentarily as Moses walks around to the driver’s side. The temperature in the limo rises, charging the air with an undercurrent of pure primal lust. Tristan turns to me, and I can read the intent in his eyes just before he pounces.

“Fuck!” He growls and pushes me down onto the leather seat. Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in a vicelike grip above my head, and he’s pinning me down with his hips. His mouth comes down on mine in a searing kiss. I moan and open myself up to him, completely.

His tongue explores my mouth with appreciation as though it’s the first time. I will never get used to being kissed like this. With a newfound brazenness, I stroke his tongue with my own joining him in a slow, erotic repartee. I feel his erection through our clothing.
Damn, he wants me now.
In his limousine.

“What. Are. You. Doing. To. Me?” He asks, punctuating each word with a kiss down my throat.

Moses gets in and starts the car, and Tristan pushes away from me leaving me all wanton and hanging. Three men who own businesses in the neighborhood have come out. They eye the limousine. I’m so glad the windows are tinted so darkly they can’t see us. Even the partition between Moses and us is tinted. My heart beats a frantic drum song, like I’ve just run a marathon.

My Fairy Hoochie Mama leans over, and grasps her knees, as if she’s out of breath in my stead.

I glance at Tristan. He looks serene, like he’s just closed a lucrative business deal.
It’s so not fair.
How can he recover so quickly from what we just shared? He side-eyes me, takes my hand in his, and releases a soft exhale. Holy Toledo, Batman! He is affected. My Fairy Hoochie Mama does an enthusiastic rendition of the electric slide.

Tristan doesn’t let my hand go until the limo stops at the curb in front of LaPerla, and Moses gets out to open the door for me.

“Making out in limos. What am I thirteen?” He mutters, more to himself than to me. But, he squeezes my hand in farewell. “I’ll call you later.”

I hop out, beaming at Moses, pretending that Tristan and I weren’t just
holding hands all the way to my job and
mauling one another in the back of the limo a while ago. I struggle to walk without dissolving into a puddle before I go inside
the
store. I think I left my sanity all over the leather seat and interior of Tristan White’s limousine.

#

When I arrive home from work, Jada’s crunching numbers on her laptop. She’s already in her pajamas, courtesy of jet-lag, I’m guessing. Exhausted by the long ride on the “L,” the early morning site visit with Tristan, and being on my feet all day, I sink next to her on the couch. My thoughts go immediately to the tentative deal I’ve made with
that kinky motherfucker
.
My crotch throbs at the thought of what his expert mouth-hands-body-cock, can do to me. I start from my reverie when Jada speaks.

“You
must’ve really wowed White
.
His
office
called, then
emailed me the budget and contract. Kente Studio Records will be half a million dollars richer once we sign the contract. Speaking of which, I’m too wiped to read that long-assed document tonight. I’ll read it with fresh eyes in the morning.” She gives me
a look of shee
r
pride
. “Can you make the signing day after tomorrow?”

I sigh, relieved, and answer with nonchalance. “Sure.”

I was fearful that she’d have a fit when she gets to the part in the contract where he wants us to consider another location. I’m glad I’ll be at work when she reads it tomorrow.

Looking down, I realize that my hands are shaking, and I hope Jada doesn’t notice. She’s too absorbed in her budgets and break-even analyses.

The late dinner I whip up for us of broiled salmon steaks, asparagus, and Papas Bravas, the Brazilian version of oven-fried potatoes, delights Jada to no end.

“Thanks, roomie,” she says, chomping on an asparagus spear. “This is delicious. I’m so glad you’re such an excellent cook; otherwise I’d starve.”

“You know I’ve got your back. You just keep washing these dishes.” I smirk, and she snarls at me, but she knows our arrangement is a perfect trade-off.

We finish up, and the doorbell rings before our dinner can settle in our tummies.

Jada answers the door, no doubt delaying the inevitable clearing of the table as long as she can. I help her along by scraping off the dishes and stacking them by the sink. She returns with a bouquet of roses and two packages, one addressed to us together, the other to me.

I take the flowers and set them on the table as Jada prattles on. “The delivery man gave explicit instructions. You are only to open your package when you’re alone.” She hands me my box. Suspicion blossoms on her face. “What the fuck?” She looks at me and finds her answer in my guilty countenance.

Her eyes widen, and she gasps. “Did you screw Tristan White while I was gone?”

Knowing that I will not be able to lie convincingly about it, I nod helplessly.

“Well, how was he? Wait—don’t answer that until we see what’s in these damn boxes.” With that she sets the box in her arms gently onto the kitchen table and tears into it. Inside is a bottle of chilled, Dom Perignon White Gold Jeroboam Champagne. “Fancy stuff!” She crows, then reads the card.

“Ms. Jameson and Ms. Beale, please enjoy the flowers and have a drink of celebration on me. Here’s to a long and mutually satisfying business relationship.” Jada squeals and I jump. Tristan White brings out the uncharacteristic in every damn body. She runs to the cabinet and grabs two champagne glasses, rinses them, and returns with a corkscrew.

We have popped the cork and had our first sip before she drags me back onto the sofa in the living room.

“Okay, now spill.”

“In a moment of lust, weakness, whatever, I slept with Tristan White at his Gold Coast condo this weekend,” I say, like I’d just told her what I’d eaten for breakfast.

Jada glares at me. “You told me that Byron wouldn’t go down on you without me even asking, I know you can tell me more than that about your romantic interlude with Tristan fucking White.”

“That’s just it, Jada, there wasn’t a damn thing romantic about it. I had an itch, and he scratched it. End of story.”

“Don’t give me that,” she says. “He gave us more money than we asked for, and he just sent you a present. I think he likes you.”