Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (4 page)

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.

“Keisha, you’re golden girl. Thanks again so much for doing this. I owe you one, girlfriend. What was he like?” Oh shit – I should’ve known Ms. Jada Jameson
would
want the 4-1-1.

Again, I strive to keep as much truth in my answers as I can. “I’m just glad that part of it’s over, and I don’t have to discuss numbers and shit with him again. He was kind of arrogant, you know.” I shrug. “He’s definitely a one percenter if I’ve ever met one, kind of intimidating—and did you know that Nate White is his twin brother?”

Jada doesn’t say anything for a second. I frown wondering if I’m busted already.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Jada squeals, and it’s all I can do not to drop my phone. Jada doesn’t do squealing. “What the hell?”

“Keisha I could fucking kill myself right now. Do you know how damn long I’ve wanted to meet Nate White? Since we saw him last New Year’s Eve at Wicked.”

“That’s why you should’ve stayed, and taken this meeting with me.”

“Don’t rub it in, girl. So when you see him at Wicked, you’ve got to tell him that your roommate has a huge crush on his brother.”

“Like I’m buddy-buddy enough with him to say some shit like that. You and every other damn girl in Chicago, possibly all over America, has a crush on Nate White.”

“I’m still sorry I didn’t attend the meeting with you. What was I thinking?”

“
You must’ve fell and bumped your head
.”

She ignores my insult.
“So, what was Nate White’s twin like?”

“I don’t know, just your average white boy with a trust fund. He was shrewd, straight-forward, kind of controlling—he mentioned wanting to guide and mentor us, as if we need to be spoon fed like little babies or something. He’s not that much older than us. How old
is
he anyway?”

“Thirty-two. Keisha, I’m sorry. I should’ve prepped you better. So, when is he gonna fork it over?”

“I’m sure I’ll get those details over drinks at Wicked next Friday,” I lie. “I’ll give you the low-down next Monday when you get back.”

“Okay, then. Later?”

“Later,” I say.

I’m so fucking screwed if I can’t get Princess Danai to buy into our business proposal next Friday.

#

Somehow, I survive until midweek with just one hundred dollars, a CTA pass, and an old college I.D. to my name. Darryl Sykes calls me every day, two times a day, trying to get me to meet with Tristan White.  He uses my purse as bait, but after the first call, I ignore his number. I will not go back into White’s lair until I secure another deal. Maybe not even then.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something sinister about that dude. Granted he’s hot enough to melt ovaries, but he makes me feel like he isn’t one to be trifled with; doing so would be like dancing a tango with old slew foot himself.

I take my birth certificate, passport and a credit card to get a new Driver’s License on my way to work. I also make a pitstop at the bank to withdraw more cash, since I won’t get another debit card for ten business days. I need to pay my mama back anyway, so I won’t have to hear her talking smack.

Wednesday at the store, I’m busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger. It’s like every housewife, girlfriend, husband, boyfriend, tourist and pervert is in La Perla to buy expensive lingerie. Six of us are kept busy right through our mid-shift lunch break, which is around five.

Before I prepare to go on break, the assistant manager asks me to do a midpoint count to avoid a labor-intensive closeout. This means the bitch must have a date, and she wants to lock this sucker down as soon as possible after closing to get the heck out of dodge.

I’m on the last leg of the process when I glance up to see Tristan White, standing at my counter, looking all bedhead and breathtaking in a navy blue business suit that makes his eyes pop in a way that
disarms me
.
I lose count of the change in the till.

The fuck is he doing here? 
My attempt to avoid him until I concluded my business with Princess Danai is all blown to hell.

“Ms. Beale. Small world.” His gaze undresses and redresses me without shifting his eyes. I think I have an orgasm right where I stand, and all cognitive function is delayed.

“Mr. White,” I say when I find my missing wits. Then mutter under my breath, “Not small enough.”

He cups one ear and angles his head toward me. “Beg pardon?” He feigns seriousness, but his eyes are crinkled, and there’s that perpetual smirk on his generous kissable lips. He knows he’s caught me off guard.

My Triple-G makes the sign of the cross with her tiny little hands, but my Fairy Hoochie Mama, stands at attention, her perky little breasts jutted forward, her mouth hanging open with a sliver of drool running out the side of it. I roll my eyes at all of them, including White.

“I usually frequent Agent Provocateur,” he says by way of explanation for being in my workplace. “But this is closer, and I need to stock up on a few—gifts for friends. Nice to see you again, Ms. Beale.” His voice is deep and husky like Barry White’s
—
or somebody’s.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. All of a sudden, the up-do I’m wearing feels tight and constrictive. A headache is coming on. My heart stutters in my chest and I’m both pissed off, and turned on under his gaze.

For reasons which I can’t begin to comprehend, he looks downright ambrosial here among all this lingerie. Go figure. I regain the use of my salivary glands and join my Fairy Hoochie Mama in her drooling.

“My name is Keisha,” I say as if reminding him of that fact will make any difference. He’s intent on calling me Ms. Beale. “And where’s my purse?”

“I’m afraid I left it at home,” he says, feigning disappointment. “I can pick you up after your shift is over, and we can retrieve it, if you like. There’s a matter of some importance I’d like to discuss with you.” His offer seems harmless enough, but then he licks his lips, and I remember that kiss in his office Friday.

“Why don’t you just bring it to me the next time you’re in the vicinity, and we can talk then.” There’s no way in west hell I’m going to put myself in a private place with Mr. Handsy again. “How can I help you
here?
”

His lascivious smile makes me feel like I’m Keisha from the hood, and he’s the big bad wolf. I am so discombobulated by his attention, but I take a deep breath, put on my professional persona, close my register, and join him on the other side of the counter.

“I need assistance selecting some gifts for a friend. First, I’d like some garter belts,” he murmurs, his blue eyes dancing.

Garter belts?

“We stock various styles. Would you like to see them?” I say. He still may be a closet tranny for all I know.
Stop tripping, Beale. This man kissed you once, and you’ve gone so ‘She’s Gotta Have It,’ you need to be paying Spike Lee royalties.

“Yes, please.” I act as if it’s no big deal as I lead him to look at garter belts, but I’m bordering on the label of “basket case.” I’m glad I wore my red suit today, because I’m sure he’s looking at my ass as I walk away, and my fine ass looks even better in this suit than the one he saw me in last Friday.

“They’re over here.” My voice is tight. I glance back at him and regret it immediately. Damn, he’s not looking at me, he’s eyeing a leather bustier on display.

“I thought you needed garters?” I don’t keep the annoyance out of my voice as I stand, arms folded, tapping my foot.

Maybe it is a real, bonafide coincidence that he’s here, but I doubt it. My Triple-G, looking all smug, beckons me with her little index finger. I stop to listen to her. 
Here’s a thought:
he’s
here because he has your purse, dumb ass.
I accept her words as gospel. Why would this gorgeous, rich, worldly man want to see unquestionably fine, poor, ghetto me? The idea is ridiculous.

His eyes rake over me before he answers. “I do. Lead on.”

“You have time for shopping on The Mile? I thought guys like you work late all the time. You strike me as a man who wants to rule the world.” I try to sound bored and indifferent, but my voice is shaky, like it’s winter in Chicago, and the hawk
has ripped
right through my ass.
Chill Keisha!

“I conferenced early this morning with some Hong Kong clients. This is my reward. Then, I remembered you worked here, and wanted to give you an opportunity to get your purse back. However, I suppose it’s not that important to have your driver’s license, debit, and credit cards back,” he says matter-of-factly.

See? Not coincidental at all.
My Triple-G licks her little pink tongue out at me. I feel like an idiot, but I don’t back down.

I gesture toward the lingerie. “So I guess this shopping spree is part of your fuck the world, one super-freak at a time plan?” I tease.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges, and his lips curl into a smile.

He peruses the selection of garter belts we stock.
Who’s he buying them for?
I can’t picture him as the best man in anyone’s wedding. He handles each garter he picks up, checking their elasticity. He gets so lost in the task it unnerves me, so I busy myself and straighten product until he’s done. In the end, he selects three, a garter belt, and two single garters.

“Perfect,” he says eyeing me intently.

I flush. “Anything else?”

“I’d like some blindfolds.”

Blindfolds?

“You mean sleeping masks?” Is he gifting someone who’s sleep-deprived? Just like himself, he has creepy friends. Before I can stop myself, I ask him another loaded question. “Or do you actually mean blindfolds? Planning to kidnap someone, Mr. White?”

“Not necessarily,” is his comeback. “Sleeping masks will suffice.” That ghost of a smile is on his lips again. He’s toying with me, and I don’t like it, but I retain as professional a demeanor as I can.

“Over here,” I murmur, and he follows carrying his garters and manages to look all alpha-male doing so.

“I’ll take that one.” White points to a black satin one to match the dominant color of his garters. When I hand it to him, our fingers touch and a jolt of static electricity passes through me, but he doesn’t look fazed, so I squelch my own reaction.

“Will that be all?” My voice is impatient. For some inexplicable reason, I’m pissed off because I find him so fucking attractive.

His eyes narrow in concentration. “Do you carry ribbon?”

“No, but you might find some at a craft store.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, then changes the subject. “How did you go from selling lingerie to opening a recording studio-cum-record and music store?”

Did he just say cum? I know he meant cum as in ‘together with,’ but my mind goes there. Despite my expensive DePaul college degree, I struggle to construct an articulate response. My beleaguered Triple-G balances herself like a mini-earthquake just happened.
Don’t you fuck this up, Keisha,
my Fairy Hoochie Mama warns.

“I have music in my blood,” I answer, but my Fairy Hoochie Mama says:
You need to get some of him in your hoo-ha! 
I mentally flip her the bird, livid that she’s set her sights on a man way above our socio-economic status.

“What kind of music do you like?” His face registers genuine interest.
I wonder why.

“I love it all. From hip-hop and rap to jazz and R&B. Some country, but I appreciate good rock more. Oh, and classical music is to die for, but Neo-Soul is my personal genre preference.”

He listens attentively to my complete answer. I might have imagined it, but I believe his eyes lit up when I mentioned jazz, rock and classical.

Emily, the assistant manager finishes ringing up a customer and slinks over to us. I can tell by the look on her excessively-made-up face, Tristan White has caught her eye.

She addresses me first. “Haven’t you gone to lunch yet? Jorge just called for you, and says he has a table at Giordano’s already.”

I’d been so caught up in Tristan White and his lingerie purchases, I’d forgotten I was supposed to take my lunch break with Jorge Cisneros.  Jorge is my
first
cousin on my father’s side, and best male friend in the world, who also happens to have built our interactive website for the recording studio.