Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever: The Jungle Fever Romance Quadrilogy, #1

By L.V. Lewis

FIFTY SHADES OF GREY to the second power meets Keisha and Jada from the Block. 

Aspiring recording studio owners, Keisha Beale and Jada Jameson, score a rare meeting with venture capitalist Tristan White, and are thrust into a world beyond their wildest imaginations. 

Lured by Tristan White and his offer of fronting the capital for her business in exchange for an indecent proposal, of sorts, Keisha finds herself with no other option. Tortured by demons from her past, Keisha's inability to come to terms with them threatens to undermine the future of her business and her tumultuous, unconventional relationship with Tristan White. 

Erotic, amusing, and in places hilarious, the Jungle Fever Romance Quadrilogy is a parody with a unique take on a Fifty Shades-type story that will take you even further into the BDSM world, and promises to make the vanilla original Fifty Shades more colorful. 

The first two books focus on Keisha and Tristan's romance, and the final two will focus on Jada and Nathan's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jungle Fever Press
• Release date: Jan 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781516351237

L.V. Lewis

LaVerne Lewis grew up watching shows like Dark Shadows, Bewitched and later Charmed and Supernatural. Her favorite authors in the genre include Anne Rice, Stephen King, Karen Marie Moning and J.R. Ward which cemented her fondness for Urban Fantasy and the Paranormal. While she works by day in an office writing dry contract language, her love for Urban Fantasy compelled her to pursue writing the types of books she loves. Now she writes her own Paranormal Romance novels in the hope that someday her name will be synonymous with her idols'.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Pursing my lips in frustration, I brush my hair back and tame it with the last bit of gel left in the jar. Damn, my weave is jacked! Time to take out these tracks. My hair has grown out too much, anyway. Damn my homegirl Jada, too, for hogging all the hair product before she went to Vegas. I should be getting ready for the opening of our studio and record store. Instead, I’ve spent all day cramming for an investment meeting.

I twist my mouth into a full-on frown as I gaze into the mirror at my warm, olive complexion and too large, luminous hazel eyes.

Fuck it, I say. I guess a stiff ponytail à la Gabby Douglas will have to do.

Jada Jameson, my roommate and business partner, took off on a redeye to a weeklong sorority getaway. This left me, the artist with the least business acumen, to discuss investing in our business with Tristan White, the CEO of White Enterprises, Inc. Also, I’m in the middle of working off my two-week notice at La Perla on the Magnificent Mile.

I have to take the ‘L’, Chicago Transit Authority’s elevated rapid transit system, all the way into Downtown to meet the gazillionaire venture capitalist. Tristan White is supposed to be like the Donald Trump of Chicago or some shit—I hope without that wacked out comb-over. Scoring a meeting with him is like winning the fucking lottery, but he granted Jada one. It just happened to be on the first day of her trip, and her plane ticket was non-refundable. Now my head is swimming with numbers I don’t understand... or care to.

After Jada called White’s assistant every week for a couple of months with no success, she finally enlisted her father to secure a definitive hookup. Mr. Jameson is a state senator, and on one of the many occasions he was required to rub elbows with the rich and powerful, he got his baby girl and her partner an audience with the elusive Tristan White.

Jada gives me a final pep talk by phone as I’m getting dressed, but I’m still not confident going solo.

"Don’t we have enough cash to get by a few months until you’re able to do the pitch?"

As the CFO of this venture, I’m telling you we don’t have the capital to pull this off on our own. The break-even figures don’t lie. You can’t back out on me now.

Even over the phone she’s more charismatic and business articulate than I’ll ever be. Girlfriend is savvy enough to converse with the one percent as if she’s one of them.

I wouldn’t be backing out. We’d just be postponing.

"Yeah, we’d be postponing ourselves right out of this opportunity. Use some of that confidence you have as a musician. I’ve seen it when you’re performing. Draw on that and you’ll have Tristan White eating out of your hand."

I don’t know. Business terms give me the hives. I don’t feel like I know what I’m talking about.

Believe me, the more you use them and put them into practice, they’ll become old hat. For this meeting, though, I want you to recite the information we practiced from the business plan like they’re song lyrics.

I remember song lyrics so easily because that’s what I do.

And before you know it, Chief Operating Officer will be what you do. You can do this. Please, Jada says in the voice she usually reserves for the men she’s trying to charm. I ignore my pang of irrational jealousy and relent.

Okay. You just do your whatever-happens-in-Vegas-stays-there thing, and I’ll handle White. You know what I’m saying?

I knew you’d have my back, Keke. She uses my neighborhood nickname, laying it on real thick. I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.

I roll my eyes. Mmm-hmm.

You’ve got the business plan I prepared, right?

Yeah, but those damn financial statements and break-even analyses are like Greek to me.

Just remember the numbers we went over together. Concentrate on the sales forecasts, marketing information and comparisons of similar businesses in the industry. The business plan will speak for itself. Make sure you’re not late. You should probably take my car.

And get caught up in downtown rush-hour traffic? No, thank you. I cringe when I think of panicking and wrecking her fancy BMW on the Dan Ryan. Death would be more merciful than what Jada would do to me if I survived. I don’t like to drive downtown anyway and she knows this.

Well good luck and thanks again, Keisha. I owe you one.

I slip on my stilettos, grab my bootleg PRADA bag, and depart. I don’t usually do knockoffs, but this bag was the perfect shade of blue to match my suit. Once outside, I immediately ruminate on how I let Jada talk me into this shit. She’s a phenomenal woman and my BFF, but she is a manipulator. Jada could convince a drug dealer with his own stash to buy her unique brand of crack. She’ll be a formidable CFO for Kente Studio Records. I only hope I measure up as the COO and creative brain.

After my father died two years ago, the insurance settlement I got burned my pockets. I needed to do something constructive with it. Given the relationship I had with my old man, I might’ve signed it all over to a charity. After my father’s will had been executed, Jada and I smoked a bowl of weed on the fire escape until we zoned and had a philosophical conversation about the sluggish economy. We wanted meaningful jobs when we got out of college, not something that barely paid the bills.

Then we brainstormed about what we could do to capitalize on our combined talents. I’m a music aficionado and an accomplished musician. My father’s Brazilian musical background and my mother’s history as a blues singer led me to major in music composition and performance at DePaul. Jada, a numbers girl, got a dual degree in business and accounting.

We conceived Kente Studio Records, a physical and online recording studio, vinyl shop, and music store all rolled into one. We wanted an ethnic name that described the various shades of clients to whom we expected to cater. Our music would be for people of all colors.

I settle on the ‘L’ and try not to listen to the homeless man reciting the maximum load-bearing weight of the train, what speed we would need to go to get to Waukesha, WI in an hour, and other shit nobody’s even asked him. My own inner voices whisper in my ear on the regular, so I don’t need his nonsensical ass adding to the mix.

There are two entities at war inside me that I’ve seen manifested physically since I was a little girl—when my daddy stopped being a good father and husband and terrorized me and my mama. This may mean I’m certifiable, but I don’t care. They’re like the little football fairies in the DIRECTV commercials—except without the football gear—and they are much more attractive than Deion Sanders and his companions if I do say so.

These miniature, winged replicas of me sit or hover around on my shoulders, but sometimes I even see them with extraordinary clarity. On my right shoulder is my Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble and typically roots for me to do what’s right. The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama, resides on my left shoulder. She generally wants the exact opposite.

Before I know it, we’re downtown. My destination, White headquarters in the Loop, is an imposing thirty-plus story building. The GPS on my phone gets me right to the glass doors on which the name White is emblazoned in what else? White letters. It’s a quarter to five, and I’m glad I’m not rocking CP (colored people) time. The lobby is decorated with white and black leathers, stones, and contemporary chrome furnishings, which remind me of the yin and yang symbol.

Behind a black, marble desk sits an attractive but androgynous man. Guyliner dark as a rock star’s rim his eyes, and his suit fits like he oiled himself and slid into it.

I’m here to see Mr. White. Keisha Beale with Kente Studio Records. Absent one Jada Jameson.

Excuse me one moment, Ms. Beale.

All of a sudden, I feel as if I’m trying to get into a gay nightclub and he’s the bouncer. I don’t feel self-conscious because I’m positive I look fly in my navy power suit. But the pencil skirt hugging my round apple bottom is lost on the receptionist. As he clicks through the files on his white MacBook, the movements of his hands are more graceful than my own.

You’re early, he says, stating the obvious. Please sign in using the electronic signature pad. The fourth elevator bank will carry you to the thirty-second floor. As I sign, he pastes on a friendly yet perfunctory smile.

He reaches into a drawer and hands me a white badge that has White Enterprises Temporary ID 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.

I thank him and walk over to the elevator bank guarded by security personnel. They resemble Secret Service men, complete with conspicuous communications earpieces.

The elevator beams me at warp speed to the thirty-second floor and to yet another lobby. I’m greeted there by a different impeccably groomed, effeminate man with an overly manicured goatee who’s sitting behind a granite desk.

Miss Beale, please wait here, he says, orchestrating an elaborate spokes-modelesque sweep of his arm toward a cluster of black leather chairs.

Across from the chairs is a concave window with a view of the Chicago skyline that overlooks the city toward Lake Michigan. I feel as if I’m seated in front of Cloud Gate, the mirrored oblong sculpture in AT&T Plaza, which Chicagoans affectionately call The Bean. The view makes me drool. The skyline is so distorted, close, and gorgeous.

So, this is how the one percent lives?

I go over the business plan while I’m waiting and call Jada every kind of bitch in the book for not providing me any additional information on Mr. White. He could favor Eric Northman, that sexy vampire on True Blood, or Gandalf the Grey from Lord of the Rings. I should’ve checked him out on the internet. I hope like hell he’s good-looking because if I’m going to spend my time trying to impress him, I at least want his ass to be handsome.

Mind you, I’m not shallow. I did date Byron McCaskill, who isn’t handsome in the classical sense of the word. He’s got more of a rough edge to him, and he appealed to me largely due to his music video persona. I’ve always existed, for the most part, in the fantasies I’ve enjoyed in fiction—living vicariously through movie and book characters since I was a child. It’s sort of a coping mechanism. When life throws me curve balls, I have an endless fount of pop culture references to draw from that, together with my fairies, keep me sane.

My nerves get the better of me, and I chew a piece of gum to calm them. When I forget where I am and pop the gum, it sounds as if I’ve detonated a bomb. The receptionist glances impassively at me, and I swallow it with a gulp I’m sure he hears across the room.

Throughout my life, I’ve never been entirely comfortable around white people, not to mention the rich. I grew up on the south side of Chicago, a ghetto girl with lofty dreams who prefers chilling with my homies to perpetrating in the business world. To be honest, I’m best alone, listening to tunes on my iPod or better yet, singing 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.

Stressing, I purse my lips. Stop tripping, Beale. To distract myself, I try to conjure an image of Tristan White. Judging from the aesthetic of the building, I guess that White’s in his sixties, from old Chicago money, a member of an all-white country club, has white-gray hair, and is as 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 known as Prince?

I’m Darryl Sykes, Mr. White’s personal assistant. Mr. White will see you momentarily, Ms. Beale. He’s wrapping up a meeting. May I get you anything? We have water, sparkling water, organic coffee, oolong tea—

Nothing, thank you.

He retreats from whence he came, and I sing a Maxwell song in my head.

While humming Pretty Wings, I marvel over Mr. White’s office staff. Doesn’t he realize this setup is an EEOC lawsuit 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. Immediately, I recognize her by the signature blond micro braids. She’s Princess Danai, the rapper. Thanks for the advice, Tristan, she says and my mouth falls open.

You’re welcome, 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.

Without hesitation, I take this opportunity, which I’m hoping will be the first of many, to promote Kente Studio Records. I just might, if you’d consider hooking 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. Princess Danai scans 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 says before strolling onto the waiting elevator and winking. I’ve heard she bats 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.

I scoop up my bag, along with the binder that holds our business plan, take a deep breath, open the door... and walk smack into a man who’s at least a foot taller than I am in my ambitious hooker heels.

Excuse me, sir. I’m so sorry. I hope my apology is heartfelt and profuse enough that he won’t be ticked off. I should’ve knocked first.

No problem, Ms. Beale. He encircles my petite biceps—which I’m proud to say are more toned than Michelle Obama’s—with his brawny hands. Once he’s sure I’m steady, he takes a step back. I’m Tristan White.

My gaze travels up to an undeniably handsome face with sharp blue eyes—all chiseled features, dimpled chin, and sun-drenched blond hair—then 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—are 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, sir. And so are you! I wave him off and project what I hope is 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 Two 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 looks so familiar!

His touch and the fact that he’s young and handsome unnerve me more than our collision. When his eyes crinkle questioningly, I close my gaping mouth and kick-start my stuttering heart again. Then it hits me. He bears an uncanny resemblance to the point guard of the Chicago Buffaloes, only with shorter hair.

Are you Nathan White’s brother?

Yes, we’re twins.

Oh, that explains it. I decide to play it chill and not act like a rabid fan. Um, Ms. Jameson is out of town, I say. I’m Keisha Beale.

Yes, I was informed. 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 to what’s going on in his mind and whether he’s pissed Jada isn’t here.

Chief Operating Officer, sir. Well, Jada—I mean, Ms. Jameson—gave us those distinguished titles. We’re partners.

He narrows his eyes. Are you normally so polite, Ms. Beale?

Pardon?

You keep calling me, sir.

Yes, sir. My mother’s family is from the South. She drilled the habit into us.

He angles his head, peruses me through slanted eyes, and gestures toward the binder in my hand. Your business plan, I presume?

Oh, yes, sir, I say and hand it to him. He maneuvers to close the door, and his chin is inches from my line of sight. I close my eyes and breathe in. The cologne he’s wearing makes me want to lick his clean-shaven, dimpled chin.

What the fuck am I thinking?

I need to get a grip on my malnourished libido, or I’m going to tank this business deal and make a goddamn fool of myself in the process. He steps aside and gestures toward the seating area straight ahead, which happens to face his desk. I walk to it like someone who’s going to an execution—my heart in my throat, my head down, and shaking like I’ve selected the highest setting in a salon massage chair.

CHAPTER TWO

W ould you like to sit , Ms. Beale? My face grows hot as I open my eyes to find White scrutinizing me with a hint of concern in his eyes. Are you sure you’re all right?

I’m fine, I say, acutely aware I was almost busted sniffing him. I take a seat in one of the black, stuffed, leather chairs facing his desk, and he surprises me by sliding a chair next to mine. Then he unbuttons his jacket before sitting down to scan the business plan. I rattle off the numbers Jada insisted I memorize and he nods as he scans the financials.

White’s office is decorated in the same black and white design as his lobbies, but it’s accessorized with astonishing splashes of vivid color. A red floral arrangement in a black vase sits in one corner, a yellow sculpture in another, a blue mural behind a corner-shaped fish tank in another, and there’s a green tropical plant in the farthest corner.

The wall behind his desk is a floor-to-ceiling window that affords a different view of the downtown skyline from the one in the waiting area. On the wall behind us are pictures of him at various groundbreakings, some where he’s flanked by local business people, others of him with luminaries from around the world, and still more where he’s receiving a bevy of awards.

When I look back, 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.

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 the location 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 the building?

It was my father’s.

Was?

Yes, sir. He left it to me when he passed away two years ago.

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

Me, Ms. Jameson and her family. Jada’s parents, while comfortable, aren’t so wealthy they could front all the money required to get KSR off the ground. Her father comes from a family of lawyers who made a name for themselves in Springfield. Her parents delved into politics and, as public servants, don’t make as much as they did practicing law. They only agreed to allow her to play with one hundred thousand of her trust fund to match the hundred thousand I had. Then they threw in another hundred thousand of their money to help us with capital improvements and capital equipment purchases. We’ve already spent fifty thousand dollars.

It’s a terrific idea in principle. The right financial backing, 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 be ours and only managed by us.

He sits back. I’m a silent partner in all the projects I finance. I leave management to their own devices until some foolhardy move compels me to break my silence. Also, location is paramount if you expect any crossover clients, and neither I nor the demographic you want to appeal to will drive into South Chicago on a regular basis to patronize a fledgling business.

You can’t tell me there isn’t sufficient clientele on the south side to patronize our business. As we tap into other markets via the internet, it will only serve to increase our customer base. My second-hand Southern charm has left the building. Like the Hulk, I’m now struggling to keep the real Keisha on lock-down.

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 seeking venture capital only, not a partner. I smile through teeth clenched so hard it’s like I’ve got a TMJ disorder.

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 female upstarts without as much as a serious gut check, he says as if being female makes us even more incompetent than the average upstart.

Misogynist much, White?

"We may be female, but we’re not upstarts. We’ve been out of college more than two years, and we’ve