Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever Read Online Free

the one who sent me to the damn meeting at the last minute without going in shotgun with me.
    While zipping along on the “L,” I watch as the landscape changes from the opulence of the Loop and downtown Chicago to the simpler less well-kept properties further south. I’m baffled as to what made Tristan kiss me: Keisha from the block. Was he bored with rich, white girls or was that just a desire to have a little coffee in his cream? No, it seems Mr. White has a raging case of jungle fever. And me provoking him by saying his hard-on had been for his assistant. Fuck! I cringe.
    “Did I say that?” My Triple-G whines in her best impression of Steve Urkel. My DePaul liberal arts education has given me just enough ammunition to be dangerous in mixed company. I can vascillate between the ghetto and the private sector, but only in small doses. I’m too much of a “keeping it real” kind of girl.
    I want to hurl myself off the speeding “L.” Now, e very time I see a Bulls game, I’m going to look at Nate White and think about how I ruined our best shot at making Kente Studio Records a success by grossly offending his twin brother. Triple-damn Jada Jameson for leaving me to my own devices for the most important meeting in the development of our business.
    I look around when I get off the “L” at my stop. Tristan has all my information, so if he wants to, he could fucking stalk me. I remember how his blue peepers looked as the elevator closed on him, and for some reason, I see that look in everyone’s eyes I pass. I shake my head when I realize he’s off doing whatever it is that multi-gazillionaires do on a Friday after work.
    Fuck it, Keisha, I berate myself. I am resigned to the fact that I’ve squandered an unprecedented opportunity, but I won’t dwell on it . Just figure out how to get your damn purse back and you’ll never have to see him again. That decision makes me feel better, and I straighten my poor posture and walk with my usual swagger down the street to our home, glad that I won’t have to face Jada until next Monday.
    I grab my cell phone out of my pocket and call my mother. The first order of business is cash, because I can’t do shit without my I.D. and my debit card.
    Jada and I live in the Marquette-Gage Park area, a mixed community of Latinos, African Americans, and a smattering of Caucasians. Our duplex was purchased by Jada’s parents, and my rent has been a fraction of what I might have paid the two years we’ve lived together postcollege elsewhere. I unlock the door and am about to sli p inside when our neighbor, nos y Mrs. Dobbs who speaks with a distinct lisp, and can’t pronounce either of our names for shit, pokes her head out the door.
    “Keitha,” she says. “Some white man in a long limousine jus’ left here looking for you. I didn’t think he was a boyfriend or nothin’ ‘cause he looked kinda sweet to me, to tell you the truth.”
    “Darryl Sykes,” I mutter to myself.
    “Who?” Mrs. Dobbs says.
    “Never mind . Did he leave anything for me?”
    “Naw. Was he ‘spose to?”
    “I guess not. Thanks, Mrs. Dobbs.” I open my door and slip inside before she can follow me. If she gets in here won’t be any getting her out for the rest of the night, and I have to go to my mama’s and pick up the money she’s going to lend me. I figure if I can get through the weekend, I’ll tap into my finances at the bank next week.
    I also have to go to Wicked next Friday and speak to Princess Danai and ask her to front us the money for Kente Studio Records. Maybe then Jada won’t be so mad I fucked things up with Tristan White.
    I strip out of my power suit, and shower in an attempt to wash the yucky post-arousal stickiness away. While I’m at it, I cut the tracts away, take out the weave, and undo the braids on my scalp. I wash out a week’s worth of product, condition it, then take a dollop of mousse and work it through my hair. When it dries, it’ll be in tiny ringlets that