Free Delicious by Mark Haskell Smith Page B

eye on the young one. He traced a line with his eyes from the handsome face to his articulated biceps to his firm pecs and down to the left-leaning bulge in the crotch of his pants. Francis felt a little tingle begin around his nipples. They stiffened.
    As Francis continued to get aroused, Sid continued to rant and fume. Francis nodded, like he was listening, and then—this is what he always did—he passed the buck. It wasn’t his decision. It came from the network. In fact, the deal had been done before he’d even been hired.
    It was true, actually. Francis didn’t know why he wasn’t using the locals, but it wasn’t his job to argue with his bosses; it was his job to do what they said.
    He smiled at Joseph. “I understand how important this job is to you guys. Let me call my boss and see what I can do about it. How’s that sound?”
    The fat one seemed vaguely placated but couldn’t resist a last little threat. “You don’ want no trouble.”
    Francis nodded. No, he did not. He looked at the young one. “Maybe we can have a drink and talk about it. What do you think?”
    Joseph nodded. “Anytime.”
    Joseph handed Francis his card. Very briefly Francis felt the young man’s strong brown hand brush against his. His nipples got a tiny bit harder underneath his T-shirt, and his brain secreted a burst of hormone, giving his cock the green light to erectify.
    â€œI’ll be in touch.”
    Francis watched them as they left his office, his eyes locked on Joseph’s ass as he walked away. Nice.
    Francis smiled to himself. The day was looking up.
    ...
    She’d spent her entire life surrounded by Caucasians. She spoke like a Caucasian, dressed like a Caucasian, lived like a Caucasian. She ate Caucasian food and dated Caucasian men. She may have been a resident of Caucasia, but Yuki Sugimoto wasn’t Caucasian. She was a Japanese-American or, more accurately, an American of Japanese ancestry. Not that she felt that way. She didn’t speak any Japanese, could hardly relate to her grandmother, who’d survived an internment camp in northern Utah, and didn’t even like Japanese food. Sometimes she’d catch herself in the mirror, her Japanese face and black hair giving her a shock, a surprise, a momentary spark of something distinctly non-Caucasian. It was a feeling that there was more to her, something special, mysterious, and undefined, some exotic magic she hadn’t discovered yet.
    Occasionally she would meet people who were surprised that she was so Americanized. She always thought that strange. She was born and raised in California. Attended public high schools and UCLA. What could be more American? Was it just because her skin wasn’t white? Her eyes weren’t blue? Her hair wasn’t blond?
    It didn’t take long for Yuki to understand why she felt so comfortable in Honolulu. From the moment she stepped off the plane she felt right at home. Everywhere she looked she saw echoes of herself. Almost everyone had some Asiatic features. Black hair, rice eyes. It was the Caucasians who stuckout in the crowd. For the first time in her life she was a member of the majority. Everyone looked like her, and she looked like everyone else. They were her age, they spoke English, watched lots of crappy television, and remembered the band Oasis. Only they didn’t look like the majority on the mainland. Here she was the norm. How cool is that?
    She had just pulled out her bundle of dried sage to purify the outer office of negative energy and bad spirits when a cute guy and a big guy came in demanding to see Francis. They didn’t wait to be announced, they didn’t want a cup of coffee or a bottle of mineral water, they just barged right in to Francis’s office.
    Yuki was worried that Francis would be mad at her, especially since the big guy was ranting and raving about some kind of betrayal of trust or something. She