yelling.
âYeah, well listen to me, Honolulu tough guy, Iâm from Las-fuckinâ-Vegas. Do you know what Iâm sayinâ here? Do you have any idea what that means?â
Jack couldnât hold himself up. He crashed back into the banquette.
âGo blow your fuckinâ conch shell or pick coconuts or whatever the fuck it is you people do. But donât tell me how to run my fuckinâ business, because you are out of your league.â
Joseph was sure that last outburst would put Sid over the edge, but Sid just shook his head.
âYou been warned.â
âAnd youâre a dead man.â
...
Yuki was exhausted. It had been a long day. On top of the constant demands of her job, her secret mission to cleanse herboss of his negative energy was the killer. Francis, she realized, was a force to be reckoned with, a one-man H-bomb capable of unleashing supercharged diva-destruction in all directions. Yuki, the staff, and any local hires would just be collateral damage, set decoration and props for the shock-and-a-we campaign of self-annihilation that Francis was bringing with him.
She climbed into bed and turned off the light. As she was drifting off, she thought about the big Hawaiian pimp whoâd approached her on the street. Although the idea of selling her body for money was creepy, she was excited that someone actually thought that, with a little retooling, she might be sexually attractive. When was the last time anyone had shown an interest in her? When was the last time sheâd had sex? She realized, somewhat grimly, that she hadnât had intimate contact with another human being in almost four years. No hand holding, no hugs, no kissing, no touching, no getting laid, nothing.
It was depressing.
Sheâd distracted herself. Filled her days with classes, lessons, chanting, and volunteer work. But she realized that she would trade all the belly-dancing lessons, conga classes, feng shui seminars, and yoga retreats for a night between the sheets with someone. Anyone. They didnât have to be hot or hunky, they didnât even have to be male; at this point she just wanted contact. And along comes a pimp, a real live pimp who knows what heâs talking about, who says, âDress like a boy and people will want you.â
How do you like that?
Yuki drifted off into a deep sleep and, as her REM kicked in, began to dream. In her dream, Yuki had short hair,cropped in the back and on the sides with a long, flowing lock that fell down over her eyes. She looked sultry, seductive. She wore a white cotton tank top underneath an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, her small dark nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. She had on ankle-length khakis that were baggy and made her hips look boyish. She wore pink canvas high-tops and had a baseball cap perched on the back of her head. She wasnât sure what she looked like: a cool teenage boy, a dyke, or a superfashionable young woman who was hip, happening, and ready for anything.
Because it was a dream, she suddenly found herself on a tropical beach, maybe Ipanema. It was hot. The sand was littered with sunbathers laid out on towels, raw and pink and exposed, like sushi. The sun beat down, and the smell of broiling cocoa-buttered flesh mixed with the salt of the sea breeze. It made her stomach growl with a hard, deeply erotic hunger.
Yuki wasnât like the other women on the beach. She didnât have huge tits packed into a teeny bikini. She wasnât wearing a thong. Yet everywhere she looked men were lusting after her, beckoning, waving, offering drinks, cash, jewelry, even a new skateboard.
She had never felt so desired.
She heard them breathing: hot, heavy, panting. She stopped walking and stood there, trembling with excitement. The breeze from the surf sprayed across her skin and caused a tingling electromagnetic surge that shot through her body, connecting her lips to her nipples to her suddenly wet pussy.
The
âYeah, well listen to me, Honolulu tough guy, Iâm from Las-fuckinâ-Vegas. Do you know what Iâm sayinâ here? Do you have any idea what that means?â
Jack couldnât hold himself up. He crashed back into the banquette.
âGo blow your fuckinâ conch shell or pick coconuts or whatever the fuck it is you people do. But donât tell me how to run my fuckinâ business, because you are out of your league.â
Joseph was sure that last outburst would put Sid over the edge, but Sid just shook his head.
âYou been warned.â
âAnd youâre a dead man.â
...
Yuki was exhausted. It had been a long day. On top of the constant demands of her job, her secret mission to cleanse herboss of his negative energy was the killer. Francis, she realized, was a force to be reckoned with, a one-man H-bomb capable of unleashing supercharged diva-destruction in all directions. Yuki, the staff, and any local hires would just be collateral damage, set decoration and props for the shock-and-a-we campaign of self-annihilation that Francis was bringing with him.
She climbed into bed and turned off the light. As she was drifting off, she thought about the big Hawaiian pimp whoâd approached her on the street. Although the idea of selling her body for money was creepy, she was excited that someone actually thought that, with a little retooling, she might be sexually attractive. When was the last time anyone had shown an interest in her? When was the last time sheâd had sex? She realized, somewhat grimly, that she hadnât had intimate contact with another human being in almost four years. No hand holding, no hugs, no kissing, no touching, no getting laid, nothing.
It was depressing.
Sheâd distracted herself. Filled her days with classes, lessons, chanting, and volunteer work. But she realized that she would trade all the belly-dancing lessons, conga classes, feng shui seminars, and yoga retreats for a night between the sheets with someone. Anyone. They didnât have to be hot or hunky, they didnât even have to be male; at this point she just wanted contact. And along comes a pimp, a real live pimp who knows what heâs talking about, who says, âDress like a boy and people will want you.â
How do you like that?
Yuki drifted off into a deep sleep and, as her REM kicked in, began to dream. In her dream, Yuki had short hair,cropped in the back and on the sides with a long, flowing lock that fell down over her eyes. She looked sultry, seductive. She wore a white cotton tank top underneath an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, her small dark nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. She had on ankle-length khakis that were baggy and made her hips look boyish. She wore pink canvas high-tops and had a baseball cap perched on the back of her head. She wasnât sure what she looked like: a cool teenage boy, a dyke, or a superfashionable young woman who was hip, happening, and ready for anything.
Because it was a dream, she suddenly found herself on a tropical beach, maybe Ipanema. It was hot. The sand was littered with sunbathers laid out on towels, raw and pink and exposed, like sushi. The sun beat down, and the smell of broiling cocoa-buttered flesh mixed with the salt of the sea breeze. It made her stomach growl with a hard, deeply erotic hunger.
Yuki wasnât like the other women on the beach. She didnât have huge tits packed into a teeny bikini. She wasnât wearing a thong. Yet everywhere she looked men were lusting after her, beckoning, waving, offering drinks, cash, jewelry, even a new skateboard.
She had never felt so desired.
She heard them breathing: hot, heavy, panting. She stopped walking and stood there, trembling with excitement. The breeze from the surf sprayed across her skin and caused a tingling electromagnetic surge that shot through her body, connecting her lips to her nipples to her suddenly wet pussy.
The
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