Page 5 of The Desert Prince's Jewel
“I know you’re a Torres, an artist, and you feel like you have to be close to that world to thrive. I get it! I really do! Your parents were good people, but I don’t want you to overwhelm yourself, Mateo...”
The buzzing in my ears drowns out his first name and everything but this barista being a Torres. What are the chances that this Torres, the son of artists, is different from a couple I knew all too well who died in Princedelphia years ago? A couple who stole from my dying mother’s dowry fifteen years ago. He has to be the son of the bastards who somehow slipped into Nagat’s Art Museum to stealThe Ascension of Vikram, the Conqueror.
And then, it all clicks into place. There is only one person also capable of stealing the stone. And by some divine will, I have found him pretending to be a godsdamned barista next to the runaway prince hotel!
CHAPTER THREE
MATEO
“Mateo, my man, always brewing my drink to perfection,” a gruff voice calls out, humming with glee after a string of praises sung in my honor in Spanish, leaving a large tip before he leaves.
I grin back as Julio dabs me up before walking away, an older man who works construction and is currently restoring a section of the Renversé Hotel.
My grin falls when he exits the cafe, and I release a world-weary sigh as Julio sips his milk disguised as a latte near the front door, since he takes it so sweet. He’s the last of my community who bothers to acknowledge me. There aren’t many Afro-Panamanians in sleepy Princedelphia, so it didn’t surprise me how quickly my reputation went into the shitter once the news broke. The news that ruined my life when I was just ten years old. There’s no hiding when everyone can pick you out with ease.
My eyes flick to an indistinct landscape painting hanging near the cafe’s entrance, my mind wandering to my life before, when my parents were up-and-coming curators, before a den of thieves adopted me. It all feels so distant as I sling coffee, when back then, I seemed destined to graduate at the top of my class someday and inherit my parents’ small art museum.
“Order for Daisy!” I shout as my fellow barista, Zane, hands me an iced latte, and my body moves on autopilot to serve our next guest.
Thankfully, most of my new friends and acquaintances don’t know jack shit about the art scene in the city. Despite working in a cafe, where customers often resemble millennial hipster stereotypes, including my fellow baristas, everyone seems clueless about the art world.
People like Julio fuel themselves for grueling blue-collar jobs and go about their day, and white-collar workers do much of the same, just in their office settings. Everyone I work with and for has their own dreams and lives that don’t intersect with my old life at all.
Anyway, while the art scene in the city labels me an outcast, I can pretend everything is okay in the bubble of Renversé Hotel and Cafe Magnifique. I don’t know how long I can keep up the act. I trained to curate art, not become an actor, and I’m doing a piss poor job of it. I sigh before putting on another megawatt fake smile for a customer whose name I can’t remember because he’s new.
“Order for Kevin!” I shout as blood roars in my ears, my gaze landing on Sheena’s disapproving gaze, before she walks away and out of the cafe.
The monotony of serving and cleaning briefly frees me from my struggles. Then Sheena, who I thought would comment on the upcoming seasonal menu, had to meddle in my part-timejob, helping to cater an art gala, bringing up my impossible situation.
Layla’s wife’s wise words of wisdom circle around my mind like a brewing storm. Like always, she’s right. And I temporarily hate her for it. Not that I could ever hate Sheena for long.
I can’t juggle two part-time jobs, with near full-time hours, my living situation, and get a wink of sleep. That doesn’t include the catering gigs I pick up here and there. With my new raise at the cafe, there’s hope to solve my financial situation without working myself to death. But none of that changes the fact that my now estranged adoptive parents have permanently fucked up my future with their illicit art dealing.
My fakeass Mama and Papa—my God aunt and uncle—swear up and down by any means I haven’t blocked them on yet that they were duped. They’re adamant that they never meant to steal from a royal household or sell said rare painting to actual criminals. But I wasn’t buying it one bit back then, and I sure as hell am not now.
Never have and I never will,I think as I clench my teeth, scrubbing out a stain on the counter.
My adoptive family may not have been the best growing up, but at least they were there for me when my parents were murdered. Until I realized they were a part of the twisted web of lies that had sent them to an early grave.
It irks me that they chose a quick buck over our shared dream of expanding our local art museum for us, by us, to promote underrepresented up-and-coming artists across the city. To see the history of the town we love so much come to life and flourish under our touch—the arts and cultures of the humans, monsters, and mixed magical communities.
We could’ve had all that, and now?
I feel a twinge of panic snake up my spine at the prospect of never being able to realize my dreams. And I know whateverpuppet master bastards who set this all into motion are counting on just that. My desperation. My desires. They’ll manipulate it all to get the one thing I won’t give–the location of my parents’ little black book that contains information on all their deals.
Not all of it was illicitly sourced, just the ones my adoptive family had them launder unknowingly. But either way, I’m the one left paying the consequences, hoping to one day ride this shitstorm out. I will prove my parents’ innocence, as well as the deception on the part of my adoptive family, someday. Hopefully, someday soon. And I’ll finally seek justice against the mysterious person or organization behind it all.
“Yeah, right,” I grumble, side-stepping Justice, the barista, as I rush an order to a cranky customer’s table. His muscular legs and quick steps speak to his athleticism, briskly weaving around the cafe while I’m winded like I’ve run a mile and it’s only mid-day.
Here I am, once again, making grand plans without a penny to my name or a feasible plan. But I know without a shadow of a doubt I’ll never give up the search, even if it means I’ll be slinging coffee at Cafe Magnifique for the rest of my life, pinching pennies, so I have the freedom to drift in the underworld at night.
“Aye,” Daryl says to me, snapping as he points to the cash register, “Are you working the cash register, or daydreaming your shift away, man?”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I say, not knowing how I made it to co-manager when he deserves it a hell of a lot more than I do.
Maybe he didn’t apply because he’s busy with school. He’s majoring in marine biology or something interesting like that.
Daryl flashes me a soft smile, nudging Zane to deliver a pastry to a table, while I help the zombies lined up for their daily shot of brains in the form of espresso. The other manager on duty, Sam,paces not too far from me, guiding our new hire, Cyril, through tasks on our ancient coffee equipment.
