Free The King's Gold by Yxta Maya Murray

very different, are we? But I want you to work with me. I know you’re capable of more than that amateur show you put on in the library! I dare you. Show me that not all of the de la Rosas are trash. It would mean a great deal to your family. Maybe I’ll give you a chance.”
    “Oh—you— grrrrr !” Holding the letter tightly, I furiously jerked my face out of his grasp. Marco kept hold of my arm as I blundered out of the suite’s front door and faced the source of the laughter outside.
    “Or, maybe not,” Marco said, over the din.
    In the Persian-carpeted hallway, the formerly blasé Adriana was flushing crimson and spasming with hilarity. Opposite her stood a tall, stocky man in a crumpled, navy suit with stuffed pockets, and with wayward black and silver hair.
    “You’re really going to have to educate these Italians, Adriana, because the customs guy says to me, ‘You’re what—Latino? That’s what? As in...Indian? As in Chief Running Bear or something? As in eagle feathers and nude dancing? I thought you were Chinese, boy, because of your, well, your eyes. ’ And I said, ‘No, I’m Indian—Maya Indian—and my ancestors did wear feathers, in fact, particularly when they were performing these incredibly painful human sacrifices, especially on large-bottomed male Italian colonials, because their effeminacy pleased the harvest gods—Italians, to tell you the truth, a lot like you’—but he didn’t think it was very funny, because he said he was going to put me in the airport prison—”
    “I know, I know, they are blockheads,” gasped Adriana, reaching out to dust off some lint from his lapel, before spotting me and composing herself.
    “Who’s that?” Marco asked from behind me.
    Adriana patted down her hair. “Oh—yes. This lovely man says he is your... fiancé ?” She rolled her eyes meaningfully. “Signorina de la Rosa?”
    The guest turned around. The man’s dark, exhausted glance first veered up to Marco and shot out little poisoned darts when he saw his hand on my arm. Then he looked at me, with his funny, handsome-haggard face.
    “Hi...,” he said, bobbing his airplane-seat-mashed head back and forth and opening his arms. “Surprise, sweetie! What the hell are you doing here? Love you! Guess you didn’t expect me to really come when you invited me on that text message thingie. Well, ha! Um—here I am!”
    I rushed to Erik and nearly crushed him to pieces in my embrace.
8
    “When did you get here?” I almost brutally squeezed Erik around his big waist; his hands were very cold as they moved through my hair.
    “Rome, about two hours ago. After you texted me about this ‘client’ person, and Aztecs, and Tomas, I couldn’t get a hold of you on your cell. So I called up your parents and Yolanda, but no one knew what was going on. Then I phoned this place—the palazzo—you gibbered about it in your text. Adriana told me that you had a room reserved here! So then I ran to the airport! And then I just staggered around! I was trying to figure out what in holy hell was going on—your flight had just left! You were gone! We had dinner reservations! We were going to have lobster and pick the rehearsal dinner DJ! And then I was sort of upset and then I kind of felt myself floating over to the ticket counter and babbling out my fiancée’s in Italy —and they put me on standby and—well—bam bam! ” He waggled his hands around his ears. “I just did it! Flew here like a maniac! All very spontaneous, you know, and I was hoping it would be romantic and not stalking—”
    I started laughing. “Are you drunk?”
    His thick black bangs stuck up all around his head, and his beard-bristles sprang out from his thick jaw. “No, not very. Anymore. But you know, coach is such hell and they’ve got this duty-free whiskey and I sipped like half a bottle while nibbling on...these—” From the depths of his bulging jacket pockets he began pulling out the treats he’d purchased en route: