Snow, Blood, and Envy.

by Jean Haus.

Chapter 1*Snow.

In the short time I've lived with my father, I've met more than ten of his girlfriends. Why he introduces me to these women is beyond me. Beside the fact I never see them again, I rarely see him. Maybe he thinks the two-minute introductions equal quality time. This is so not quality. Music blares in my ears, my father's mouth moves, and the woman stares at me. Judging, dark eyes slide over my frayed jeans, t-shirt, and even pause at the bracelets on my wrists while I force a fixed smile. Ugh. Where does he find them?

Then his mouth forms an unbelievable word.

I rip my earbuds out. "Did you say married?"

"Yes, married." Grinning-he never grins-he lifts her hand to show me a ridiculously huge diamond. "Next week in Fiji, Mali will become Mrs. Drew Nash."

"Next week?" I gasp, staring at the rock. With each beating thump from my iPod, the stone pulsates, grows, and threatens to swallow me. I stumble away from the swelling shine until my legs hit the back of the couch and my unsteady fingers scramble for the stop button.

He taps his blazer chest pocket where an envelope sticks out. "We fly out on Tuesday."

My palm grows sweaty and my iPod almost slips from my fingers. The words are like a foreign language. Mali, Fiji, Tuesday...Has he lost his freakin' mind? "How long have you been dating?"

"We met three weeks ago." He wraps an arm around her waist while my brain slowly calculates three weeks into twenty-one days. His stupid grin grows wider. "It was a whirlwind romance. So we thought we'd stay home tonight and cook dinner for the three of us."

"Our first family meal," Mali says, smiling up at him and running a hand through her long, black hair.

My father cooking almost surprises me more than him getting married. He's never even made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in all my sixteen years. Granted before moving in with him, I only saw him two weeks during the summer and a few days over Christmas break, but now he's a culinary master?

"I've been waiting so long to meet you, Nivea." Mali places a manicured hand on his silk tie and leans forward until that long hair swings over her shoulder. "I'm hoping we can become close friends, and maybe one day you'll even refer to me as mother."

Um, that's never going to happen. Of course, tall with model-like bone structure the woman is flawlessly beautiful. Silver jewelry drips posh off her neck and arms. Her designer outfit-white blouse, black skirt, and high heels-matches my father's tall custom-suit-wearing-form perfectly. Though younger than my forty-four-year- old father, she isn't young. Standing amid the suede furniture, modern art, and bronze sculptures of our living room, they look like an upscale magazine ad-glossy, hollow, and perfect. I glance down at my Bugs Bunny t-shirt. I don't like posh. In fact, I loathe it. But the remark about my mother makes posh irrelevant. This woman isn't even comparable to my mother.

My father's eyes narrow at my silence.

I force a weak smile. "My friends call me Nivi." I need to get out of here. Now. "I should go finish my homework while you two...um do dinner, I mean cook."

I stumble past their questioning gazes, the large dining room table, and out onto the glassed enclosed patio. Somehow, I shut the door without slamming it. With the sky pictured above and potted greenery at eye level, the glassed room is my favorite place in the penthouse. Nothing designer here, just wrought iron furniture and a stone floor. An ordinary nook inside overwhelming luxury. Right now, I'd like to destroy the tranquility, beat my head against the glass, and twist the plants into pieces. Instead, I lay my face against the coolness of my open chemistry book lying on the table.

I should've gotten that Coke. The one I'd been on my way to the kitchen to get before my father's ambush. Deprived of the fizzy goodness, I try to blame thirst for burying my nose in the book's crease. It doesn't work. I can live with thirst. I'm not so sure about the earth shattering news just delivered.

A long sigh escapes me. I want my father to be happy, and really I don't care who he marries. Yet could he at least date for a couple of months? Let me get used to the idea?

High-pitched laughter rings from somewhere in the penthouse.

Obviously not.

As shock slowly dissipates, the bang of cupboards and the chop of a knife sound from inside. Rosa, our maid, must have left the kitchen doors open. Curiosity has me tiptoeing past the glassed dining room to the edge of the curtained kitchen doors. I just about press my ear against the fabric.

"Drew, how can you let her dress like that?" Mali's question has my eyes narrowing on the gauze between us. "It's atrocious. She looks like a teenage bum."

So I've become a bit lazy about my appearance, but who the hell is she except a step monster dropped out of the sky?

The chopping pauses. "Believe me," my father replies. "I've tried to change her wardrobe. She refuses. Other than her school uniform, she persists on dressing that way."

Glass clinks on the granite followed by the sound of pouring liquid.

"She's far from homely, and so tall and lean. The contrast between her dark hair and blue eyes is quite stunning. And that porcelain skin... It's just hard to see her coloring past the garbage she wears."

"Her mother let her wear whatever she wanted."

My hands clench at the reference to my mother. Like he knows anything about her.

"Yes, that's apparent." Glass clinks on the counter again.

Something sizzles on the stove and the scent of garlic fills the air.

"How long were you married?" Mali asks.

The chopping pauses again. "We weren't. We lived together for about five months. Nivi was born in Cleveland."

My nails bite into my palms. He makes it sound all nonchalant, but my mother canceled that wedding because she wanted affection in a form other than money. And maybe the bimbo in the kitchen shouldn't get married so fast if she doesn't know this stuff.

"Hmmm...once we're settled I'll have to take her shopping and to some shows. Introduce her to high fashion. I suppose they dress that way in Ohio. It simply won't do in New York."

"I'm sure she'll adore shopping with you."

Um, no she won't. I've grown attached to my old collection of t-shirts. Once mostly weekend and sleepwear, my t-shirts are like a toddler's worn out blanket, warm and comforting.

"We'll see," Mali says. "Exactly how long has her mother been gone?"

"The accident happened over six months ago." Chop.

A tight pinch forms in my chest.

"It was just so sudden." Chop.

His knife pierces my heart.

"We've both had a hard time adjusting." Chop.

My head bangs against the brick. Somehow, it's always about him. Somehow, my mother's death equates to an adjustment. With my blood vessels about to explode, I go to the glass wall that splits our patio into two sections, an indoor and outdoor area, and open the door. Cold air blasts me in the face.

"And that hair-"

This time, I slam the door.

The huge terrace, large enough to host a party for a hundred, appears desolate. The wind howls at seventy floors up and the sounds of early evening traffic rise from below. The skyline, an overlapping jumble of buildings, towers over me. The bitter January air stings but I don't go in. The wind bites my skin and makes it numb. I'm hoping the numbness will travel to my brain and heart.

At the frozen rail, New York sprawls beneath me. I don't see the busy city. I'm too busy fighting tears. My mother's death has become a constant shadow over my life. Over me. I want to move past it, but I'm stuck immobile in grief. The awful memories-the policeman at the door explaining the truck killed her on impact and the closed coffin covered in white flowers-never fade. Nor does the loss of her. And yet somehow I can't face the memory of her.

A glass scrape and a soft yelp sound behind me. My body thaws and I slowly turn. Chilly, my white Pomeranian, looks at me with worried eyes from between patio plants. Somehow, the little bugger must have escaped my room. I'd shut him in there to avoid him nipping at the new girlfriend's heels- I can't help think a missed opportunity now. He sits, stares, and barks again. I can't contain a smile. He's the one thing my father got right. Drew Nash might not know how to be a father, therapists and money equates parenthood to him, but he does care. Although he can't stand any form of pets-even sea monkeys-he brought Chilly home a month after I moved here, knowing I needed something to help me out of my grief.

Past Chilly's warm brown eyes, I catch a glimpse of my father at the stove through the tiny gap in the curtained door. Sometimes I do think about conforming just a little for him and wearing the expensive, untouched wardrobe in my closet. Acting like the millionaire's daughter he expects. Even though his uppity life style makes no sense to me and embracing it seems like it would change me. Change who I was, who I still want to be, who I'm trying to get back to. The person lost somewhere inside of me.

I draw in a lung full of wintry air. My father's going to marry that woman in the kitchen regardless of how it affects me. Unbelievably, he's in love. He puts up with Chilly for me. I should be able to deal with this stepmother thing for him. I should be nice. I should be respectful. I should ignore my instant dislike. And maybe if I do, my father and I won't feel like strangers occupying the same space anymore. And maybe, just maybe, I'll become whole again.

Ready to embrace-okay except-my fate, I tap the snow off my Chucks and reach for the frozen door handle. My skin sticks when it won't twist. I wrench my hand away and a thick drop of blood splatters on the snow near my feet. The vibrant contrast-scarlet on a white backdrop-has dread pooling in my stomach. The image, more than the cold, causes a shiver to run through me.

Chapter 2*Envy.

An ocean breeze laced with the smell of salt and sand blows in through the open window, but the woman in front of the mirror only notices her reflection. She touches her skin. Under her fingertips, she feels them. Tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Her hand shakes as she traces the small line marring her forehead. Another line, fine and thin, breaks the smooth skin of her neck. Faint wrinkles on her hands strain as her fists clench.

She wants to look away, but cannot. She wants to smash the mirror until her knuckles bleed. She wants to tear the flawed skin from her bones until they are picked clean.

Releasing a tortured cry, she swipes everything off the counter.

Lotions and creams crash to the tile. Glass clinks and plastic lands with a thud. Using a stiletto heel, she smashes and breaks every bottle while cackling with glee. Youth promising grease squirts and oozes until it coats the marble floor.

The outburst does little to ease her anger. She sneers at her reflection. She must be beautiful. She must be young.

A phone lies on the counter. She pushes numbers with a manicured nail. Before the man on the other end finishes saying hello, she hisses, "I don't care about complications. Find someone to take care of it. I want her gone by the time I return. Or someone else will do the job." She hangs up before he can respond then smashes the phone into the mixture on the floor.

Chapter 3*Snow.

Wrapped in the warmth of my comforter, Chilly's barking has me rolling over. The doorbell rings and another round of barking erupts. "Rosa!" I yell, trying to think of who would be at our door on a Saturday morning.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

"Rosa!" I grab a pillow and try to drown the noise. It just muffles the commotion. Dang. Since my father and Mali come back from Fiji tomorrow night, this could be my last free weekend for quite some time. I so want to sleep in. "Rosa!" I yell again.

Buzz. Bark. Buzz.

I give up. Blankets hit the floor and a pillow flies through the air. It lands on a sketch-my father and Mali in caricature-I'd been working on until two in the morning. I follow Chilly out of the room and let out an, "Ugh," as I pass the hallway mirror. My shoulder length hair with its red dyed tips stands at an odd angle. Like a ninety degree angle. Between my rooster hair and my mismatched pajamas-a Sponge Bob tank and reindeer shorts-the bell ringer may run when they see me.

Another buzz and Chilly's scratching at the wooden doors.

Where the heck is Rosa? And who the heck is at the door?

"I'm coming," I shout as my toe makes contact with a glossy table. With my toe throbbing, I wobble past the square of suede furniture and scoop up the ball of jumping fur. The bell rings again and Chilly wiggles in my arms. I whip the doors open and am about to yell out a *WHAT' as I teeter on my injured toe and attempt to contain my squirming dog, but my mouth freezes in an O.

A living sculpture stands in our entrance hall, or rather a boy. Maybe a man, it's hard to tell. What I can decipher is gorgeous. His face is all fierce angles like the carved statues cluttering the living room. The slight slant to his black eyes and the dark sheen of his hair make me think he's Asian, or at least part. He's staring at me too, but I'm caught in the image floating through my mind of touching the sharp lines of his cheekbones then sketching the curve of them. The thought of sketching doesn't surprise me. The touching does. I haven't thought of the male species in eons.

It's at that precise moment-with my attention enslaved by my hormones-my tail wagging, wriggling dog decides to jump from my arms. Right inside the basket encircled in the living statue's hands. Which wouldn't have been that big of a deal, except being off balance, and in a somewhat of a trance, I teeter forward and smash into the basket. Crunch. The hot guy stumbles back. The basket and dog fly through the air. I continue falling and crash into a stumbling wall of muscle. He lands on his butt. Thud. I land on him.

He's now sprawled beneath me. Those black velvet eyes are inches from mine. Chilly lets out a bark from somewhere behind us, and those eyes blink away our locked gazes. Quick as lightning, strong hands hoist me up by the waist and set me several feet away from him.

"You okay?" he asks in a breathy voice.

Somehow I nod. Before I can begin an apology, Chilly's teeth latch onto the guy's jeans in a playful yank. I participate in tug-of-war before finally dislodging my dog while the guy above smirks. "Sorry, he's not used to people at the door," I mumble, clamping Chilly under my arm.

"No harm done," he says with a grin and I can't help smiling at him. His eyes widen. His grin shrinks. Abruptly he kneels at the spilled mess on the marble floor.

Stunned by the sudden change in his demeanor, I say, "I am really sorry about your..."

"Delivery."

Chilly finally settles down in my grip so I reach for a wad of golden tissue at my feet. "The least I can do is help."

"That's alright." He yanks the paper away. "Just holding on to your little friend will help."

I stand there like an idiot and study the small bright red orbs, spiky ovals, and strange leafy balls filling the basket instead of staring at him. "What is that stuff?"

"Fruit," he says without looking up.

"Really? That doesn't look like fruit."

His glance is patronizing. "It's Chinese."

My face grows warm. Okay, I'm clueless about Chinese fruit. So what? But I'm not sure if it's the lack of knowledge flushing my face or hormonal nervousness. When he stands, I reach for the card sticking out of the edge.

He pulls the container away. "Are you Nivea Nash?"

I hold out my hand for the card. "I go by Nivi." He passes the envelope without a word while those dark eyes seem to study me even more than before.

Under his stare, I tear the envelope open with shaky fingers while trying not to squish the ball of fur in my arms. Geez, what's the matter with me? I haven't been like this in ages. I thought my boy craze, as my mother called it, had fizzled out. I thought that part of me, like most parts, had died. Of course, just rolling out of bed I would land on the most gorgeous guy in the world and my hormones would spark back to life. Though irritated with myself, I concentrate on the cursive scrawl on the card.

Dear Nivea, The beginning of a family should always start fresh.

Your new mother, Mali As the words *new mother' make BITCH roar through my head, I forget about the hottie standing before me. Forget about my plan to get along with Mali. My hand crumples the note. I want to rip the card to shreds then light it and the basket on fire. The final highlight would be flushing the ashes down the toilet. Meeting his dark stare over the card, I let out a strange laugh. His eyebrow arches. Exasperated by my own behavior-first ogling and then malicious-I reach for the basket with one hand.

His fingers tighten on the rim. "It's too heavy."