Sleeping Handsome (6 page)

Turn
the page for a Sample of
Snow, Blood, and
Envy

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. But 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 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, but 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, but 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 but 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, but that person is 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, but 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.