Snow, Blood, and Envy

by Haus, Jean

  Pops, whistles, and orange flames are not as interesting as TV. Jai grabs another book since he already finished the first one. Though I stare at the fire, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His dexterous fingers turn pages. His forehead scrunches every now and then as he reads. Sometimes his toe taps silently against the braided rug. Studying him, I can’t believe I thought him dangerous. Well, I suppose if you attacked him or owed money to the Tong he’d be far from harmless. But he’s proven to me that he’s the complete opposite of danger by saving me more than once and refusing to kidnap me. I can’t help wondering why he didn’t.

  “How much were they going to pay you for kidnapping me?” I blurt the question without even realizing I planned to ask it.

  Jai’s gaze snaps to me. He slowly closes the book. After a long look of contemplation he says, “They offered my mother if I brought you to them.”

  I blink. “Your mother?”

  Sighing, he sets the book behind him on the table. “My mother is an illegal immigrant from the Fujian Province of Southern China. So when circumstances forced her to become…” he crosses his arms, “well almost like a slave, she had no recourse.”

  My brow furrows. “How does a person become a slave in this age and in this country?”

  Jai’s chuckle sounds sad. “Leave that to my father. I’m not sure what she saw in him, but my mother loved the hell out of him. Though a mix of Italian and Irish, he was always in Chinatown.” He shrugs. “The thugs across town probably didn’t want anything to do with him. They never married. He came and went. She worked. I went to school. Drugs and gambling, those were the things important to him. Remember that room in the basement?”

  I nod. He’s referring to the room full of cards and smoke.

  “By the time I was eight, my father was in heavy debt, enough for death to be threatened. A deal was made. My mother would work off the loan. I lived with him, or you could say alone for a little less than a year before he took off.”

  I can feel astonishment on my face. “Who took care of you?”

  His gaze returns to the fire. “Xing, a man who owned an herb shop on the first floor of our building, took me in. I worked for him during the day stocking shelves and cleaning. During the evening I studied and learned Kung Fu.” His lids droop over eyes cloudy from pain medication. “For almost six years my life was stable. I did see my mother a little then, but I haven’t seen her in over two years.”

  Sympathetic words build under my tongue. Pity burns in my chest. However the way he talks about it, these are just facts to him. This is just his life. He’s not asking for compassion. I know him enough to realize he wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.

  I control my emotions, my tone, before asking, “So how did you end up in the basement?”

  “Xing wanted to go home, and unlike most people, he smuggled himself back to China. He offered to take me. I didn’t want to go.”

  “Why not?” Without parents, I’m astonished he wouldn’t go with someone who took care of him for so long.

  Like his chuckle, his smile is sad. “What do I know of China?” Ah, living in the unknown. Understanding—his feelings echo my thoughts of New York—I nod. “But Xing did set me up with Feng Lu before he left.” Jai yawns, stretches, and lies across the couch. His feet hang over the end. “So it all worked out.”

  My mind spins at the thought of his missing mother. “That story about butterflies your mother told you that?” He nods while I remember the love I heard in his voice when he told that story. “So why didn’t you trade me for her?”

  His dark gaze meets mine. “I almost did.” His profile faces the ceiling. His eyes close. “Though a victim of my father’s addiction, she agreed to the deal.” His words have become soft and slurred. “I decided that day…in the elevator. Her freedom wasn’t worth blood on my…hands. Wasn’t worth ending the…spark in … your blue eyes.”

  I stare at the even rise of his chest. The spark in my eyes? I’ve been spark-less since my mother died. Except around him. I face the facts. I’m obsessed with this practically homeless boy. He makes me feel alive. He makes me feel like me. In some ways, he has brought me back to life. And I’m aware my feelings are growing past infatuation. Beyond his striking appearance, he fascinates me. His resilience awes me. His sense of honor and his care for others has gained my respect. I sigh and let the rush of sentiment go. With our lives at stake, my feelings for him seem beyond silly.

  After watching him sleep for a while, I decide to bring blankets to him rather than try to get him up the stairs. I cover him with a sleeping bag and stuff a pillow under his head and another under his leg then fill the wood burner in the kitchen.

  Upstairs, I crawl into a twin bed. I pull on the now offensive Mali bracelet stuck to my wrist while my mind wanders. My mother’s memory stirs from the opening of the other room. Would I have been able to give up the chance to be with my mother again, even for someone else’s life or safety? Guilt bubbles then lodges in my chest because I don’t know.

  Chapter 42~Snow

  Jai sits in red underwear on the edge of the closed toilet seat. “This bathroom is awesome.” I press on the tape around his wound while trying to ignore the rest of him. Since the stitches curve around to the back of his leg, I’m checking the waterproof pad the hospital gave him.

  “Yeah, it’s the reason my mother bought the cabin.” I press the edge one last time.

  “I can’t believe it stays heated.”

  Solar,” I say and roll back on the balls of my feet. Wobbling, I reach out for his leg. The skin of his inner thigh is smooth and warm, soft over hard muscle. I snatch my hand away as if his skin is on fire and teeter toward the floor.

  “Whoa.” Jai catches my shoulder. His gaze meets mine and my skin flushes. His dark eyes hold mine for what feels like forever—though it must have been a few short seconds—until he asks, “Are you done?”

  I nod and jump up. “The towels are on the shelf.” In the kitchen, I slam the door and lean against it. I’m acting like an idiot again, going all hormonal anytime I get too close to him. When the door opens, I stumble backwards then forwards. I find my balance by gripping the butcher-block counter.

  He watches me. “You okay?

  “Sure,” I say, bracing myself against a cabinet to appear nonchalant while he stands in his underwear and his skin stares at me. I concentrate very hard on keeping my hormones in control.

  He clears his throat. “Ah, I was wondering if you could grab my clothes and toothbrush.”

  “Your clothes?” I echo stupidly. “Oh, in the car, yeah, sure, of course.” Idiot.

  With one last narrowed look at me, he shuts the door with a quiet click.

  Snatching the keys from the table by the door and a sweatshirt off the hook above it, I can’t help thinking about his skin. Outside in the cold reality returns and I force the image out. Once I’ve tossed his clothes in the bathroom—without looking in—I go and fold the blankets on the couch.

  Yesterday, he slept most of the day. This morning, he wolfed down three helpings of reconstituted eggs for breakfast and had been adamant about a shower. He’s gaining his strength back, which means we can leave soon. But where can we go? What can we do? The running has to stop. Sooner or later, Smith always catches up.

  Done folding the blankets, I tug my sketchbook out of my backpack—drawing calms me, helps me think—and fall onto the couch. I’m shading the curve of a tail and trying to contemplate a way out of the mess—both Mali and my hormones—I’m in when Jai strolls through the doorway.

  He’s wearing his normal black t-shirt and his hair is damp. As usual he looks real good. I concentrate on shading. He stops in front of the fire. Stands there for a long moment. His gaze at me is intense. His tone is light when he asks, “What are you writing?”

  I flip the cover closed. “I’m drawing.”

  He throws a log on the fire before sitting next to me. “Drawing what?”

  For some reason, even though my
work has been in contests, in my old school newspaper, and even in art galleries, I’m nervous about him seeing it. “Nothing. Does your leg feel better?”

  He stretches and his leg brushes mine. “Yeah it’s good.”

  His scent, soap and shampoo mixed with the smell of the fire, assault my nose. Why is he sitting so close? There is an entire couch. With a quick flick of his wrist, he flips open the sketchbook.

  “Hey,” I snap and try to push him away.

  He gently grabs my hand and holds it down between our thighs while he stares at the drawing. Three monkeys—the main characters of my future cartoon—sing like the Three Tenors in front of a floor to ceiling curtain. A lizard orchestra plays a variety of instruments below.

  “Wow, this is good,” he says. “From your t-shirts it’s evident you like cartoons, but wow,” his eyes travel over the picture again, “you’re like a pro.”

  I grow warm. Does my talent wow him? Or he is surprised that I have it? “Um, thanks, I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.” He flips the page to monkeys in Venice then to a beach scene. “These are really awesome.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. “Should we leave today?” he asks, leafing through the drawings. His fingers have let go of my hand and now caress the skin of my palm.

  Unsure of what to do I try to ignore the sensation of his touch. “Where can we go?”

  “Somewhere with melting snow,” he says with a grin.

  His fingers trace the veins of my wrist. “That-that sounds good.” His touch is turning me into liquid jelly again.

  His fingers continue their light caress. “We lost too much time in the storm.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Too much time with my leg.”

  “Ah…true,” I mumble. His caress has struck me dumb.

  “Nivi?” he asks, pulling away my sketchbook.

  “Hmm?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  His tone, both nervous and reckless, slightly wakes me from my stupor. I lift my chin and meet black, velvet eyes. “What?”

  His eyes search mine as his fingers wrap around my neck. My throat tightens. He tugs me closer. I feel like I’m about to jump off a cliff. “This,” he whispers against my lips as the fire snaps.

  My eyes grow round before closing. At the touch of his mouth, the world shifts sideways. My heart pounds in my ears. His breath tastes minty, feels warm. Under his spell, I curl my hands into his hair and kiss him back. His mouth breathes life into me. Awakens me. With each soft movement, a torrent of colors burst through my mind and body. Blues mixed with reds create shades of warm, rich purples that pulsate under my skin. I’m languid and fervent all at once.

  He slowly pulls away.

  I open my eyes. The mush of my brain coagulates. Inches away, he stares at me and I blink not sure the kiss was real. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “That.”

  “That?”

  “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time.”

  “Since when?” I ask, confused by the kiss and the statement.

  He grins. “Since you opened the door wearing Sponge Bob.” I laugh. Hard. Apparently, his kiss has sucked every ounce of intelligence from my brain. He gives me a look. “What’s so funny?”

  Stifling my giggles, I bury my face in his shoulder. “I felt the same way when I opened the door.” Against his muscles, the words come out muffled. I’m stunned. I’d been hiding my feelings, so afraid he’d find out and dismiss them, all the while he was feeling he same.

  “Really?” he asks into my hair.

  “Shut up.” I dig my face in deeper. “I couldn’t have been more transparent.”

  He shakes his head. “You weren’t. Well most of the time. In fact, I recall you telling me you didn’t like me, that we were only acquaintances.”

  “Self-preservation,” I admit.

  “Ah, the girl I thought you were wouldn’t know what self-preservation was.”

  I jerk back. “What did you think of me?”

  He runs a hand through my hair. “Well, initially? You live in a penthouse filled with priceless art. You go to a private school and have a maid. I thought you were lonely, but…” When I raise a brow he says, “My early judgment was only natural.”

  My eyes narrow. “Then why did you want to kiss me?”

  Wood pops in the fire.

  His fingers caress the skin of my neck. “Well, you did look super hot in those reindeer shorts.” I almost laugh again. The intense look in his eyes stops me. “Later I realized the girl I got to know deserves far better than me.”

  I frown, thinking of the rich boy statement he’d made at the hotel. “Why would you say that?”

  He falls back against the couch and stares at the fire. “I’m a criminal. I live in a basement. I‘m…no good for anyone, but you…sometimes the way you look at me, I can’t help but hope.”

  So he had noticed my idiot mooneyes. My fingers turn his jaw. I almost wince at the look in his dark eyes. They’re full of self-loathing. “You’re a survivor. You help others like Song and Juan. You take care of Ping and Chang. You refused to kidnap me. You’re good,” his hand covers mine, “so much better than me.”

  He shakes his head, but his other hand brushes my cheek and pulls me close. This time when his mouth covers mine my world flips over completely and the burst of color melds into a kaleidoscope. His weight pushes me back into the pile of blankets. My fingers dig into his back. His teeth scrape mine, and my skin heats to the tips of my toes.

  Then the door crashes open.

  Chapter 43~Snow

  Startled, we jump apart.

  Smith stands in the opening dressed in his normal black. A snarl’s etched into his long face. He looks like the Grim Reaper, and it’s evident he wants his dues. Terror slithers like a snake up my spine when he points a gun at us. “Sorry to interrupt the fun, but it’s time to go.”

  Wearing a long, white fur coat Mali breezes through the doorway and terror erupts in every one of my pores. Once again, my body threatens to faint. Even with the gun in his hand, she is more frightening than Smith.

  “Ah, mommy’s cabin,” she says. I step back until my heel bumps into the stone hearth. Jai doesn’t move. “Reliving the past? Mourning your dear departed mother?” she hisses from her heavily painted face. Fright overrides the painful purpose of her words. I can’t even respond. She raises a thin brow at me and points a red nail at Jai. “Shoot the boy.”

  Without a thought, I leap in front of him. “No!”

  Smith aims the gun and Jai pushes me behind him.

  “Not here,” she says with a lip curl. “Take him outside.” My fingers find the poker next to the fire. Her eyes narrow on me. Her boot heels click across the wood. “Well, if she’s going to be difficult just shoot him in here.”

  I remember her not wanting Smith to leave any marks. Although I can’t fathom why, I know it’s important to her. I lift the sharp end to my cheek. Hard enough to press in not gouge.

  “Don’t!” Mali yells, raising her hands for me to stop. Smith’s eyes narrow on me.

  I press the tip harder and pain shoots across my face. I ignore it. “Leave him here alive.”

  Jai steps back. The other fire instruments lay within his reach.

  “Get it away from your face,” she says through clenched teeth.

  I twist the poker. “Tell Smith to lower the gun and stay where he is.”

  Her eyes constrict to slits. She nods at Smith, who looks angry at the request, then she faces Jai. “I wouldn’t touch those or I will let him shoot you.” Jai doesn’t move until Mali adds, “Then her.” Jai’s fingers brush a shovel. He drops his hand as she slinks around the couch.

  “Get back!” I jump away from her with the point of the iron against my face, but she moves past me. Jai remains motionless while Mali reaches around him. She lifts the iron tongs. Fear has me shouting, “I’ll break the skin!” Ignoring me, she inspects the instrument before slamming it a
gainst his leg. He bends over with a gasp. I jump toward her. “Stop it! I said I’ll break skin!”

  I push the poker harder, even wince at the pain, but she slams the metal on his thigh again and Jai collapses on the floor. “Payback for a broken arm,” she says with a satisfied smile.

  Jai’s harsh pants fill the room.

  Fury overrides all my fear and I raise the poker above her skull.

  She spins around. “I can still have Smith shoot him.” The poker remains in mid-air. Mali smiles. “This is so much better.” She clicks her way back toward the door. “Once we’re outside, you have sixty seconds to join us. If not, Smith is going to come back in and shoot him.” She plucks the Mercedes keys off the table by the door while adding, “Even if you puncture yourself.”

  They walk out without a backward glance.

  The poker clangs on the wood floor as I rush to Jai’s crumpled form. A line of blood soaks the leg of his jeans. I lift his head. His dark eyes are filled with pain. I swallow and force myself to speak. “In the bathroom closet, on the floor, there’s a duct to get under it. Go hide. He’s going to come back in.”

  Trying to push himself up, he gasps, “We’ll both go.”

  “No,” I shake my head frantically and ignore the plea in his eyes. “They won’t rest until they have me,” I let go of him, “but they might leave if he can’t find you.”

  “Nivi,” Jai yells. His face contorts in anger and pain as he crawls forward.

  “Just go!” I say without looking back. If I look into his pleading eyes once more, I don’t know if I can do this. I tug the door—it hangs on one hinge—behind me, hoping to give Jai extra time to hide. In place at last, the door shuts out the desperate voice calling my name.

  Mali and Smith wait in the snow next to a white Range Rover. Attached to the back is a trailer with a mountain of wood and two snowmobiles. A slow, triumphant smile slides across her face as my foot touches the first step. Oh, how I hate that smile. I trudge through the snow, taking as long as possible to get to them.