Heaven Help Me, Or Hell Have Me (Heaven Help Me #1) Read online

  HEAVEN HELP ME,

  OR HELL HAVE ME

  a Heaven Help Me novelette

  Jolyn Palliata

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Jolyn Palliata

  Cover art by Steven Novak

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Excerpt

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  So, I get up this morning the same way I do every morning. I ooze out of bed and trip over the cat on my way to the coffee maker. Coffee first (always), then bathroom—once again, tripping over the cat in my way. Same damned thing every morning. But, this is my life, and I’m okay with that.

  “Move it, Cat.” It’s part of our routine, but he never listens. Why would he? It’s my toe that suffers for his sprawling laziness, not him.

  I don’t think anything can hurt Cat, a big ‘ole black, moose-of-a-feline. Moose...that’s what I should’ve named him. Though why I bothered naming him at all is beyond me.

  He’s not even my cat.

  Right on cue, he stands, stretches, and shoots me a glare—yes, an honest-to-God glare—before darting out the barely-open window.

  I better not find a steamy kitty surprise on my bed later. Not like that’s never happened before. Maybe I should just shut the window.

  But I don’t, and go take my shower instead.

  ***

  Feeling fresh and rejuvenated, and ready to face the day, I lock the door to my hole in the ground. It’s a crappy little apartment, but it’s mine, so I love it. A little hum and a shuffle down the steps and I slam right into the humid wall of the real world. My apartment might be crappy, but at least it has A/C.

  Already feeling weighted down by the air, I trudge down the street. Okay, so that’s an exaggeration. More like I have a little less bounce in my step. (So, I’m dramatic. Sue me.) My goal, Starbucks, just five short blocks away. Yeah, yeah—I made coffee at home, but that was just to get me out the door. Now I need four high-octane shots to get me to lunch. But on the way, I have to make my rounds.

  First stop, Chuck. Just around the corner and selling the most gorgeous flowers you ever saw. (And that’s not an exaggeration.) He’s old and wrinkled and stoops over a bit when he stands. But he’s nice and has youth in those bright blue eyes.

  “A pretty flower for a pretty lady.” Plus he’s so full of crap, he’s a delight to be around.

  “When are you gonna get those eyes checked, Chuck?”

  He snickers at me, and shakes his head. “When are you gonna get that mirror fixed, Kassie?”

  I snicker back, and shake my head. But I take the flower, ‘cause who doesn’t like flowers? And I tuck it behind my ear.

  Three blocks later is Larry. Now, Larry...I keep my eye on him. Tall, dark (As in dirty-dark, not dark features. Actually, I think he’s blond under all that muckity-muck.), and not very handsome. Um, like at all. But he’s nice, too. Or has been so far. To be honest, I’m waiting for the day when he flashes open his coat and I see more than hot jewelry. And when that day comes, I’m going to scrub my eyeballs out with Lysol. And then set them on fire.

  “Hey, Kassie.”

  “Hey, Larry.”

  “Interest you in a watch?”

  “No, thanks, Larry.”

  “Necklace? Bracelet?” He smiles, but it looks more like a leer. “Me?”

  The mental image is staggering, but I recover. “I don’t think I could handle you, Larry.”

  He runs a hand down his chest, and right up and over his beer belly. “Too much man for you, eh?”

  I keep walking with a smile and a nod. How do I do it? I don’t know. “That’s it exactly.”

  He laughs. “I get that a lot, sweetheart. No hard feelings.”

  I wave goodbye over my shoulder and keep my eye on the prize.

  Starbucks, just one block.

  ***

  “Your usual, Kassie?”

  “Thanks, Kris.” I hand her my card. And right then, Cici creeps up on me. I jump when she sticks her face in mine. “Sidler. I’m gonna make you carry around Tic Tacs so I hear you coming.”

  She makes a face. “Like that Seinfeld episode?”

  “Yup.”

  “Make them orange flavored.” She sticks out her tongue, then orders her Chai tea.

  We shuffle down the line like the trained coffee hoarders we are, and eavesdrop on people’s conversations like we usually do. She takes the right, I take the left. What? It gives us something to talk about on the way to work. It’s not like I have a life to discuss. But that’s okay. Life is good.

  Coffee in hand—well, Cici’s hands—we squeeze and weave our way back to the door, and spill out into the sidewalk traffic. A dodge to the right, another to the left, and we insinuate ourselves into the flow.

  “Nice moves, Kassie. I thought you were going to faceplant again.”

  “Maybe my luck is turning around.”

  “Unlikely,”—she hands me my coffee, now that I’m on stable feet—”but we’ll go with that.”

  I ignore the dig, mainly ‘cause I know it’s deserved. And true. “So whatcha got?”

  “An old man complaining about his sciatic nerve.” She rolls her eyes. “How about you?”

  “Two women whispering about Fifty Shades.”

  She barks out a laugh. “Again?”

  It’s the same conversation I’ve been overhearing all week. I shrug with a smirk. “Just wait until they discover the Masters.”

  “Think they will?”

  “It’s inevitable.”

  “And just think of what those conversations are going to be.”

  I bark out my own laugh. “A helluva lot more interesting, that’s for sure.”

  We part ways at the corner.

  ***

  On the way to my desk, I trip over a curled up utility rug, dump half my coffee (thankfully, and amazingly, not on myself), and miss the elevator. I have two minutes to get to my desk before my boss does his Nazi rounds, and there’s hell to pay. I book it up five flights of stairs, taking them two at a time. Granted, not a wise move given my coordination level, but you do what you have to do, right? Turns out okay, though. Didn’t trip, didn’t spill, and I make it to my desk before Hilter rounds the corner and orders me to his office for a “talking to” (which roughly translated means a game of “dodging Mr. Gropey-hands”—a game I always win). Sucks having a boss that wants in your pants. But, I need this job, so I deal with it. Something better will come along. Some day.

  I punch the power button on my computer, it snaps, sparks and fizzles, then the smoke comes next. Yup, my day’s begun. So, what do I do now? The only thing I can—grin and bear it, and fall back on my old mantra
instead. With a sigh, I grumble, “Heaven help me, or Hell have me.”

  Hell, in this case, ends up being the File Room, which is where I work the rest of the day. Whoever said we’re turning into a paperless society has clearly never stepped foot in this room. Room? Cavern, is more like it. Dark, dank, and it smells funny. Which, okay. It is what it is, and I’ll survive it.

  I hold onto that thought until one of the shelves tips over and papers scatter everywhere. And I mean, everywhere! There’s even a couple of sheets stuck against the air exchange vent on the ceiling. How the hell am I supposed to get those down? But, honestly, do I care? Not really. And then with a cringe, I admit to myself that yeah, I do. Stupid conscience. At least Mr. Hands is on another floor.

  See? There’s always a bright side.

  ***

  I get home that night, all sweaty and gross from the File Room (AKA, The 7th Circle of Hell). Plus, I smell funny. Perfect. So I peel off my clothes and get in the shower. The pipes groan and rattle, something they never did before, and I’m blasted with ice cold water immediately followed by scalding hot. Jumping and cursing, I hop out and wash my hair in the sink. Of course my hair gets stuck in the drain—why wouldn’t it?—and I have to play tug-of-war with my head.

  When I’m finally free, I give up the good fight, and go to bed with soapy, knotted hair, all wrapped up nice and tight in a crappy old towel (‘cause that’s what I have). My pits still stink, and there’s a layer of grime an inch thick caked on my skin, but I don’t care anymore. This day sucks, more than most, and I’m ready to reset the clock.

  I collapse on my bed, naked as the day I was born, and decide I’m not moving from this spot until morning. No way am I stinking up my sheets by crawling underneath the comforter. But a quick sniff tells me I have to change the bedding anyway.

  Damn cat.

  Before I fall asleep, I almost ask out loud ‘What the hell else could happen?’, but I know better than to tempt the fates, and instead mutter, “Heaven help me, or Hell have me.” And then mentally amend it to Fuck Heaven, Hell take me.

  I think it just this once, ‘cause I’m mad enough to go there.

  Chapter 2

  This morning came too early. Waaay too early. But I slither out of bed anyway, ‘cause that’s what I do. And I stumble into the hallway, ‘cause that’s where I go. And I trip over Cat… Umm, no I don’t. But I did overshoot the kitchen, which means I just overshot my coffee. Which is completely unacceptable.

  Confused, I glance at my feet. Nope, no Cat. I look behind me. Nope, didn’t step over him. And then I see him—at the end of the hall looking very put out. What’s he so bent out of shape about? Once again, I’m the one who’s suffering here. We have a routine. You stick to a routine. I get out of bed, I trip over the cat, and two limps later, I veer into the kitchen. It’s not pretty, but it works. And you don’t mess with what works!

  It’s an effort, but I grumble, “Throwing me off my game, furball. New torture?” He gets a much deserved glare. “Devil incarnate.”

  Two steps back and a not-so-graceful spin takes me back to the kitchen. My mind wanders, doing its own sluggish, warped journey while I blindly go through the motions of making coffee. And I slowly realize something is off. My eyes shift one way, then another, ‘cause I’m too lazy to move my whole head. But I don’t see what’s what. Then I pin it down. I have a sense of... What do they call it? I don’t know. Like the other shoe is about to drop. Foreboding?

  I groan. “Big word. Hurt brain. Need coffee.” And stare at the coffee maker. “Need faster machine.” And ‘cause I don’t have the patience to wait for the brew, I grab a Double Shot to tide me over, chugging it on my way to the shower.

  I feel itchy and shifty in my own skin (or maybe that’s the residual from The 7th Circle), a little off balance, and there’s this vague nagging in the back of my mind like I’m missing something major. Something obvious. It’s spazzing me out ‘cause I never feel like this. I’m a roll-off-my-back type of girl. Whoa! And did that sound wrong! I just meant I let things roll off my back, not that I... Nevermind.

  Anywho, stuff doesn’t bug me. Things go wrong. That’s life. My life, in particular. It’s the way it is, the way it’s always been, and I make the best of it. So, let the other shoe drop. What do I care? I’ll take it in stride like I always do.

  Even still, I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder, as if that other shoe is about to biff me upside the head. Yeah, and who’s throwing it? Cat?

  Ducking into the bathroom, I briefly wonder if it’s possible to have a bad day hangover. Surely, there’d be some residual effects. And then I know exactly what those effects are, ‘cause I just looked in the mirror. And eyed up the towel still wrapped around my head. And I don’t want to take it off. Ever.

  Wonder what kind of fashion statement I’d make if I shave my head. I could get some cute hats, or something. Maybe superglue some bows in place. I could start a trend. It could happen. Ooo…upside: Mr. Hands-On would be Mr. Hands-Off! That alone would be worth it. Of course I’m pretty sure it’s not my hair he’s after.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and yank off the towel. I don’t wanna look. I don’t wanna look. I don’t wanna look. And then I look. Blink. Look again. Then actually find the need to brace myself against the mirror and lean in. Look again.

  I expected a knotted-up nest of brown gooeyness, maybe even a twig in there to complete the effect. What I didn’t expect was this. After a quick fist-grind against my eyes, I look one last time. Okay, now I have little white dots in my vision (guess I didn’t need to grind so hard), but even through that, my hair remains the same.

  Not knotted. Not gucky. Not even a little sticky. But shiny. Silky. Lustrous? Who ever heard of someone’s hair actually looking like the commercials?

  I snagged the bottle of shampoo off the shower ledge and study the label. Yeah, like that’s going to tell me anything. Which I figure out pretty quick with an eye roll, and a snicker. So, Head and Shoulders... Eh, who knew?

  I smile. And then it fades with a quick glance to the shower. No way am I getting this hair wet! But, man, am I ripe, so I wrap my hair in a crappy, old, clean…ish towel (sooo need to do laundry), and take a deep breath. I’m no fool. I remember what this shower did to me last night. Traitorous plumbing. And so I hide behind the curtain as I flip the lever.

  Water works fine. But of course it does. I’m not in it. So I bite the bullet and dive in. And it still works! Groovy!

  No sense tempting the fates (again), so I rush through my shower. Quick scrub here, gentle scrub there, rinse, and voila! Then I chug a cup of coffee, slap on my face, chug a cup of coffee, get dressed, chug a cup of coffee, get my lunch together, and chug a cup of coffee. After that, I eye up the coffee pot with longing before deciding I need to leave or be late.

  And we all know what happens if I’m late.

  So I dart into the hall, grab my keys, grab my stuff, trip over Cat, stumble into the wall, and kind of do this flailing-slither thing as I slip right off it, spin, and land on my back. As soon as I can breathe again, I shift and glare at the moose. “Now you trip me?” And I wonder again what the hell happened to our routine, and why does he get to change it. That’s quickly followed by another thought: Was that the other shoe dropping?

  And then I’m feeling it again. That something’s-not-right feeling, making all the little hairs on my arm stand on end. I launch to my feet and glance around. Nope. Nothing there. But did I expect there to be? Umm…apparently so, ‘cause I look again.

  I’m an idiot. Evidently a paranoid idiot ‘cause as I leave my hovel, I still feel like the something that doesn’t really exist is not existing right behind me.

  Shrugging it all off, I put on my happy girl face and traipse down the stairs. Yup, traipse. I have a bounce in my step, a smile on my face, caramel macchiatos dancing through my head (Coffee!) and I’m ready for the day, no matter what it may bring.

  Now, this is what I’m used to. This is what feels right. T
his is me.

  And I’m good with that.

  Chapter 3

  I first realized my day was looking up when I approached Larry. I know! Who ever thought those words would fit together? But it’s true! I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining things, that it’s not some seriously bizarre trick of the light. But it isn’t.

  Larry bathed.

  And I was right. He is blond! I smile as I get closer. Can’t help it. And he smiles back.

  I don’t know why I do it, but I say, “Aww, Larry. You have a nice smile.” But I keep the now that you’ve brushed your teeth off, ‘cause, ya know, that would probably derail the whole compliment part.

  He doesn’t say anything, but smiles wider and reaches for the front of his coat. And suddenly I’m afraid he’s about to prove if he’s a natural blond or not. “Hey, look, Larry. You have a nice smile, but isn’t that nice. No need to share what God gave you.”

  He laughs, and pulls out a bracelet instead. “I made you this, sweetheart.”

  I take it, timid-like, afraid he’s going to bite or something, and then study it. I weigh it in my palm. It’s heavy, made of polished stones, beading around and linking to a thinner, flat stone. An infinity symbol is etched into the surface of the oval gray stone. It’s beautiful.

  “It’s beautiful.” Nope, no mental filter here.

  “Let me help.” He reaches, and I let him clasp it around my wrist.

  I think about the near-flashing. “Sorry for the assumption, Larry.” Though I’m sure he wasn’t surprised by it.

  “That’s okay, sweetheart. I have to admit, the thought did cross my mind from time to time.”

  I point at him with a mock scowl. “I knew it! Dirty man.”

  “Off with you. Your gorgeousness is going to scare away the other ladies. Let ‘em have their chance, sweetheart.”

  And then I’m on my way.

  ***

  When I get to the office, I’m still flying on the buzz of getting a free coffee at Starbucks. Score! But then I’m standing and waiting for the elevator with the masses, flashbacks of sizzling computers and stinky 7th Circles pulsating through my brain. And I hope to God, or whoever else might be listening, that my computer is fixed and the File Room burned to the ground. Then I think, does it matter? Nope, not really. I’ll do what I need to do.