Heaven Help Me, Or Hell Have Me (Heaven Help Me #1) by Jolyn Palliata Page A

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