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

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
7 th 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