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

by Jolyn Palliata

  Even still, I can’t help but chant “Thank God it’s Friday” under my breath the entire ride up, inciting several of my elevator buddies to follow suit. By the time I hit my floor, I’m feeling pretty damn good about facing my day. With a wave and a smile, I’m off to my desk, knowing I have plenty of time before Gropey does his rounds.

  I’m humming under my breath, just a little ditty I made up, when I punch the power button of my computer, already knowing (somehow) it’s going to play nice. It hums, it whirls, the screen flashes to life. Game on!

  “Kasandrae Dane?” The voice belongs to a short, squat redhead with a portfolio tucked under her arm, a pen bouncing off her thigh.

  “That’s me.”

  “Come with me, please.” And she turns and walks away.

  Huh?

  I roll my chair out and tip sideways, look down the makeshift cubicle hallway, see her stopped a ways down with a raised brow and a scowl, and then she clears her throat. Whoever she is, she’s not kidding.

  I scramble to catch up, and I can’t stop the thought. Is this the second shoe? And I shoot it down with my own scowl. Stupid brain.

  So I’m following Grumpy Red and wondering where she’s taking me. From the looks I’m getting from the other cubicle zombies, they have no idea who she is either. She seems oblivious to the gestures and shrugs passing between everyone, myself included, and makes a beeline to the elevators. I glance at the office in the corner, wondering if Mr. Hands is gonna clock this, and then I eye up the woman again. I decide I’m more afraid of her than him, and stay tight on her heels.

  Two floors up and I’m following Red right into HR.

  Well, crap.

  “Sit down, Miss Dane.”

  I do as she says, quick-like, and immediate feel like I’m back in the principal’s office. What did I do? Nothing. Umm...except piss off my boss on a daily basis, break my computer, and dump a shelf full of files. But, hey, I picked up all the papers. Even peeled the one off the air return. Was it my fault they were all dusty and crinkled? I think not. Besides, other than that, I’ve been the epitome of the perfect employee.

  For the most part.

  I smile at the mean redhead. “Can I ask why I’m here?”

  “It’s regarding Mr. Heaton.” She settles behind the desk, dropping her portfolio with a smack. And I thought I was dramatic. “Let me ask you, Miss Dane, were you having an affair with Mr. Heaton?”

  My jaw drops. I know this ‘cause I feel it hit my chest. And I’m not breathing. I know this ‘cause the room is getting all swimmy. A choking sound escapes, then I start gaping like a fish. It’s not attractive, but effective.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” she says, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  The words that were failing me finally rallied. Big time. “You can take that as a Hell no! What in the world would make you think I’d let Gropey Hands Heaton anywhere near me, much less take the creepazoid as a lover.” I gag at the thought, interrupting my rant. And it was just long enough for Red to cut me off.

  “I apologize. I had to be sure.” She gestures to her portfolio. “For the paperwork, you see.”

  I straighten a bit and stare at the portfolio, as if willing it to flip open and reveal its secrets. But it doesn’t, and I curse my lack of superhero powers. “What paperwork?”

  “Mr. Heaton is no longer with the company.”

  I grin. “Say again.”

  She grins back. “I see there’s no love lost there.”

  “Riiight, like I’m going to miss playing Ring Around The Bosses Desk every other day.”

  She picks up on the analogy and goes with the flow. “I’d heard you were his favorite playmate on the playground.” And I’m thinking I like Red after all.

  “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  “Forgive me. I had to be sure it wasn’t mutual.”

  I stare at her. Just stare, don’t say anything, and wonder about her sanity. “You have seen Mr. Hands, right?”

  She laughs—loud, boisterous, and contagious, ‘cause I’m laughing a little too. “I’ll give you that. Well, good. Now that we’re on the same page, we can get to work.”

  “Work?”

  “Building our case against him.”

  “Case?” And when did I become a parrot?

  “For his dismissal. He’s threatened to sue, so we just want to make sure we have all our ducks in a row.”

  I almost say ‘Ducks?’, but bite my tongue. Man, it’s hard though. I sooo want to say it. “Ducks?” Stupid mouth.

  But she takes it in stride and somehow manages to not laugh at me in the process. I don’t know that it’d be that strong if it were me. No, I’d definitely be laughing, maybe even pointing a little, a slight mocking. Nothing mean, but enough to tickle my fancy.

  “Since you were the employee he harassed the most, I thought we’d start with your experiences and then build from there.”

  Ohh. “Ohh.” There goes that defective mental filter again. Plus, I can’t seem to stop the one syllable responses. I bet I’m really impressing her, being an employee of this company and all.

  I decide to pull it together, if for any other reason than to prove I’m smart enough to be working here. She is HR after all. My fate is in her hands. “Umm...”

  Okay, so my brain decided. And my mouth has yet to catch up.

  “I have a few questions. Maybe that will help things along.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Please.” More words, but wrong order. Dammit.

  Heaven help me, or Hell have me. Heaven help me, or Hell have me. The chant soothes me. So does fiddling with the flat stone on my bracelet. Alright, this is good. I’m cool. I’m chillin’. Let’s do this.

  “Let’s do this.”

  She opens her almighty portfolio, and I crane my neck to sneak a peek.

  Damn. No go.

  “Very well. Now, how long has the harassment been going on?”

  “Two years.”

  Now her jaw drops. “And you never reported it?”

  I shrug, unapologetic. “Everyone knows he’s a friend of the CEO’s, and I need this job. Besides, if he’d ever caught me, believe you me, everyone would’ve known.” I imagine him on his knees, cupping his man parts with a red face. Such a lovely image.

  I grin.

  She shrugs in response, as if agreeing with my no-tattling logic without saying it out loud. And then I glance around wondering if the conversation is being recorded.

  Eh. Who cares if it is?

  “What would he reprimand you for?”

  “Huh?”

  She rolled her eyes a little. Yeah, Red rolled her eyes. And I glare. Just a bit, so she knows I caught her. “Sorry. What I meant was, what type of infractions did he accuse you of? He had to reprimand you for something to get you in his office, correct?”

  Ohh. Gotcha. “Yeeeah, at first it was when I was late. I’d get called in for that. The bastard actually took to doing rounds every morning, just to be sure.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re late on a regular basis?”

  Whoops. Now, that doesn’t look good. “Actually, no. It was just his excuse. He came up with other ones once he figured out I was almost never late.”

  She scribbles down some notes. “And what was the new excuse?”

  “Er...excuses. He had several.”

  “Like...?” She waved a hand in the air.

  “Bathroom breaks. He’d actually time me. It was weird, like he had a sixth sense about when I had to go to the bathroom. Every time I walked out, there he was looking at his Rolex. I had it down to a science, though. I’d only go at certain parts of the day—less traffic—bing, bang, boom, two minutes later, and I’m done. Easy breezy.”

  “And you were okay with that?” Her eyes were big, her mouth hanging. Again.

  And so I shrug, play it off. “You do what you have to.”

  “You said excuses—what else was there?”

  “Messy desk, so I kept it bare. Oh, and pencils.”

  �
��What about them?”

  “He called me in one day because my pencils weren’t sharp enough. And, apparently, neither were his. He not-so-succinctly asked me to sharpen his pencil, if you catch my drift.”

  “He... And what did you do?”

  “Started using pens.”

  She tucked her lips in as she smothers an appreciative smile. “Very resourceful.”

  And I’m liking Red again. Not only did she fire the scumbag, but she’s going to make sure he stays that way, too, and doesn’t hurt, pursue, grope or drool over any employees ever again.

  So we talk, and she documents, and we laugh, and we mock, and we get through all the crap and come to an understanding. And yeah, my day is looking up, and I’m forgetting all about that second shoe I was waiting to drop. In fact, I’m picturing the first shoe that fell, and how someone must’ve picked it up. Nothing wrong here. Life is good!

  Nope, scratch that. Life is great!

  Chapter 4

  My day ends with a bang, and I’m smiling and practically skipping through the grocery store. Now, I say practically, ‘cause even I know better than to go with the impulse. I made it through the day without any major instances—minus the mishap with Cat this morning—and I’m going to keep it that way.

  Ain’t nothing bringing this girl down!

  I wait for it, nothing happens, and keep smiling. And if that thought didn’t tempt the fates, then nothing will. I giggle, then snicker, grabbing the groceries I need and scaring the Hell out of the locals. ‘Cause, really—giggling solo screams nutcase. I know this, you know this, and they most definitely know this. And yet, I can’t bring myself to care.

  I hum and smile straight through my walk home, while I get some laundry done, cook dinner (without burning myself, I’ll have you know), and all the way until Cici knocks on my door.

  She comes in, crashes on the couch, and I flop down next to her, gushing on and on about my day and how Mr. Hand-Off got canned and I got a raise and how he’s never getting his job back. And then we kick back with some wine, and talk about guys and the world...and about how the world would sometimes be a better place without them. Or at least a helluva lot simpler.

  And then the news comes on, and I lose her. Completely.

  Cici’s a news junkie, but I know it and expect it. So I watch, too, mainly for something to do, though I know I should probably be more aware of what’s going on in the world around me.

  Then I get that feeling again. You know the one. And I’m thinking there’s something going on around me all right, as in right here, right now. And that’s when I see him, milling around the kitchen, his back to me.

  “Oh, my God.” My breath chokes off and I get a good death-grip on Cici’s arm.

  She squeals, assumingly from my nails, but maybe it’s because she sees him too. “What?” Or maybe not.

  “Him. There.”

  Cici looks around, and there’s no way she’s missing him. But, apparently, she is.

  “Don’t you see him?”

  A bright light shimmers across his body as he spins, and my eyes—God bless their reflexes—snap back to the TV. I’m watching him in my peripherals, and he does that shimmery thing again. And what the hell is that?

  Cici pulls at her arm. “Don’t I see who?”

  “Umm... Him,” I say, jerking my chin at the TV, extracting my nails from her skin.

  “George Mathus? The weather guy?”

  I glance and see Mr. Shimmery staring at me. What...? A ghost? And then I’m thinking it’s wise to not piss off a ghost, so I say, “Yup, George. That’s who was I was talking about.”

  “What about him?”

  So I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Isn’t he hot?” And then I mentally cringe. Gag. But hey, nobody ever accused me of being quick on my feet.

  Cici is speechless. Even the ghost is looking at me like I’m nuts. And maybe I am. I mean, who the hell sees ghosts? Okay, well, besides Haley Joel Osment. I see dead people. I snort at the thought. Yeeeah...I just did that out loud, didn’t I? I cringe again, this time with my whole body.

  I take a sip of wine, casual-like. “Yeah, maybe he isn’t so hot. My bad.”

  She gives me a funny look, but before she can say anything, the world news comes on and effectively gets me off the hook. Thank Heaven! Alright, that’s one... I glance at the spook, and he’s looking just as confused as I am.

  And then I groan. He’s the other shoe! A freakin’ ghost. Are you kidding me? And how did I get a ghost? And better yet, how do I get rid of one?

  “You okay? You groaned.”

  “Yup. Just had a thought, is all.”

  “And what’s that?” Her eyes are glued to the TV, but Cici is a master multi-tasker if I ever saw one. She could follow ten conversations at once. Okay, so that might be an exaggeration. Nine, then.

  “I was just wondering if anyone died in the building.” I dig my iPhone out of my pocket, my one truly cherished possession.

  Cici glances at me, then away. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking it up.”

  Her eyes snap back to me, and I want to cringe under the weight of her stare. And I just know she’s going to make an excellent mother one day. “You’re checking to see if someone died in your apartment building? Right now, you’re looking it up.”

  Realizing this isn’t exactly normal behavior, I blow it off with an extremely valid excuse. “Sometimes a girl just needs to know these things.” I added a shrug, ya know, to show it was no big deal and stuff like this happens all the time.

  She looks at me like I’m nuts. Okay, so maybe I could’ve come up with something better. But really—what could I say?

  I try to do a search on my phone, but my eyes keep darting to Mr. Ghosty and I see he’s paying more and more attention to me, too. That can’t be a good sign.

  And then he gets close enough to wave his hand in front of my face. And oh-my-God does he smell good. Like I-wanna-climb-him-to-get-a-better-sniff good. Sandalwood and wilderness, fresh cotton and the mountain air. Who knew ghosts smelled so good? Um, okay, so who knew ghosts existed in the first place? But even though he smells good, doesn’t mean I want his hand flopping around in my face. I feel like I’m going through the Twilight Zone with his fingers darting through my vision, only catching snippets of the TV in the space between his digits.

  Since I can’t tell him to stop waving his ghosty hand at me, I shoo at him like a fly. Only, instead of my hand passing through his, I smack right into him. I looked right at him with wide eyes. I couldn’t help it! I just smacked a ghost for crying out loud! Hell yeah, I’m gonna look at him.

  He jumps back like I just bit him. And now that I’m really looking, like full-on looking, get a load of that body—white cotton tee hugging ripped contours, and soft worn jeans hugging muscled legs. Hot damn, I sooo could bite him. Yummy. I chin-check for drool as my eyes drag up. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, blazing green eyes, dark wavy hair. Then the skin bunches up between his eyes like he’s mad.

  Oops! Pissed off ghost alert. And my eyes shoot forward.

  “You can see me?” His voice is smooth and strong and deep, and yeah...it does something deep inside me.

  But I ignore him. And so does Cici, though I think mainly ‘cause she doesn’t hear him. I glance for confirmation. Yup, oblivious. Ha! Wish I was.

  “Hey, Kassie.”

  Heaven help me, or Hell have me. He knows my name?!

  And then he claps his hands and says it again.

  Jee-sus. I’m not a dog! But I keep my cool, and I don’t react.

  “KASSIE!”

  Yeah buddy, and yelling it is going to produce results. Just ask my mother if that ever worked for her.

  “Kasandrae Marie Dane.”

  I flinch. Dammit! Maybe he didn’t notice.

  “I saw that.”

  Crapola! Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. And so I don’t.

  And he backs off, leaning against the fa
r wall, and seems okay with dropping it.

  For now.

  Chapter 5

  I can feel his eyes on me, boring little holes in the side of my head. I shift, stretch and yawn, but I’m fighting it. I’m not getting off this couch. No way am I going to bed with him creeping around, looking, seeing, listening...maybe judging, poking in things, being nosey.

  He hasn’t moved an inch. Not when I got up to go to the bathroom, not when I got up to get more wine, not when Cici finally left. And I begin to think about the infinite patience a ghost must have, and how I’m probably not going to win this little standoff. Well, either that or he died all over again and that’s where his body is setting up shop.

  I dare a quick glance, the first in over two hours. His eyes narrow. Sooo not just a corpse propped against the wall. Well, I suppose that’s good in its own respect. ‘Cause really, what would I do then?

  “Are you going to keep pretending you don’t see me?”

  I’m tired enough to where I almost answer Yes, but catch myself. And yeah, this can’t go on. Ghosty Man doesn’t even look tired. What am I gonna do? Sit here on the couch all night? Can’t stay awake forever. Maybe if I go to bed, he’ll get the hint and go away.

  I’m thinking it’s a plan—not a good one, but a plan nevertheless—and I go about my routine of getting ready for bed. It’s in the middle of my routine that G-man decides to move. And, of course, it’s right in the middle of the hall as I’m heading to the bathroom.

  Please, let him move. Please, let him move. Please, let him move. And I keep walking, and he’s not moving, and I’m mentally preparing myself for the collision. And then he moves at the last second. I let out a relieved sigh. Couldn’t be helped. And of course he hears it. Again, couldn’t be helped.

  “Next time, I’m not moving and you can plow right into me.”

  I cringe ‘cause I know he’ll do it, too. So I brush my teeth and throw my hair in a pony, and think about my plan of attack. Typically, at bedtime, I’m wandering all around my space thinking of one thing, forgetting it, then thinking of another before I finally wind down enough to crash. That won’t work here. There’s only so many times I can dodge this man.