Fall From Grace Part 1

Fall From Grace.

Kelly Hogan.

For Troy. For putting up with my whims.

Chapter 1.

Here We Go.

We all have secrets. Dirty little dark secrets that we wished could stay locked in the proverbial closet forever. I never thought little old me would have one of those giant s.h.i.+t storm secrets but there you go. Life is never simple and has a lovely way of kicking you in the a.r.s.e on the way down.

I should preface that I 'might' have wished for a secret like this just a few short months ago. A revelation that would have changed everything I knew to be true. Something that brought me to the reality I always fantasized about, but now desperately want to escape. I hear the old cliche 'be careful what you wish for' repet.i.tively screaming in my ear drums while I pace the damp, cold woods, awaiting a most certain and icky death, palms sweaty and a full on panic attack coursing through every fiber of my being - yup, this secret I could do without.

I can still feel the soft cotton fabric of his s.h.i.+rt under my fingertips, the heat radiating through it from his skin. The cool mottled stone wall pressing into my back through my black satin slip dress. A soft yellow glow spilling out from a small window above us is our only illumination. The pressure from his body leaning into mine as a flush of heat courses through my veins, pulling him so close, we appear to be attached to each other from our lips to our toes. An electricity is flowing between us, I can almost see the charged glow surrounding our entwined bodies.

I can't see his face, unrecognizable and cloaked in shadows, his lips trailing heated kisses down my cheeks to my throat, down my neck and... ahem better stop there. I WILL say that if that wall could blush it would.

The air is humid; dark and damp. Not a breath of a cool breeze reaching us down that deserted alley in Paris or Rome or Spain, I never reach the point of knowing where I am or who this guy is with me, but it's always the same. You'd think after having this dream a zillion times, I would perhaps clue in to the outcome during our epic make-out session, but I never do. There is no Ding! Ding! Ding! You're going to kick it Stella! Nope. Every time it happens I am left in utter shock and paralyzed with terror. In a word, I'm screwed.

My hand snakes down his front, finding the hem of his s.h.i.+rt, pulling it up and reaching under to his lean torso. That is when it happens; when it always happens. A searing pain slicing across my mid-section as liquid crimson pours out of my stomach in pints. I see the pool start to form as it slides down my legs and all over my glossy red pumps; unable to tell where the shoe stops and my blood begins. I am transfixed, unable to move, a morbid fascination as I watch my life bleed out of me. It is then that I am jolted upright, gasping for breath in a revolting sweat.

The panic attack that follows is the worst. It consumes me in a way I could never truly translate to someone who's never had one. The feeling is indescribable. My shrink has wrapped it in a neat little present and explained it to my Dad as a feeling of helplessness, like you are trapped in a room with a starving lion, unable to escape. Paralyzed with fear, I want to run, scream, yak up a lung... it supremely SUCKS.

Dr. O'Leary has given me this genius book that is going to 'control this fear - mind over matter!' I am to visualize my 'happy place', check in for a visit, and hang out until I feel peachy. Um, yeah, sorry to disappoint you doc, but it always eff's me up royally and I think my apartment is condemned.

About 10 minutes later, I am better but exhausted - it always drains me out. Flopping back down onto my pillow I smack my head on something flat and hard. The latest Kelley Armstrong novel is still sharing my pillow as I dozed off mid paragraph; that's going to leave a mark. I couldn't seem to settle last night, tossing and turning before I finally succ.u.mbed to reading one of my favourite horror series authors. It always seems to calm me down and relieve the busy brain.

Clearing my head, I can now smell the sensory alarm clock wafting up from the kitchen. It makes me smile when my stomach unexpectedly yowls in antic.i.p.ation. Dad must have gotten back late last night. I wasn't expecting him until later today, but sometimes he comes home early so he can do an impromptu bed check. Perish the thought that I decide to be a big wh.o.r.e and bring some random guy home with me. I mean has he seen my senior cla.s.s? I know he feels like he isn't really 'there' for me all the time as he job is very frequent flyerish, so I don't mind the parental intrusions every now and then. He gives me lots of freedom and I'm actually not a big wh.o.r.e (I know, big plot surprise right?), so it's a win win situation for both.

This has been our Sat.u.r.day ritual for quite some time now; a standing breakfast date to re-cap the misadventures of the week. I regale him of my simple high school dramas with Gabs, and he goes into nerd speak about some seismic activity him and his University colleagues are researching that is SO interesting. We drown ourselves in caffeine, and fry up the best cholesterol problems money can buy. Grilled bacon perched on top of cinnamon raisin French Toast, b.u.t.ter, and a gigantic dollop of real maple syrup, none of this fake c.r.a.p. We call it the 'lard a.s.s', and it kicks, yup you guessed it, a.s.s.

Prying myself out of bed, I check the time and book it to the bathroom; I'll be late for work if I don't hustle. Quickly I whip off my tank and jammy bottoms and jump in the shower. The draw of fried meat is just too great to resist, I make record time getting ready. I sort of get the whole vegan thing, but c'mon the pig is a wonder meat. It's a magical being. Period.

I glance out my large sun filled windows as I decide on my wardrobe choices. It looks promising outside, spring has sprung so they say, so I pull on a pair of slim three quarter length cigarette pants in black, paired with a stripped black and white deep V neck tunic. We're allowed to wear whatever shoes we want so gratefully, for my feet, I pull on my black converses. I am sad to see my favourite rider boots. .h.i.t the winter storage bins, but it feels amazing to go sock-less after all these long frigid months.

I pile on a few long necklaces and simple stud earrings and pull my brown locks into a messy high pony/bun, leaving my long bangs down around on my face. I slap on some basic lip-gloss and blush and I'm good to go. Well good enough for me but Gabs is always chewing me out for my lack of interest in cosmetics. I just can't seem to get past the basics for my day to day use.

As I make my way downstairs, through the front living room and back to the kitchen, the aroma calls to me like a beacon. Who says nothing is better than s.e.x? I mean I wouldn't know personally, but this has to be ranked right up there right?

"My, my, look at what the cat dragged in. Thank G.o.d I made those big hulking football players go home last night after I let them steal my virtue," flickering my eyelashes, I grin broadly, hands on my hips.

Dad was smirking but still leaning over the funnies. He tries to be the heavy, but I know he greatly enjoys my facetiousness. Who wouldn't?

"Too bad really as I came home early with this overwhelming urge for teenage blood l.u.s.t. I'm sorely disappointed Stella," he looks up at me, pretending to c.o.c.k a rifle.

I head to the breakfast bar and grab his shoulders for little mini hug. We're not much for cuddles, a little arm squeeze is about all we can muster without embarra.s.sment.

"How was Phoenix? Or was it Boston? Were they wowed by your super human smartness and geeky anecdotes?" I say as I pour a large mug for myself.

"It was Houston actually and it was pretty great thank you very much. In fact, they offered me the position of master of the universe just because I am both incredibly smart AND astonis.h.i.+ngly good looking."

I smile, pulling the mug to my lips to take a large haul on the liquid gold even though I know it's still too hot. Sometimes you need to endure some pain for pleasure.

"So should I start calling you He-man and pick up some Princess of Power s.h.i.+t kickin' boots?"

"Touche Stells, and watch your language," he says with a parental frown that he doesn't quite pull off. Gulping from his own mug he carries on. "Houston was good. My lecture was on this new early detection earthquake sensor that I'm pus.h.i.+ng to get backers for. It could really mean the life or death difference in some volatile areas," he rambles on about the science behind the technology as I zone out and make up our plates. I love that my Dad is smart and genuinely cares for people. Sometimes I don't know what the frig he's saying, but really nodding and ohhing and ahhing are all he really needs from me. He starts tidying away the paper as he switches back to regular non-nerdy geologist speak.

"I actually met up with an old college mate of mine a Peter Kim. You might remember him from a few years back when we saw him and his wife at Comic Con?"

I know what you're thinking - super nerds - but it's a closet pa.s.sion we have, Dad and I. We LOVE this 4 day nerd fest; people dress up like aliens, we get to geek out over cla.s.sic horror celebs, and who doesn't love seeing Storm Troopers and s.l.u.tty fairies ordering double mocha-chinos from Starbucks?

I try to think back to this meet and greet, teenage memory is a slippery slope, barely recalling yesterday let alone two years ago. I slather my three-story breakfast with syrup, dripping it all over the counter. Why did I choose tight pants today, hmmm maybe an empire waist dress would be a better choice, ohhh or leggings! See how distracted I am already? Slippery slope.

Aha! The memory bell finally goes off; it's a good one too. We were standing in line for an autograph from Christopher Moore when we saw them. Dad called over to Peter and his wife, Lita (I think that was her name). Or was it Pita? No wait that's a sandwich. Definitely Lita. Yeah so anyways after the intro, Dad and Pete start into some borrr-innnng work stuff and Lita made friends with some huge Family Guy fanatics behind us in line. Obviously a mega-fan herself she referenced about 14 one-liners in 4 seconds sending the group in hysterics and making me realize I don't watch the show nearly as much as I thought. I tried to infiltrate the conversation to give a semblance of interest making some comment about never quite getting whether the family can hear the dog talk, or was it just Stewie? Or whether the baby is really talking or does it sound like baby gurgling to the adults? And why can the dog understand him? That show is just way over my head. Annoyed at my lack of Peter Griffin devotion, she attempted to explain, but I just didn't get it and continued on peppering her. I think she thought my sarcasm was a little demeaning and maybe it was. I mean we're talking about a b.u.mbling cartoon show with a talking baby who wants to murder their mother. Loads of sarcasm needed right? Some people are too intense for their own good. So as you can probably tell, we didn't part on excellent terms.

Balancing our full plates over to the breakfast bar, I sidle up beside Dad, "Uh, yeah, sure I remember them. Fun couple. I also remember you yelling at me for an hour for not respecting my elders. Good times."

Dad smiles widely picking up his fork, "You deserved it Stella. You don't seem to have a filter on your verbal rants even though I completely agree with you," he takes a big mouth full and continues, "well, you'll be happy to hear, they're divorced," he mumbles.

I laugh, choking on a stick of bacon, not expecting that revelation. "Really? Sorry to here that," I blurt, pausing for a swig of coffee to roll down the meat. "Actually I'm not. She was a cow and needed to loosen her bunched up panties. In fact, we should thank them for their statistical contribution; now it can remain at my favourite 4 out of 5 marriages that fail. For a second I thought that people might actually start staying together. The horror!" Once this leaves my lips I realize what I've done. I've broken the unspoken house rule of never saying ANYTHING that reminds him of HER.

Dad clears his throat and leans over his breakfast as if a weight is crus.h.i.+ng him into the counter. His smile instantly fades and a dark cloud descends over him. He tries to cover it up by immersing himself in his fascinating breakfast, but I know better.

When will I stop blabbing and keep my trap shut? In the last few years I've learned to avoid the dreaded topic and steer clear of this intense mood s.h.i.+ft altogether. I got really good at avoiding anything and everything that would trigger this reaction. If I would accidentally mention HER, or do anything that reminded him of HER, if I would friggin' burp like HER, he turned into a sad sack of despair.

Oh he tried to act normal, but failed miserably. Everything changed in an instant and he shut down completely. I have a bit of a sixth sense on gauging a persons mood. Knowing he was turning into a train wreck I would ask him to go fix something, or book it out of the house myself; let him work through his laundry list of issues and return when it pa.s.sed. And I'M the one in therapy. Go figure.

I'm sure you can tell by now that I really don't get the warm and fuzzies over 'falling in love'. Maybe that's why I'm so picky. My mom left us 17 years ago and we haven't seen her since. I guess something like that really changes you. Well, it changed my Dad, which is glaringly obvious. I was trying to be a smart a.s.s and I guess now it turns out I'm a dumb a.s.s. I shut my trap and slam in four slices of bacon.

Gratefully composing himself in record time, Dad trudges on, "Well he moved a few months ago and now works at Columbia; great science department there."

Aha, wait for it, here comes the segway for the next business trip. Relief floods over me as the conversation turns to something I can fix.

"Anyways, he's dying for me to come and do a lecture in his cla.s.s, which I would love to do but it would mean a few days away... "

Bingo. I interrupt him before he can start to guilt bargain with me.

"Dad, you know I don't mind you traveling for these trips. You love your job, I'm proud of all you've done and giving these lectures is a great outlet for you. I really don't mind being alone. Truly. Now, stop fussing and tell me all about it, I think it's great."

With a sigh, Dad turns towards me and launches into the 'I think I leave you alone too much' and the 'I don't want to miss out on these few months we have left together before college' spiels. I smile and pat him on the back and rea.s.sure him that I am fine and that I have a lot of school work to do in the next few weeks and that I would barely be away from my computer at all. Yada, yada, yada, all is well and he'll be gone on Wednesday with just a small topping of guilt. Whew, crisis averted. We finish our plates in companionable silence as I make a mental note to never mention divorce stats again.

After we've eaten our fill, well perhaps more than my fill, Dad and I lounge in front of the Discovery Channel with our second pot of coffee brewing knowing I need to get up and change these tights pants on the A-SAP but finding no smidgin' of energy to do so. G.o.d I wish I could stay home today, rent a bunch of movies and veg out in some extra wide gym pants. Sigh. But I am Ms. Responsible and Dad would kill me if I called in 'fake' sick to work.

My phone chirps loudly, snapping me out of a surprisingly riveting shark week. It's Gabriella.

BIG party tonight! Dig out your spandex!

Smiling at her obscurity I glance at the time, c.r.a.p I'm late. Gotta book it, overpriced jeans await.

Chapter 2.

Work Sucks.

I pull into the parking lot behind Grant's and kill the engine. My trusty old black Jetta, Murrie, whom I named as a term of endearment so that he would know he was loved and wouldn't c.r.a.p out on me in the middle of a snowstorm, settles with a few gurgles as I give him a little pat on the dash. Grabbing my messenger bag, I hop out and jog over to my part-time torment. I suppose Grant's is a good job to have, I mean I could be working at the d.i.n.ky grocery store or slinging burgers, so I count myself lucky. It's your basic run of the mill clothing shop that actually has a good variety of some cool brands and I get a discount so not a total loss.

We're located about two blocks west from Alessa Square, in the heart of downtown, you guessed it, Alessa Heights. The square is as close to a bustling metropolis we'll ever get, but its ok, I actually don't mind it. Coming from me, a smart lipped teen, that says a lot about its cool factor. It feels very European and really comes alive in the warmer months.

The plaza includes a beautiful cobblestone walking path with no street traffic, surrounded by quaint little shops, and a large stone fountain at the heart of it all. During the summer months, kids love to run around like wild animals while parentals perch themselves on surrounding benches sipping really great coffees and taking in the local foot traffic. This is as close to an entertainment district as Alessa will ever get.

The fountain was built by the towns people a super long time ago, during the depression I think, to boost morale and solidarity during a really c.r.a.ppy time. It holds a lot of sentimental historical significance to the older folks. I often hear them regaling tourists about how they rallied together and built it from conservation rocks, hauling them all by hand, miles and miles in a snow storm with no coats, no shoes - Blah Blah Blah, totally exaggerated story, but I give them kudos as it's a beautiful fountain regardless of how the rocks actually got there. They did a fantastic job on the little ornate details and the water feature really is cool. I dare say that kids today wouldn't give a rats behind to build a lovely fountain if we didn't have enough money for pizza and beer.

A large old clock-tower, built from the same stone as the fountain, sits high on the east side of the square and still bongs every hour. The most frequented spot, The Grind, is found on the south side where you can plop down on the little outdoor bistro tables and people watch for hours. Mrs. Castillo did a great job with this place, fixing it up to be a lovely addition to our mini village. She also just so happens to be my best friends' mom. Ka-ching, did I make a good friend choice or what?

As I make my way into the store, I automatically switch to defensive maneuver mode. Rob is laying in wait for me behind the Lucky jeans and pounces as soon as I walk through the door. I mean I like Rob and all but I already said no to a date with him (actually I should say that I said no to dates, plural, with him) and he just can't seem to let it slide. As if wearing my resolve down will win him that privilege. It isn't like he's ugly or creepy stalkerish, well maybe a little, but he's just not for me. It might be that he smells a little like he took a bath in Drakkar Noir, or that he over-gels his hair to a s.h.i.+ny hard ma.s.s of spikes. Or that he wears a lot of pink t-s.h.i.+rts so tight I can see his nipple ring popping through like a pulsing orb saying 'Look at me! I'm a vapid attempt at making myself seem bad a.s.s!' Nipple rings are just gross. Period. And wash your hair.

I think he has good intentions and I feel sorry for him, but I wish he would 'intend' to pursue someone other than me. I think he needs to get laid.

"Hey there Stells! Whoa, you're looking delicious today, how's it goin'?" he says, casually placing his elbow on the s.h.i.+rt rack beside him, blocking my path and staring at my b.o.o.bs.

I s.h.i.+ft my bag to my back, crossing my arms in front to conceal any hint of cleavage that he can leer at. Please G.o.d, have Kim magically appear and ask him to fold something.

"Just peachy Rob, you?"

"Can't complain ya know."

No I don't know.

"Went for an early run around 6 and got up to two hundred on the press today, so feeling pret-ty good!"

Lord help me.

"Oh and I made this new protein shake that really got me pumped. I can give you the recipe if you want?"

Are we on Venice Beach? Do I look like I eat protein shakes or need to get pumped? I prefer sitting on my a.r.s.e and eating corn chips thank you very much.

"That's good man, you on cash this morning?" I ask.

Change the subject, talk about work, avoid the pulsing ring, avoid the veiny bicep. c.r.a.p I looked at the ring. Noticing my glance, he flexes his chest, jiggling the jewelry against his tight graphic tee. I gag a little.

"Not sure. Kim hasn't arrived yet. Hopefully we can be on the floor together though," he says, glancing back at my b.o.o.bs.

Rob loves to work the floor. His ability to suck up to soccer moms is legendary; slathering compliments as they giggle like tweens and cream in their spanks. Reels them in hook line and sinker. I don't get it but they certainly want it. Although the job is OK, I don't consider it a good fit for me. I'm a solitary person; I don't like people all that much. I especially don't like seeing thin girls saying they look HUGE, bigger girls saying they don't understand why these sizes are so much smaller than other stores (they aren't), and rich kids who look at you like their Daddies paid you to specifically hand them sequinned tank tops all day.

"Ya, hope so." Except I don't.

"Well I'm a little late so I'd better get moving to the back to drop my stuff off," and hide, "and get ready for the morning pow wow. See you in a bit." I flash a weak smile and see his wasted efforts turn to disappointment. He looks like I kicked him in the nuts, poor guy. Hopefully Marla is working today; her s.l.u.ttiness will draw his attention away from me.

Kim arrived a few minutes later for her daily pep talk and org chart. As luck would have it, I AM on the floor today, but Rob's on cash, score! Kim is your typical retail store manager; a little bit high on herself because she gets to boss around a bunch of snot nosed teenagers, but not high enough to remember that us little jerks are going to be leaving in a few months and she's a lifer. She's fair though and doesn't ream into me when I get a little 'extra witty' to b.i.t.c.hy customers.

I was even granted front store display - the best job ever - dressing the mannequins. It keeps me busy sans customers and immersed in the fas.h.i.+on aspect, which is my main reason, aside from a wee pay check, for taking the job.

A few hours into my spring display, while struggling to cover the left breast of my life sized barbie, I spy Gabby s.h.i.+mmy-ing up the street. Of corse Gabs is sporting the cutest little floral dress and wedge heels you would never be able to buy around here (must be nice to have family still in Paris) and looks fan-freaking-tastic. She walks down the street as if all eyes are on her (and they are), like a slo-mo montage in a movie, the wind whipping her hair in a s.e.xy fas.h.i.+on and the sun s.h.i.+ning directly on her and only her, flipping her dark wavy locks and smiling like she owns the town. She's a stunner and she knows it. G.o.d I envy that sometimes. I check out the time on my cell, almost break time. Maybe Kim would let me go early if I promise to bring everyone lattes?

I emerge from the back room with my wallet in tow as I hear Gabs peel out a very flirty laugh to some guy in sector seven (hoodies). How does she do that? I was out back for what, four seconds? She spies me, beckons me over and leaves Mr. Great Hair behind with a wink and a smile. I'm sure he has her number already.

Gabs threads her arms through mine and starts our commentary as we head outside, "So, mi encantador, how many times did Rob try to hump your leg today?" She likes to use terms of endearments (or insults) in foreign languages to keep me guessing whether to be flattered or annoyed. She's fluent in French from her Moms side and Spanish from her Dads. My Dad was born and bred here in Alessa, 'nuff said.

"You're one to talk dude. Who was that metro princess panting all over your designer shoes back there? You're acting like a tramp you know," I smirk and playfully tug on her arms.

"Gasp! Tramp! Why Miss Stella, are you jealous? It doesn't flatter you truly. Take my advice, no one likes a frigid old maid," she says giving me a mock pity pout.

"Ah forget it," I say holding up my hand, "I know you aren't interested in him, I mean he is no Miguel Silvestre right?" (Insert TERRIBLE Spanish accent here with an emphasis on rolling my rrrr's) "Say, has he returned your tweets yet? You must be feeling pretty rejected."

This gets Gabs in a fl.u.s.ter. She is SO into this guy. For those of you not in the know (and why would you be), he's this hot Latino actor whom Gabs has been stalking since she saw him in some weird foreign film a few years back. The rest of us were watching Hanna Montana and she was drooling over a older guy with sub-t.i.tles. If you have a chance though google him, you won't regret it.

"h.e.l.lloooooo. Earth to Stella! You're zoning out on me again, aren't you?" She pokes my ribs with her elbow snapping me out of my inner monologue.

"Sure I am Gabs, you definitely have a chance to get Miguel to take you to prom - no question," I say, closing my eyes as I turn up my face towards the sky and let the warm spring suns.h.i.+ne tingle my eyelids.

"That wasn't what I said. Get with it Stell. Ok so what I SAID was that Tonya Martin is having her end of winter theme party tonight and this year is 80's ski patrol! Awesome right?!"

So that's what the cryptic message was about.

"Gabs, why didn't you tell me this sooner?" I whine, "I mean that isn't a lot of time to garner an outfit for this thing! I mean, I need time, planning sessions and multiple google searches you know." I start to nibble my nails (filthy habit) as I mentally break down an acceptable outfit.

Gabs rolls her eyes and flicks her hair back over her shoulder, "C'mon lady, don't tell me you don't have a slew of things in your tickle trunk? I know you better then that Bella."

She's right, I LOVE dressing up. Halloween, theme parties, random Sat.u.r.day nights when it is just me, my dog Harve and a bowl of popcorn. Opps did I just admit that? My Dad even built a special spot in my closet for all my outfits to be stored. Hmmm 80's big hair, neon ski pants, sadly I have it covered easily.

"OK, OK, you're right. Did you want to come over and raid my closet with me?" I say as we pa.s.s under the big archway that opens up to the square.

"No need, I got a great outfit this afternoon just by digging through my mom's closet. Best part of this was that she wore it just a few years ago! I like to think my Mom has some style, but now I'm not so sure," Gabs let out a little giggle, "I'll come get you though and be the DD, I have to work tomorrow at the studio so I have to behave tonight." Gabs is a salsa instructor at Ginger's (the local dance studio) a I know, could she BE any more cliche?

"Cool, sounds good. Now can you step it up in those cheap heels, Kim knows it only takes 14 minutes to get to The Grind and back and I'm already at 12 - we gotta hustle."