Synching With the Devil's Son

Chapter 1

Bella's P.O.V.

Life doesn't seem fair, does it? Some people have all the looks, some have all the money, and some, like me, have all the bad luck. For the second time in three days, I've been relegated to taking an Uber to work. First, my beat up clunker of a car decided to breathe it's last breath in the middle lane of a busy street. Nobody, and I mean nobody, offered to help as I struggled to get my car out of the way. All I did was successfully push it closer to the traffic light and, in doing so, I blocked a second lane of traffic. If looks could kill, I would have choked on my my bagel while waiting for the tow truck, listening to all kinds of profanity hurled my way over the cacophony of frustrated horn honking. Then today, when I left my house to unlock my last remaining mode of transportation from the post I secured it to last night, I found the only thing remaining on the post was the red, pitted and dented frame of my eight year old bicycle. I guess somebody really needed bicycle tires, and, upon closer inspection, a bicycle seat. Ugh, I cannot wait to get away from this place, nobody seems to have common decency anymore.

So here I sit, in the backseat of a strangers car, twenty minutes late to work. I sigh quietly as I watch the windshield wipers slowly clear the water off the glass, and the driver as he taps his fingers in time with the music softly playing on his radio. "Here we are miss," the driver says, pulling in front of Parker's Pet and Feed Store, my family's legacy to this small town. I live in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains in a place called Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. We're on the map because Dolly Parton decided to put her Appalachian theme park, Dollywood, smack in the middle of our township. It brings in tourists that feed our local economy, but the inevitable downside is that thieves and criminals follow closely behind. We have one of the highest crime rates in America per capita, so being a victim of a partially stolen bicycle isn't all that surprising to me. I'm working to block out the fact that I was a victim of a much more heinous crime which still gives me nightmares and panic attacks three years later, but I've become pretty good at platitudes and other reconciliations that keep my therapist, friends and family from worrying about me too much.

My friends and I call our town Pigeon Hole because that's what it feels like. I am going to be one of the few to break free when I attend the University of Tennessee in the fall. Go Volunteers! Just three more months and I can finally leave this place behind. I know I'll miss my Dad and my older brother when I leave for college, but it's only 45 minutes from here, and I'll come home to visit often. My Mom, well...she was killed by a drunk driver seven years ago. The police say she didn't swerve or try to get out of the way, so she probably didn't even see the car driving recklessly behind her. I like to think she didn't feel a thing, that in one moment she was driving safely along in the middle lane of the highway, and the next there was only darkness. If there is one consolation in losing your mother at the age of eleven, it's knowing she didn't suffer. Dad did what he could for my brother and I, tried to be both a mother and a father. He started taking in neglected animals, nurturing them back to health and finding them new homes. The permanently disabled and unwanted, or those too traumatized by their experiences to be adopted, still live with my Dad on his farm, my childhood home. We are known in the area to never say no to an animal in need. It started out as therapy for all of us when we lost Mom, but it's turned into so much more.

"Hey Bella, you're late!" my best friend, Trish, says as I walk into the feed store.

"Somebody stole my bike, or at least the parts I need to ride it," I tell her. "Dad is gone until tomorrow looking at a new water filtering system somebody's developed, and Chris took his truck to pick up two unwanted horses near Nashville, ergo the Uber driver."

"Geez, could you have any worse luck?" she asks, looking at me with a small smile.

Exactly. Trish understands. My whole life seems to be about just missing the cut. I'm the one in the bathroom at Truist Park when the Hall of Famer hits a foul ball into my seat. I'm the one who stands in line for hours to get concert tickets, only to have the last seat sold when I get to the front. Ever get a flat tire on the way to an interview and then miss the bus by a few seconds because the tow truck was late? Yes, it's happened to me. In the words of Garth Brooks, I am 'the last one to know, the last one to show, the last one you thought you'd see there.'

If I'm being completely honest, I actually prefer it this way. Being invisible, blending in, holding nobody's attention for very long. My name may mean beautiful, but I am completely average. Average height, average weight, average curves. I almost always have my straight dark blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail, my hazel eyes are almond shaped and, in my opinion, sit disproportionately wide in my square face. My best feature is my full, sensual set of lips that all my friends tell me they wish they had. I admit, I have a great set of lips, the rest of it though? Meh.

Turning back to Trish I say, "I know, right? I've got to come up with a new mode of transportation because I cannot hire an Uber driver every day if I'm expected to pay for half of my tuition in the fall."

"My cousin is selling his car before he gets stationed in Japan," she tells me as I put my purse behind the counter.

I look at her with interest. "His Hyundai Kona?" I ask. At her nod I inquire, "Do you know how much he wants for it?" Her cousin, Tommy, has been my brother's best friend since they were in Kindergarten. Tommy always wanted to be a pilot, so he enlisted in the Air Force right out of High School and was accepted into the Officers training program in Colorado Springs. If he's selling his car, I'm definitely interested because it probably doesn't have a scratch on it. He is nothing if not meticulous.

Trish shrugs as she turns toward a customer. "I'll ask him for you," she tells me over her shoulder.

"Thanks Trish," I say, turning away to open the stock door so I can unload last night's deliveries.