Hey lovelies! It gives me
great pleasure today to host S.N. McKibben and her new book, “Dr. Vampyre”!
Be sure to make it to the
end of this post to enter to win ONE of TWO $5 Amazon Gift Cards!! Yep, that’s right!! There will be TWO lucky winners!! See below for more details. Also, come back daily to interact with S.N.
and to increase your chances of winning!
Thanks for stopping
by! Wishing you lots of luck in this
fabulous giveaway!
Dr. Vampyre
by S.N. McKibben
Genre: Paranormal Romance
When a college professor is blackmailed by a student …
… he has to walk the fine line of being true to his principles
and not letting his bloody secret out.
Dr.
John Tennison, professor and physician, wakes up every morning and counts his
spoons—a measure of how many tasks he feels he can accomplish during his day.
One spoon to walk down the stairs, one spoon to teach a class, one spoon to
deal with tardy students. Lupus limits him, but he still gives lectures and
works at a hospital. He also makes time for friends, and once a week visits
Sanguine Loon’s to sate—or subvert—his one strange desire. His nemesis, the one
thing besides lupus that keeps him from leading a normal life, is the blood at
the bottom of a little paper Dixie cup.
While
Tennison’s blood-drinking habit is a secret, it’s well known that he’s the
campus asshole and has no tolerance for students who show up late. When he
kicks Vogue model Ylati Badashi out of his lecture hall for wandering in ten
minutes late, she’s having none of it. She pouts, she seduces, she blackmails,
and puts Tennison at odds with his butler, and finally she tells him the truth
about why she needs to be in his class.
Tennison
is a man of principles, and though he swears he won’t change his mind, he
starts to react unexpectedly to Ylati even as he hates her for making him suspicious
of his trusted butler. Tennison has to find out where Mitch goes on his nights
off and must deal with a budding attraction to a woman he occasionally hates,
all while learning new secrets about himself. It’s going to take a lot of
spoons.
Today, I woke up
with nineteen spoons instead of twenty-two. Not literal spoons—figurative. I don’t go to bed
placing utensils on my face or twirl the family silver from my extremities.
Such behavior would insult my Mensa-acceptable 133 IQ.
The spoon theory is a fellow sufferer’s
explanation of what it’s like to live with lupus. Spoons represent how much energy I have before I begin to
deteriorate, and I am grateful to each and every one of them. Every spoon I wake up with means I can do
that many tasks. Tasks like walking down the stairs, teaching my class, seeing
patients. The type of things others take for granted.
When my students in
the blood cell biology class at the University of Southern California inquire
about my condition, I describe lupus as a life-sucking force in which you have
to constantly balance your time and energy against the downhill spiral of
lethargy and pain. My explanation usually stops anyone from asking more
questions. As if not talking about my condition will make the disease go away.
The pain used to
anger me. Succumbing to a body that jails my actions is a study in humiliation.
Worse is knowing lupus affects more women than it does men. Some call it a
woman’s disease. Being a man, you might think that is what bothers me. What
bothers me is I don’t like to see women in pain. Knowing what they are going
through helps me as a doctor, but as a man, it doesn’t help my psyche.
You see why I strive
for a logical life. Emotion takes so much energy that it’s better not to feel.
In fact, suppressing any emotion is key to my success. It doesn’t stop the pain
lupus gives me. Nothing stops the pain except one unnatural addiction, and that
only for a brief moment. So with my shield of apathy and my sword of cynicism,
I venture forth into the morning to heal and teach as a doctor and professor.
You’d think I would
slow down or take it easy today knowing that I’ve already begun without my
usual amount of spoons, but
today is the first day of a new semester and I won’t be late. Never, in my nine
years of teaching, have I ever been late. Besides, I can’t let those beemer
brats wreak havoc in my lecture hall, now can I?
The one indulgence
that would solve my lethargy problems flits through my brain. I resolve to
shove that thought out. Anything not normal, right now, is not in the plan.
***
I stroll into my
lecture hall at exactly nine fifty a.m. and the whispers stop. Old and new
faces attentively follow my shuffle as I round my desk to the dry erase board
at the front of the room. I pick up a marker that could make any fifth grader
swear off glue and write Dr. Tennison -
Blood cell biology.
Thankfully, the
counselors and older co-eds let it be known that I am “a real dick” and have an
aversion to those who are not on time. So, I rolled my eyes when at ten
minutes after ten, she of the model-thin
body, sporting six-inch stilettos, tight jeans, and a frou-frou blouse, walked
in.
“Ms. Tardy, don‘t
bother.”
She gave me the oh-gosh-I’m-really-sorry
face. “Are there any more seats?”
“Not for
you. Please, don’t waste our time. I don’t take add-ons.” I reached under
my desk for the medical book I would use to assist in today’s lecture.
“But, I registered
for the class.” Ms. Tardy pouted.
“I don’t care.
You’re late. No more room. Get out.” The slam of the thousand-page medical
dictionary I tossed on my desk should have been enough articulation in my
statement for her to leave.
“I got here as soon
as I could!” Her whine climbed the scale into annoyance territory.
“Which is not good
enough. You’re done.” I pointed at the door. “Get out.”
“Oh come on. What
could I have missed in five minutes?”
“The point . . .” I
flashed my Rolex from under my sleeve and checked the time. “. . . And it’s
been twelve minutes.”
“That’s not fair!”
“What would not be
fair is to make a pulmonary patient, lying open on the table, wait twelve life-or-death minutes for a replacement
valve. I’m here to teach. One of those lessons I wish to instill is an
appreciation for the value of time.”
Ms. Tardy stood
there in her tight jeans and pursed lips with a hand on her hip. She looked
familiar, but I couldn’t place her. ”You can go now.” I waved a hand in a
sweeping motion. “There isn’t room for you anyway.” There were seats in the
back, but she looked like a front-of-the-class, I-want-all-the-attention kind
of girl.
“But I pre-registered.”
She used her hands for emphasis and struck a classic pose that probably got her
into any club or out of any trouble she came up against.
Snorting out my
disgust, a glimmer of recognition hit me and I looked harder at Ms. Tardy.
This face before me
belonged to Ylati Badashi, the recently “retired” model, and her million dollar
Vogue body was in my lecture hall.
She must have taken my fluster of disdain for admiration, because her
supposedly non-collagen-filled lips curved. But it was that I-have-you-now twinkle in her eye that
jostled loose my wrath.
I whisked my walking
cane from under my desk. Quick as a turtle in sand, I advanced on her with my
geriatric, cane-wielding old man shtick, trying to scare her off my lawn. The
fear in her eyes fueled my words. “Get out of my hall!”
I was seething by
the time she turned tail and bolted out of the room. She looked like a shackled
cat running from the spray of a hose. The image brought tears of laughter to my
eyes. It had been a while since I’d laughed that hard. I’m sure my students
never see me so much as smile.
Even though I knew
the price for expressing my emotion would cost me another spoon and wreak havoc
on me later, I couldn’t help the satisfied feeling of living up to my so earned
title among the students, Dr. Asshole.
“Dr. Tennison, are
you alright?” One of my more faithful students, Ms. Phillips, actually sounded
concerned.
I returned to my
drab demeanor, leaned heavily on my cane, and grunted an acknowledgment to the
third-year co-ed. My physical display allowed the monster of lupus inside me to
seek retribution and sap away my energy. Disgruntled for wasting precious
vitality on a fritter of a person, I forced down my angry self-reprimand. There
was no use getting angry over getting angry.
I resumed my
emotionless state and taught as I have for the past nine years—with ruthless
abandon. No whining, no excuses, and if you’re late, you fail. If you can’t
beat my turtle-ass to class, you’re wasting my time, your time, and everybody
else’s time.
***
After teaching all
day, I was down to thirteen spoons.
Three spent starting my day: one for teaching class, one for each trip walking
to the car, and one for the gallant ass-chewing I gave to Ms. Tardy. When I get
down to five spoons, it’s time
to think about calling it a day, but I wasn’t there yet.
Mitch, my butler and
savior for most my life, picked me up in the blue BMW Alpina. I have never had
the privilege of driving it. The DMV denied me a license because of my
condition. I did have the honor of paying for it. If you were to ask me, Mitch
had a damn nice car to chauffeur me around in.
I called Mitch not
only my savior, but also jokingly, my wife. Without him, my life would be
impossible. He cooked my food, did my laundry, dropped off and picked up the
dry cleaning, scrubbed the house to the point of peeling off paint, scheduled
my day, tidied the yard, took some phone calls for me, and made sure I take my
medication. I did stop him from wiping my ass—occasionally. Okay, so I’m joking
about the last part. He doesn’t wipe my ass, but what unmarried guy in his
thirties is going to deny the rest? If sex weren’t involved, I’d marry him.
Sure, he’s an adorable thirty-nine year old in a small stout package with dark
hair and soft dark eyes, but that’s not how I roll. I’m pretty sure that’s not
how he rolls, either.
Off we go to the
medical center with Mitch at the wheel and me in the back seat orienting myself
with the next class session. Mitch is quite the chatty type, but I’ve learned
to drown him out as any good husband would do. Routinely, after the days I
teach, he drops me at the hospital where I work. My assistant nurse, Mary, is
the old battle ram of the team—wise enough to tell patients to be here an hour
early, kind enough to be the matron of compassion, knowledgeable enough to know
what to do if ever I seize from pain.
She leads me to the
five-minute staff review and then my first patient of the day. I’m handed a
clipboard and being a doctor, I read the case symptoms first. Yes, it’s bad to
look at what’s wrong with the person before looking at the name, but we all do
it. I wish I had looked at the name
before I walked in the patient room, but it was too late to walk the other way
when I opened the door.
“Ms. Badashi.”
Smooth as a virgin dry-erase board, I did not give away one iota of the
seething hate boiling through my veins to Ms. Tardy. “It says here you have all
the symptoms of river blindness. What would you prescribe yourself?”
“Ivermectin.” The
big brown eyed lost puppy look of hers could have cracked a walnut. That’s when
the pain behind my right eye surged. Was the eye torture from her annoyingly
correct answer, or lupus? I couldn’t tell. “Do you have river blindness?”
“Please let me into
your class.”
The audacity! “Am I
to believe that my staff bumped you to my first patient when there are real
people in need of my services?”
“Hey!” She actually
looked put out. “I am a real person. I am in need of your services!” Again she
was wasting my time. You’re late, you fail.
“You, young lady,
are a fraud. Get out of my office.” I pressed a palm against my pounding eye.
It relieved some of the pressure.
Her whining made my
eye worse. “What I need is for you to teach me Blood cell biology.”
“Why me?” I said
more to myself than to anyone else.
“Because you’re the
best.”
Mitch says flattery
will get you anywhere. Yes, there is appeal to being called the best. My ego
did flutter a little, but not enough to forgive her cardinal sin number one.
With my one hand still pushing back my right eye, my index finger pointed at
the door—hard to do with a clipboard still in my hand.
“Out!”
She leaned forward;
just enough so her frou-frou top’s fringes hung lose. “I’d do anything to get
into your class.”
“Anything?” I smiled
and suggestively touched my chest. I did not fail to notice the pink bra she
had on.
She nodded and
accentuated, “Anything.”
“Sign up next
semester and be early.” I threw the clipboard on the counter and tried to slam
the door on my way out. Too bad hospital doors didn’t slam. Amazing how my eye
felt better after I left her sitting there, but dealing with her cost me yet
another spoon. I had eleven spoons
left and I needed to get through the rest of my five-spoon work day.
Fortunately, I didn’t see her again. I figured that was that.
Mitch picked me up
from work at six o’clock. He mentioned Puzo, the dean of students, called.
Randolph Puzo is a good man. Works hard, cared about the students, and had gone
to bat for me in front of the board about my special condition. He’s the kind
of guy you wanted on your team because he did anything to get the job done
right.
“John, how are you?”
Randolph’s voice came through my iPhone as clear and crisp as a new Benjamin.
“I’m fairing well.
What can I do for you?”
Now, Randolph knows
I can’t waste energy on chit-chat, and being the good man that he is, he gets
to the point.
“John, I have a
student that says you chased her out of the lecture hall.”
“Ah, Ms. Badashi. I
was afraid she’d fall in those stilettos for the vertically challenged.”
“John,” Randolph
chuckled, though I was quite serious, “can you please let her into the class?”
It’s tough and
unpopular to be a hardnose, but principles are principles and I refuse to
compromise. “She was late, Puzo.”
“It was the first
day of the semester.”
“All my other
students arrived early. Even before I did.”
His comment was
barely audible. “They got the asshole alert.”
“Excuse me?”
To Randolph’s
credit, he was as gracious as he always is. “Mr. Tennison, I would greatly
appreciate it if you forgave this one transgression and allowed an eager
student access to your lectures.”
I should’ve been
grateful to Randolph. He’d done so much for me. If I couldn’t make it to class,
he would cover for me. He makes sure my lecture hall is the closest to the
parking lot. I never had to move desks, books or arrange my classroom during
the off season. He’s probably going to catch hell for me denying a student what
seems like her dying wish. But when I thought about her suggestive comment,
thinking her womanly guiles would work on me, my temper rose to boiling.
“Mr. Puzo, I abide
by the school’s program, requirements, curriculum, and every rule and
regulation your fine institution implements. Please abide by mine.” I hung up
and thought the next call would be a request for my resignation.
Mitch eyed me
briefly from the rearview mirror as he was driving. “Sounds like women
troubles.”
“Student issues,” I
corrected. I wished he wouldn’t call them “women troubles,” as he knew I never
had so much as a girlfriend. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been promiscuous. I went
to college. Don’t think that lupus affects one’s sex drive, because it doesn’t.
I just never had time or the energy to have a steady girl.
“Tim called. Said
he’d come to collect you at seven.”
I only had six spoons left for the rest of the
night. But I know what Tim would say if I tried to get out of going with him
tonight. Just come with us to Loon’s and
have a shot and you’ll be fine. Tim wasn’t the type to let me break
routine. The schedule never did me wrong. I had a good life, just a limited one.
I sighed and rubbed
my temples. How could I deny my best friend since high school? If I didn’t go
with him, he’d take every opportunity and every one of his ambulance-driving
skills to annoy the fuck out of me at work the next day. Anastasia, fellow lupus
sufferer and Tim’s girlfriend, would call me relentlessly and whine in my ear
all night. Ever since I can remember, Wednesday nights belonged to the three of
us. It’s hard to break tradition.
By six forty-five, I
sat ready in the kitchen of my two-story house. Tim usually managed to get
Anastasia dressed and ready to go out almost on time. His secret was telling
her they had to be there half an hour beforehand. I could have waited upstairs
lying down, but going up and down the stairs costs me a spoon. I should have
moved to a one-story house, but I’d never sell this home. I’d never be able to
replace childhood memories and nostalgia.
Mitch was wiping
down the swirled-granite counters while I sat at the four-seat mahogany dining
set. His time off was Wednesday night and all of Sunday, fitting perfectly with
my schedule. Wednesday I went out with my friends while Mitch went—wherever he
went, and on Sunday he left after breakfast and returned on Monday before dawn.
But he always made sure I was in safe hands or he could be reached by cell
phone before leaving.
I looked at the
hundred-year-old Simplex grandfather clock that hung at the opposite end of the
entryway to the kitchen. The hands read seven-o-five. My fingers drummed on the
table as I counted every second that ticked away. From outside, the sound of
Bach booming from distorted speakers was a sure sign Tim’s Tercel was speeding
to my driveway.
Mitch raised his
head and folded his towel. “Ah, well, here they are.”
We both sauntered
out of the kitchen to the rap of Tim’s knuckles on the glass of the window.
Mitch grabbed his overnight bag, opened the door, and nodded a greeting to Tim.
I scowled and pointed at my Rolex.
Like me, Tim was
white bread. But where I had brown hair, he had jet black. I wasn’t as pale as
he was, though he tended to stay out of the sun like me. He wore lots of brown
and brass and occasionally topped all that splendor with some hat bearing
mechanical constructions. Opposed to my daily suit and tie tonight, I lost the
jacket and noose, but my slacks were pressed and my button-down collar was
appropriate for where we were going.
Tim smiled
nervously. He lived up to his nickname of “Jackrabbit,” bouncing on the balls
of his feet. Heavy eyeliner accentuated his shocking blue eyes, which pleaded
forgiveness. “You know Anastasia.”
I gruffed at Tim and
waved at Mitch. I always told Mitch he could take the car, but he insisted on
taking the bus. Public transportation was a block away and he never seemed to
mind. I didn’t argue. It would have been an exercise in futility as “he was
always right.” Just like asking him where he went on Wednesday and Sundays, it
was pointless to ask. I stopped wondering where he spent his time off long ago.
Tim bounded to his
four-door Tercel and opened the back passenger door for me with a flourish.
Anastasia hung over the open window of the front passenger seat. Hourglass
figure, impressive chest, thin lips, a strong nose combined with Bette Davis
eyes set wide on a heart-shaped face—Anastasia was beautiful. Though I couldn’t
understand why a natural redhead dyed her hair auburn. Probably to reap as much
attention as possible from her cardinal red strands. Most men would lie down
just for the pleasure of saying she stepped on them. But she was as crazy as monkey-flung
feces. I had no idea how Tim puts up with her.
“Hi, John.”
Anastasia greeted me with a breathy smile and hungry eyes.
I smiled, took her
hand, and kissed it lightly. “Good evening, Anastasia.”
She giggled and
swatted her free hand on Tim’s butt. “How come you aren’t so charming?”
Tim pivoted around
and gingerly took my hand, mimicked my knuckle-kissing gesture and nailed my
professor voice perfectly, “John, how lovely to see you. Won’t you please get
your ass in the car?”
“Whatever, Jackrabbit.”
I said, climbing into the trusty Tercel. I noted that I was down to five spoons and was leaving the house. But
it was unlikely we’ll be out too late.
What Are Your Top 10 Favorite Books/Authors?
Oh! I
love talking about my mentors. Okay here goes:
1) Jim
Butcher - Dresden Files
2) Kim
Harrison – Hallows Series
3) Les
Edgerton
4) The
Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
5) The
Girl with All the Gifts by M.R. Carey
6) Kris
Michaels
7) Patricia
A. Knight
8) Marilyn
Lakewood
9) Elizabeth
SaFleur
10) Carolyn
Jewel – My Immortals Series
11) Megan
Derr
Slave
to a 100 lbs. GSD (German Shepard) and a computer she calls "Dave",
you'll often see her riding a 19 hand Shire nicknamed "Gunny" to the
local coffee shop near the Santa Monica mountains.
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