The Curse of Lanval Series: The Curse of Lanval, #1

DEDICATION

To C. Your bright smile, infectious laugh, and positive attitude always cheered me and helped me get my writing (and teaching!) mojo back. Thanks for all the research and discussions on the plague, stitches, stab wounds, and how to be a paramedic! I wish we had more than thirteen weeks to get to know one another. Before I knew it, you walked out of my life, and all I have left is this series.

Time is pretty screwed up like that.

Thank you for being a wonderful friend, an awesome teacher, and my kooky sidekick.Where ever life takes you, I hope it is always to inspire others.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To C.L. Cannon, for her detailed editing and feedback, which made this project possible, and for the world’s most awesome cover.

Seriously.

Chapter One

My Sister, Ancestry Queen

THE WATER CASCADED around me, and I couldn’t move, though I thrashed and twisted as hard as I could. My lungs burned with the breath I held, my last one. I didn’t know how I got here, bound and drowning in the middle of the twelfth-century French countryside. As usual, it was my sister’s fault. That—and the damned family curse. Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to September where this all started...

I SILENTLY DARED MY professor to call my name. Our eye contact was intense. He broke first, shifting his gaze around the room.

Jennifer Ibana.

Here, called a beautiful female voice to my left, all black curly hair and big blue eyes.

Alyssa Jackson.

I’m here, said another voice to my right.

College was going to be difficult with all these fucking gorgeous ladies here. I stared at the nerdy teacher behind the desk, wondering if he knew the 1980s called and wanted their glasses back, and tweed jackets were not hip anymore.

Andrew Kain.

What up, a voice behind me shouted, and a few polite, quiet giggles ran through the classroom.

The professor shushed the class. We are all adults here, people, this is college after all.

Do it, I urged him silently, call my name.

Gill – Gwill? Gwuilameme?

In fifth grade, I winced and slid down in the chair. In middle school, I nearly blushed like a girl when the beautiful ones laughed at me. Thankfully, in high school, something inside me snapped, and I stopped giving a shit. Everyone mispronounced it, and I didn’t care anymore. A big smile spread on my face.

Full on laughter rippled across the students now.

Gwill-a-meme ... Lanval? the professor tried again, frowning and looking around the room.

Well, at least he got my last name right, pronouncing it with a long a sound instead of the short. That was a first, easily since second grade.

Guillaume, I shouted, shooting my hand in the air. Nice try, though, I winked and pointed at him.

I’m sorry, Guillaume?

I groaned. He was dense as hell, like my idiot seventh-grade teacher who’dcalled everyone ‘honey’ because she was too old to remember our names. It’s Guillaume, sir, it’s French. Most people just call me Gill.

Gill? The professor looked over his glasses at me.

Yes, sir, it’s short.

A few more giggles erupted from the back, and some guy behind me whispered, That’s what she said.

I turned and high-fived a complete stranger. Maybe college wouldn’t be so bad after all.

You don’t look French, the professor said, clearing his throat and ignoring the rude comment. He looked me up and down. Tell us, Gill, are your parents French?

My mother and uncle are, I said in French, It’s an old family name.

A few students gasped as I rattled off my fluent second language, but most just stared, including the professor.

To my surprise, he answered me in equally fluent French: In my classroom, Mr. Gill, we will speak English.

I laughed, shaking my head, and repeated my phrase. I looked around to see the entire class was staring at me, and my confidence shot through the roof. I nodded back at them. Hell, ya.

It was true, I didn’t look French at all. At least, not by modern standards. I had no dashing dark hair and sultry cheek bones like my countrymen, unfortunately. It was a cruel trick of nature to be left with red hair and brown eyes. My mother said my hair was a dormant gene, passed down from some royalty far back in our family tree. I ran a hand through my auburn curls, smoothing them back to my neckline. As a kid, I often wondered if I was adopted – I certainly didn’t look anything like either of my parents, and the only thing I shared with my sister was our dark brown eyes.

Bedroom eyes, my last girlfriend had called them. I was fucking proud of it, too.

The professor ruffled some papers on his desk, and jotted something down, ripping me out of my nostalgia. Gill it is, then, he said, you’ll be delighted when we visit our chapter on King Charlemagne, who served such a pivotal role in ushering in the medieval age. He picked up his attendance sheet again and continued to call the rest of the names.

When he’d finished, satisfied we had all responded, he nodded. I’m Professor Alexander Jones, and this is Medieval History I, welcome to class. He turned to the old-fashioned chalkboard behind him. I could still see the faded remnants of the last class’s math equations on the forest green background. What the hell? Why didn’t we have smartboards like the rest of the school? This professor was living in the past.

Ironic, I almost laughed to myself.

As if he read my mind, he cleared his throat. Some of the professors requested one of those new smart boards, he told us smugly, with his back still turned, but I opted out. Love the feel of chalk between the ol’ fingers. Reminds me of a simpler time.

Oh.

He scrawled Medieval History I across the board, his name, the course section and his email address. Without turning back to us, he drawled on: I trust you all have phones with access to the Internet and will have no excuse to email me. If you don’t, well, get one. It’s is the 21st century, afterall.

No one answered him, and around me, all I could see were bored faces. Over the next hour, I tried to listen, I tried to focus. Despite my smartass act, I had been waiting for college my entire life, not like most of the bozos in this class. I worked hard in high school, graduated valedictorian a year early, gave the speech, and yada yada. I was president of glee club and drama class, and not that anyone in college would care, but I won a two-year scholarship to the university in my hometown.

Unfortunately, my father wasn’t interested in me college aspirations, so I went on to be a paramedic, instead. For two years I saved lives and did what I wanted.

Life moved on, though, and a two year scholarship was a hard thing to turn down.

The good thing was being a few blocks from home, but the bad thing, I was required to live on campus for the first year. I still don’t know how I ended up without a bunkmate, shoved in the corner of the most ancient dorm building I had ever seen. I kinda liked it that way, though. No partying until all hours of the night or girls to distract me, that was all in the past.

Jennifer, the first name the professor had called, turned and looked at me, ripping me out of the past as I saw her chomping on her gum and swirling a curl around her index finger.

Well, maybe just ditch the partying, then. These girls were something else. Sexy, independent, and motivated. Not like the lazy, drama filled high school girls. I was looking forward to testing the waters. I scrawled my Chatsnap ID on a corner of notebook paper, quietly tore out the section, and slid it across to Jessica. Chat me, I mouthed, holding up my thumbs to demonstrate.

She smiled and tucked the paper in her notebook.

Can anyone tell me what year the Gauls first settled in modern day France? Professor Jackson still droned on.

I wanted to roll my eyes. He was more boring than my social studies teacher last year.

Instead, I went over my schedule again in my head. Today I would conquer history, political science, film class. Tomorrow would be French III, followed by sociology. My father had said I was crazy for taking five classes my first term, but I’d waited my entire life for this moment.

I was most looking forward to French class, my easy A course. Women love a guy who can speak French. Easy A? More like my "easy lay" class. More of my girlfriends in high school came from French class than any other class I took. I always figured it was something about late nights studying French that led to another type of French...ing.

I figured in college, French would be easy; after all, I’d taken two years of it in high school, and spend almost every summer abroad. My mother, a quiet, demure French woman, sent my sister and me to my Aunt Alberta and Uncle Richard so we could get some real world practice with our French. Every summer since I was eight years old and my sister ten, my mother would put us on a plane for Paris. Once there, we would meet my uncle at the airport for the three-hour drive to their countryside villa. My sister, Jewel, didn’t pick it up as well as I did. I think she always hated me a little for that.

My father, a true red-blooded American who my French mother had met in college, was never the happiest camper about our multicultural experience. Who gave a shit, though? My father was an asshole; I didn’t know what my mother saw in him, although she told us what a dashing rogue he’d been during their days in college. And as much as my mother wanted us both to learn French, my sister decidedly took after my father’s American side of the family, and not just with her dark brown hair and eyes like him, either. Her language skills were poor, and she decided to go the medical route with her education, as my father had highly recommended to us both.

When I chose history education instead, he was livid. I didn’t want to explain to that asshole that Indiana Jones had always been my hero from a young age. None of that running around and swashbuckling with a rope and trendy hat – no, fuck that. I wanted to charm the ladies with my smarts and have them all running into my arms. Indiana Jones, you suave motherfucker. 

As Jackson prodded us for French history, I remembered our family Sunday night dinner, which my mother insisted on, last night...

HISTORY IS QUITE A useless degree, Gill.

I had sighed, refusing to answer my father’s disappintement, while pushing peas around on my plate like a cranky two-year-old. I worked my ass off to earn a one-year certificate in emergency medical technician my senior year of high school, which my father always referred to as that certificate. Like I didn’t make good money and basically support myself by the time I was eighteen years old. I was twenty now, and risen quickly to a full paramedic with a privately contracted company. Stitching wounds, delivering babies, and restarting hearts wasn’t the thrill I needed anymore. So, I finally decided to try this college thing. I mean, why the hell not, right? 

My had sister kicked me under the table, and I glared at her. She tossed her close-cropped blond head at me, nodding toward my father. She was home from her senior year of medical school this particular weekend, dressed casually in sweats and a tank top, a far cry from her firefighting uniform. I hadn’t seen my sister in action, but my father made it clear she was more of a hero than I was.

Quite often.

Gill, answer your father, my mother urged softly from across the table.

I just figured with history I could go into teaching, I said softly. There was no point in shouting; we’d done enough of that recently.

My father sighed, and the communal defeat spread around the table like a dark shadow. I knew he disapproved, but I had stopped caring. I was so tired of my job, and it had only been six months. I knew I didn’t want to do it for the rest of my life.

So, whatever. My mother was the best, my sister was almost always mostly a bitch, and my father was a hard-ass. It wasn’t hard to see my own dorm room was a welcome escape. I just want to leave behind the petty drama and general sucky feeling of high school. Can’t you be proud of me, for once?

Guillaume, my mother had chided. Eat your peas, the last part was a calm demand in her native French, the language which only her and I understood in our fucked up family.

UNIVERSITY DIDN’T SEEM much different so far, much to my disappointment. I looked around at my classmates, who except one older kid, all looked around my age, a green eighteen, as my father had put it. An older woman to my right was nodding off as Professor Jones went over the syllabus, page by page, his level voice lulling her to la-la land. The boy to my left was sketching a very hairy King Kong snatching and eating airplanes from the sky while waving a long-haired stick figure from one meaty palm.

Someone stifled a giggle from behind me, and this class seemed to be more of a joke than I would like. I turned my head to see the girl at the table with her cell phone placed delicately in her lap, in full view of the others and undoubtedly the professor as well. I shook my head. Sometimes, college felt exactly like high school all over again.

Even the hands on the clock edged just as slowly, as the professor began to assign homework and was meant with groans all around.

Yes, homework on the first day, Professor Jackson drawled. Summary and analysis on the War of the Roses.

The bell rang blessedly early. Despite the dry, mundane shit of the first day, I was still excited to get to my next class. I had an hour break between them, which I knew I could utilize for homework later on, but for now, I found myself with nothing to do. I wandered the halls for a while, getting lost and doing a hell of a lot of cursing. The campus was huge, but the humanities classes were all in Saunders, so at least I wouldn’t have to go very far. I found my French class with over half an hour to spare.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I juggled a stack of books in my arms as my backpack slid down my shoulder. I finally pulled my phone free from my tight jean pocket. Oh, goddamn it, it was Julia, my sister. How she escaped the horrible ancestral naming, I’ll never know. Why didn’t she get some fucked up French name like me? She was older by three years!

I swiped across the screen to answer. Jules, I said, wondering why she’d call me in the morning when we both had class. My father’s pet, of course, she’d decided to go into medical school about two hours away. But no, Guillaume was the rebel, getting that useless history degree. Despite my parents’ disapproval, Jules and I were still close. Not a day went by we didn’t catch up on the phone, even if she felt the need to tell me about some guy who cut her off in traffic or how her green tea smoothie wasn’t green tea enough. One thing my sister and I both had in common was checking out hot girls. It was both a blessing and a curse that my sister was gay; a few times in high school, we chased the same girl, and she won. It was a game we often played.

Gill, she said, her voice high, twanged with excitement. You’ll never believe what I found!

Aren’t you in class? I said, finding a bench outside my next class and plopping onto it.

Technically, yes, but it’s advanced anatomy, and I’m the Teacher’s Assistant, so basically I’ve got some time.

I laughed. Teacher’s pet!

Look, she said, dropping her voice, all serious-like, suddenly. I was going over some family history for a genetics assignment, and I was able to trace back our genealogy quite a ways.

A lot of French names would be my guess.

Of course, she said, and I could almost hear her rolling her eyes, but there’s more.

Really? I tried not to sound bored, really I did. But my mother had been into the family tree stuff, and it was all just names and dates. Nothing like that really interested me. A great grandfather from centuries ago who I was named after? Big deal, so what?

You know Guillaume, that count you were named after?

It’s Compte, I said, preferring her to at least respect the French title. But, yeah, why?

He was a big deal, I guess. Owned a castle.

Yeah, Mom mentioned that at one point, I think.

Oh, but this is where it gets interesting. He defended his castle against William the Conqueror, ya know...

I perked up a little at that, leaning forward. The man responsible for uniting England?

Yeah, that guy. Guillaume owned a castle, Castle Duvall, and William attacked it in... let’s see - I could hear her clicking a mouse in the background – ten-eighty-six, looks like.

Well, that is interesting, I said, no longer bored. Did you find pictures?

Of the castle? Of course, I’ll text them to you.

Sure.

Will? It gets stranger.

Yeah?

"There’s a few different deaths noted for Compte Guilluame."

Mom always said that happened back then because the records were poorly kept.

Oh no, this is stranger than that. Much stranger. According to this, Guillaume died in 1155 A.D.

What’s so strange about that?

He was born in 1016, or thereabouts.

Okay, so he was super old.

But Gill, really? A hundred and thirty-nine years old? That’s strange back then when life expectancy wasn’t that high. You should know that, history major.

"Um, not to burst your bubble, but no one lives to be that old. It must be a mistake."

I’ve checked it several times, she urged.

I shrugged. Maybe he had a good diet.

Not this good, Jules murmured, he apparently also died in 1223.

What? I nearly dropped the phone.

And again in 1486.

That time I did drop it. Oh shit, I murmured. A door down the hall opened, and students began filing into the hallway, talking in loud, excited voices. I scrambled to pick up my phone, examining it for a second to make sure the precious screen was still intact. It was.

Jewel was still talking. ... I mean, the portraits are eerily...

Sorry, I dropped my phone, what were you saying? Another door opened. The hallway was filling fast.

I said there are a few portraits. Horrible copies of them, as if someone took a picture with a bad camera. But the figure in them looks so identical...

Maybe it’s just strong genes? I ran a hand through my dark red-brown hair. "Everyone’s got dark hair in our family, Jules; you know Dad said it’s a French thing. Look at our noses, for God’s sake.

Yeah, it’s a curse, really, She chuckled. But hey, I’ll be a doctor soon, and I can fix that for you—if you want.

I felt the end of my sharp nose absently. It’s a defining figure, I finally said. The last two doors across the hall let students out, and they rushed in every direction to get to their next class.

Anyways, you said it yourself, I offered, that DNA replicates. There’s like, what, six other people on the planet that look like us?

Something like that, she admitted. But Gill, this picture, I mean, it just looks so much like you.

I’m sure it does, I said half-heartedly.

Well, I just thought you should know, she said, although I could tell she really didn’t. It’s a pretty interesting part of our history, and I know how much you love history.

I nodded, knowing she couldn’t see it, and said, Oh, I do, don’t get me wrong. The family stuff is just so boring at times, ya know?

She chuckled again. Look, I gotta get back to lab. These first-year students, I swear. Clumsy as a three-thumbed monkey.

What? I laughed. Jules didn’t really do the metaphor thing too well.

Let’s catch up with this later? she said, and I could hear the rush in her voice.

Sure. We said our goodbyes, just as the door to my next class flew open, knocking into my bench as I stood up. Well, French, let’s do this shit.

The rest of my classes flew by, a long day of syllabi and assignments, a whirlwind of papers and information and textbooks, and classroom introductions. My head was spinning with paperwork and papers, and a sucky pile of homework from the first week in most of my classes. What the hell was wrong with these professors? The least they could do was let us acclimate to college, first!

As I walked up to the residential hall at the end of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Jules had said. He apparently didn’t die, she had told me. Of course, that was silly, right? I mean, only the Benedictine monks kept records back then, and the handwritten ones often had mistakes. It must have been a relative or a descendent she was looking at. My name was common in our family tree, or that’s what Mom had always said when I lamented about having such a unique identity. There was something like thirteen Guillaume’s in our family tree, the curse of passing on your name to your offspring.

Yet, the what if plagued me, late into the night. I stayed up longer than I should have, just thinking about it. The rational part of my brain kept telling me I should dismiss it and get some sleep; I had an eight o’clock class tomorrow. But that drama side, the writing side, the one I never let people see, it always asked: what if Compte Guillaume still walked the halls of Castle Duvall, all the way across the globe in France? Of course, ghosts and vampires and werewolves were a thing of fiction and didn’t exist in the real world. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

I finally gave in to sleep telling myself I’d give Jules a call tomorrow and talk about it more, if for no other reason than to shut up my brain. I realized I desperately wanted to get to the bottom of it, probably as much as she did. Damn, I hated when she was right.

God, my sister sucked. 

Chapter Two

When Your Sister Uses Your Middle Name

OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY!

I managed to stop myself from falling, but the history book I’d been clinging to so tightly went flying. It landed spine down on the floor with a solid thunk. I was surprised that heavy bastard didn’t leave a dent in the concrete. I reached to snatch it up, ready to lay into the idiot that bumped me.

Instead, another form of bumping came to mind. Her wide blue eyes greeted me, tucked under long blond straight hair that fell just shy of her ample bosom. Okay, let’s be honest. My twenty-year-old brain screamed, Oh my god, tits! and I told it to shut up for the third time today. Fucking hormones. She reached for the book at the same time I did, and our heads collided.

Excellent first impression, Gill! I said to myself.

Meanwhile, brain responded: Boobs.

Shut up, brain.

Ow, I said, straightening. I let her pick up the monster of a textbook.

She laughed nervously. I, uh, I’m so sorry! she said. I didn’t really watch where I was going. I was reading this thing on my phone, and... She just smiled at me, and I saw her tuck her phone into the outside of the blue satchel slung over her shoulder.

I grinned back at her and took the textbook, slipping it under my arm. I couldn’t be angry at her slender, pixie-like face. It’s okay, really.

What’s your name? she blurted out.

Forward, I liked that. Gone were the shy high school girls, that’s for sure. Gill, I said, sticking out my hand. And you?

Selena, she said, that huge grin on her face lighting her eyes.

My traitor brain, thankfully disengaged from her breasts, and I looked at the stack of books in her arm. Drama 101, huh?

Yeah, she said, blushing. I’m a bit of a theater nerd.

You too? Damn it, Gill, you don’t tell girls that! I inwardly groaned.

That’s kind of hot, she said, much to my surprise.

Tell her you’re in glee club, asshole brain said.

No, brain.

Tell her.

Fuck off, brain!

I was in Glee club in high school, I said, feeling like an idiot.

Tenor or bass?

High tenor.

She winked. Looks like it.

I bristled at that. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It means your jeans are too tight to suggest any type of baritone, she said. She pushed past me, ending the conversation.

What...

Glee club meets at five on Thursdays in Grant four-oh-one, by the way, she shouted over her shoulder as she disappeared around the corner.

I looked down at my attire. I mean, sure, I wasn’t dressed like a dumb jock in sweats and a hoodie. My jeans fit like a second skin over black suede dress shoes, my t-shirt was clean and nearly wrinkle free – thanks, Mom, for ironing everything before I moved! – And my blue vest was unbuttoned and stylish. I ditched the tie at the last minute this morning. Didn’t want to look too anxious, after all.

Then it hit me.

I’m pretty sure she’d been staring at my dick.

Yeah, I smiled as I pushed into history. Hell yeah, Guillaume, Bay City University student and pimp extraordinaire. When was Glee club again? Because that just went to the top of my priority list.

Right after homework.

SO MUCH FOR THE HOMEWORK.

My last class of the day ended at one, and I crashed on the tiny twin bed in my dorm, falling asleep almost immediately. I woke with a start at four, slightly pissed I’d slept for three straight hours. My work schedule had been crazy and the first couple of days of school must have been more stressful than I realized.

Since I worked the late shift that night, from eight until nearly dawn the next morning, I decided to don my uniform before stopping at Glee Club to see what was up. No, that was a lie. I wanted to see Selena again. The things we do for women.

I stood in front of the skinny mirror inside my tiny closet door, tucked the blue button-up shirt into my slacks, and then ran my hand over the red EMT patch on my left shoulder.  It was my last hurrah at the station before I started my swing shift this weekend with a new group of guys. I was expecting the pranks to run rampant. It was bad enough I was the youngest EMT there, even worse I’d decided to leave the crew to attend college. I was worried I’d made a mistake getting my certification when I was sixteen through a free program at my local community college. It seemed like a good idea at the time and the money I made wasn’t bad, either.

The mirror showed my lanky frame draped in my emergency personnel uniform, layers of dark blue that hung tightly to my thin, but muscular, legs and arms. Even my scourge of red curls was tamed under layers of hair gel, and my freckles didn’t look as bright as normal. I learned long ago girls tended to focus on confidence instead of looks. Thank God I had enough of both. I smiled at that handsome reflection and flexed my right arm. Yeah, Selena would love it. What girl didn’t love a guy in uniform?

This late in September, the sun was almost gone by the time I set out for Grant Hall. It was across campus from my dorm, according to the blurry little map in my student handbook. It was also one of the smallest buildings, with only four classrooms. I wondered if it was here before the rest of the massive halls were built.

Indeed, Grant was separated by a huge field with a fountain in the center, on the badly lit part of the campus that led to the fraternity and sorority houses just across the street. I wondered if this Glee club would have populations from both. I hadn’t thought about joining a fraternity, but I supposed I wouldn’t be opposed to it. Girls, keggers, and scholarships sounded hella fun. I felt a skip to my step. Nerd or not, this could be my chance to get ‘in’ here at Bay City.

I threw open the door to Grant a little after five. It opened into a long hallway with two doors on each side, reminding me a little of the module I survived fourth grade in. The first door was a computer lab, the second some kind of science room with tables full of beakers and burners. Just across the hall, I heard a couple of laughs, and I finally found the door marked four-oh-one.

I pushed through the door, and a group of a dozen students all turned and locked eyes with me. The tables in the room were moved against the corner, and the students were crowded around one table in the center. Selena sat on the table, dressed in a red skirt and black halter top, one long leg crossed over the other. Dismayed, I immediately noticed this was a bit of a sausagefest. The other girl in the room wasn’t much to look at, with one long braid down the back of her head and pock marks on her chubby cheeks that told me she probably knew, intimately, what the inside of a high school locker looked like. The rest of the students were a mix of random jocks, nerds, and a couple of guys in those hipster beret hats, the kind that people pretending to be smart usually wore.

Selena motioned me over, smiling and waving vigorously. Her boobs jiggled, much to my delight. I nearly forgot there were other people in the room. 

It was the worst time for the curse to strike, but strike it did.

As a kid, I’d taken ballet, even dance, completely a secret from everyone but my mother. I was nimble, calculated, and precise. I could leap across a stage during Midsummer Night’s Dream and tap while playing Yankee Doodle on the harmonica. But all of that had nothing on the curse. My foot hooked on the leg of one of the chairs, and I went flying face first into the white linoleum of the classroom.

It still wasn’t as bad as the time I fell off the stage in third grade, shattering my collarbone, but the embarrassment in front of the hot piece of ass in the room made it feel much, much worse.

Gill!

I heard Selena jump off the table, and a pair of small, smooth hands slid under my arms and helped me stand. I felt another, stronger set helping me up, and looking down there was a small, skinny student with thick black eyebrows and a beret tucked sideways over curly hair.

I’m sorry I’m an idiot, I said, trying to save face.

Selena laughed. Nonsense, it’s okay! Happens to everyone! She dropped my arm and slid into a chair, patting the one next to her.

But... I tried to protest, as Beret let go and took the seat next to Selena. I pulled a chair across the narrow aisle and sat down.

So, Selena said, propping her chin on her hand and looking past Beret. "Do you know You’re the One that I Want?"

"Grease, classic," I said to her with a smile.

You do Travolta’s part, she said.

Nice costume, Beret mumbled, his lips curled in a sarcastic sneer.

I’m actually an EMT, I told him, turning to look at the group.

He frowned, but raised his eyebrows. Really? That’s pretty cool, man.

Play nice, Sam, Selena said to Beret. She turned to the group. Guys, this is Gill, he has history right after me. Gill, this is Sam.

Sam nodded at me, the mutual ‘guy code’ that said fourteen things, including but not limited to: What’s up, You’re cool, Yeah, I’d like a beer, and I’d definitely fuck that girl over there, even if she has kids. I nodded back.

What do you sing? the girl with the braid asked.

Tenor, I answered.

Sweet, she responded.

Let’s get this party started, Sam said.

So, we sang a round of Grease. We covered a few contemporary songs. We even did a round of I Will Survive. Selena danced, and so did Sam. They danced together, and she danced with me. I learned more names, the other girl, Helen, was a history major like me. Sam was into chemistry, and Roger, the other beret guy, was Sam’s cousin who studied art. They’d all gone to high school together a few miles away.

The clock on the wall told me it was six, and it was hard to believe we’d been at it for a few hours. My stomach rumbled, but I ignored it. I’d get something at the station.

My phone rang at half past six, just after we started a round of Gilligan’s Island. I was surprised I remembered the lyrics. It was Jules, who never failed at always interrupting something important. I silenced the call and went back to the group. My phone rang three more times, but no voicemail, so I knew it wasn’t an emergency. That was our code. I’d have to call her soon.

At seven, I had to leave to get to the station. I thanked everyone for their time, and they all invited me back next week.

I’ll walk you out, Selena said, draping her arm inside my elbow.

I wanted to protest, but fourteen-year-old Guillaume’s brain spoke up again and giggled about her awesome boobs in that very tight top. Goddamn it, brain, you suck. I smiled at her, hoping I didn’t look creepy. My personal rule was never fuck on the first date, but Lord, I wished I didn’t have to get to work. Sam was staring at us with his mouth open and a frown that I dismissed.

Like an idiot.

Why are men so oblivious? I mean, girls can smell jealousy, fear, and money on a man. But guys? Oh, fuck no. Our brains cannot operate both thought processes and dicks at the same time. And just now, with this beautiful girl on my arm, I wasn’t thinking about Sam’s expression anymore.

Where are you parked? Selena was saying, the heat of her arm still pressing into mine.

Lot D, I told her. ‘D’ literally stood for dorm, the college mission officer had told me on day one. It was also across campus. I’d probably be late for work. But I didn’t care.

You live in the dorms? she asked.

Yup, I answered. You?

With my sister.

I have a sister, too.

Yeah? Older or younger?

Older, nineteen months exactly.

Mine is older, Selena said with a sigh. And she’s actually my step-sister. My dad’s, from his first marriage. She’s a single mom now with two kids. I help her out.

That’s rough, I said. Kids scared me a little – dirty, filthy things. No, thank you. Luckily, Selena saved me.

Does your sister go to school here?

No, she’s a senior at George Franklin.

The medical school, near the border? Selena whistled. Wow. That’s a long way away.

Yeah, she got most of her college done in high school, and next year she’s starting her residency. She’s a firefighter.

Seriously? A girl firefighter?

I stifled a laugh so Selena wouldn’t get upset. I could imagine Jules’s face if someone said, ‘But you’re just a girl!’ and how her right hook would come out of nowhere. She’d probably punch you if you said that. She’s tough as nails.

So why are you studying history, if you’re both into medicine?

I shrugged. Change of pace, I guess.

I bet.

It’s not always fun to respond to calls when you can’t save a patient, I was surprised I said it out loud. I’d never told anyone that before.

What do you mean?

We had an elderly lady last week, heart attack, she was gone before we got there.

So you’ve seen a lot of dead people? she said, and I felt her shiver.

I patted her hand, as we passed the main great hall with admissions and registration offices. It loomed over us in the darkness like a great, old building. Of course, it was, erected in 1898, as the oldest college in the state. Why did I bother reading those boring pamphlets they gave me when I registered?

It’s not the dead people that worry me, I told her, it’s that I didn’t do enough to save them.

I suppose everyone would worry about that, Selena said. Look, we’re here.

We stopped at the edge of the huge parking lot, the dorm just up the hill looming over us. Yeah, so we are, I said.

You’re on the boy's side, huh? she said wistfully. She pulled her shirt down in front, and her breasts peeked over the edge.

I nodded. She was still wrapped around my arm. I was pretty sure I was going to kiss her. At least, that’s what my brain wanted. It had done a pretty bad job as control center today, so what was one more mistake. I decided to play it cool, but my brain had other ideas.

I dropped my arm and slid it up behind her shoulders, and she looked up at me, her face half hid in shadows by the parking lot street lights. Her short, angular face was so youthful and vibrant in the low lighting, her lips so full and perky.

I kissed her.

I’d kissed a lot of girls, well, not a lot, but you get the idea. Girls loved the star in the drama play at school, so I usually had my share of tail. Some great kissers, some not so much.

At first, Selena’s lips were soft and sweet and tasted like candy. But then it went wrong, so horribly wrong.

Damn it, brain.

She put her hands up on my chest and pushed me away. Staggering, I caught my foot on the curb and almost fell. Oh, this time the curse let me down easy. She slapped me across the face, and I stumbled, even more, sidestepping into the parking lot. The slap echoed across the pavement, and I wished I had fallen—if only to avoid that.

What was that for? I said, resisting the urge to hold my cheek like a goddamn woman. I flexed my jaw from side to side, tossing my red curls. Eh, it wasn’t the first time a girl had slapped me. But what did I do wrong? I mean, you can’t grab their ass without permission, but Selena had been leading me on all day if I wasn’t mistaken.

I have a boyfriend! she shouted at me, her eyes wide.

You could have said that before...

It’s Sam, she interrupted. Are you an idiot?

I... um... seriously? I thought about the beret-wearing guy. He was into women? My brain started screaming at me to kiss her again and make her forget about Beret. I told it to shut up.

Yes! Ugh! She stomped her foot, pulling at her shirt again.

But, I thought... I mean, earlier, you winked at me, and...

I wink at everyone. You seemed like a guy who needed friends, she said, followed by another disgusted groan. Why are men such pigs!

But that outfit?

My brain was making this worse, yet again.

She looked down, then at me. So what?

You didn’t wear that... for me?

Of course not! She reached out to slap me again, but I grabbed her arm.

I’ve got to get to work, I told her, fighting for a calm tone even though I was seething inside. It won’t do to show up looking freshly slapped. I threw her hand down.

Pig, she said, spitting on the sidewalk next to me. She pulled out her phone, punched in a number, and stomped off.

Damn, I murmured to no one in particular since the parking lot was completely empty. I found my car, got in, and tried to shut off my brain. You suck, I told the review mirror, look at all the trouble you get us into.

Finally, my brain was silent. How frustrating.

My phone rang again as I started the engine. I picked it up without looking at the screen.

Guillaume Marcus! You asshole, I’ve been calling all night!

Jules. Uh-oh. She hadn’t used my middle name in like, well, three days probably, but still. Jules, hey, sorry I didn’t answer, I was...

Never mind, moron, she said, I’ve got bad news.

What? I pulled out of the parking lot, juggling the phone to my ear. I’m late for work, so make it fast.

Gill, Uncle Richard died.

Chapter Three

The Bearer of Bad News

MY SHIFT WASN’T VERY much fun at first, considering the news my sister had dropped on me. Aunt Alberta and Uncle Richard were like second parents to me, and I took Jules’s news hard. I sat in my car outside the station, reigning in my emotions. Selena’s slap and my failed Glee Club attempts were the last things on my mind as I started my shift.

Usually, I enjoyed my work, even if a lot of it was sitting around the station waiting for calls. Like many large cities, Bay City had privatized their emergency services, so we were under the constant eye of Big Boss Sally, a large woman with twenty years experience as a retired police officer and a trained paramedic. It was a good thing for her that she was twice my age and size. Otherwise, I would have gotten myself into trouble long ago. I’d fucked some ugly chicks with a nice rack, but even little Gill had his limits. I pulled out my phone and pretended to be buried in it as I snuck past Sally’s office.

Alice, 21, loves to paaartay and also cute puppies! My feed showed me a dark-skinned beauty with long black curls and a green string bikini. Generally, I didn’t judge, but she was a bit too dark for me. Meh, I swiped  through the pictures on my phone, two blondes, four brunettes, and one redhead.

Crystal. School is my first priority, so you’ll have to be content with second base.

Super pass, I groaned internally. The number thirty appeared above the envelope in the corner of my screen. Maybe my profile pic of shirtless me from last year’s annual Paramedics bar-b-que sent the wrong message. Or all the right ones.

You’re late, Lanval, Sally yelled from her office as I passed. I realized I’d stopped in full view of her door accidently, still swiping left for more gorgeous girls.

I leaned against the frame and tucked my phone in my back pocket, crossing my arms. Looking beautiful as always, Boss, I told her with a smile. It didn’t hurt me to lie, as I observed her eyebrows that touched in the middle of her forehead and the large mole to the left of her nose. If I were Adam and she my Eve, civilization would have ended before it had even begun.

What do you want, Lanval? She eyed me over the reports on her immaculate desk.

I dropped my arms. Look, normally I’d stop in with one of those chocolate and acai berry candy bars, but today I don’t have the time.

Get to the point.

I need a few days off.

Sally sighed. Who is she?

Excuse me?

Who’s the girl you need to sweep off her feet and into your, uh, dorm room, I take it?

I scoffed. Sally, I...

She waved her hand. I don’t even care. But you already broke Christine’s heart, and Becci’s, too. So maybe take a minute to think about how important these days off are.

I frowned at her. Now, we both know Christine was distraught after that patient coded, and Becci, well, Becci...

Sally rolled her eyes at me. Becci was engaged, Lanval.

Christine, a trainee that lasted exactly three days, until she saw her first patient code after a heart attack, had been wildly inconsolable. Of course I slept with her, she was distraught! Becci was just a bonus, an off and on fuck-buddy I had a mutual agreement with. Then she went and got engaged to a firefighter, and I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Besides, she always called me.

Yeah, but Becci...

Look, I don’t have time for this shit, Sally interrupted. Get me a time off request form, and I’ll see if I can approve it. With Becci back, I might be able to swing it.

Becci’s back?

I sure am.

I groaned and turned around. Hi, Becci. Welcome back.

Get to work, you two! Sally yelled at us. And shut my door on your way out!

Becci followed me to the locker area where I tucked my duffle bag in order to change later. She waited, her breathing heavy, and I wished she would go away, but not because I didn’t like her. Quite the opposite.

How was the Caribbean cruise with Fred?

His name is Francis, she said.

Whatever, still a gay name. I shrugged, slamming the locker door.

You didn’t text me, she said, her arms crossed over her chest.

You were with your fiancé, I smiled at her.

She leaned in and whispered, I meant after I got back when he flew back to Florida.

Busy with college, I shrugged. I have shit to do, Becci, besides you.

You’re such an asshole, Gill. She turned and stomped out of the room.

You know you love me! I called after her. I turned to watch her go, her tight little butt bouncing in her blue uniform.

Even such a wonder to behold couldn’t distract me from thinking about Uncle Richard. A heart attack, Jules said, even though he was only in his fifties and an avid runner; something about past drug use in his college days catching up with him.

I slammed my locker and leaned my head against the cold, blue steel. My father, an insurance adjuster, worked long hours. Uncle Richard and Aunt Alberta moved to town just before I started high school. They took us everywhere, to every concert, amusement park, whatever we wanted. He was more a father to me than my real one. When I was fifteen, Uncle Richard bought me condoms for my first school high school dance, even though I was terrified to ask my father. I lost my virginity to a senior that night, and thank God I had protection; rumor was she gave half the football team the clap.

So, Uncle Richard wasn’t just my father figure, he was my buddy, a true friend of the guy code. We drifted apart when I graduated, and I suppose sometimes I felt a twinge of guilt, but whatever. I was busy; I’m sure they understood. I’d been meaning to call them, but life just got in the way. It was hard to believe he was just ... gone.

I smashed my fist into the locker, wincing and shaking it off. It wasn’t fair. Why did people have to die so early? And leave loved ones behind? It didn’t make any sense. The world sucked.

On my way back to the common area, I filled out my time off request and slid it in the box outside Sally’s office where she was busy on the phone. I would make it a point later to tell her it wasn’t for some girl, but for my uncle’s funeral next week. There was the twelve-hour flight to Paris, three days before the funeral, to spend with family and friends. My mother had already made the arrangements, as she’d be joining my sister and I. My biggest concern was missing a week of school, but this early in the term I knew I could make it up as long as I talked to my professors. Besides, Gill always got what Gill wanted – whether it was extra credit or a piece of sweet, sweet ass, it was always mine.

Deal you in? Becci asked, ripping me from my thoughts. She looked at me from the wide, circular table in the middle of the commons. Becci, and the two other emergency personnel, Trevor and George, were sitting around playing Blackjack. It wasn’t as exciting as poker nights, but it passed the time between calls.

Trevor was an older man, nearly Sally’s age, with a potbelly, gray hair, and a ridiculously large handlebar mustache. He mostly just groaned about how he was six months from retirement. George, a black guy a few years older than me, always reminded us he was just waiting for his papers to go through to join the military. We didn’t know if he was telling the truth; the police academy had already turned him down twice for psychological reasons. George loved to show us pictures of his eight-month-old baby girl, doing random boring shit like smiling, crying, and crawling. Most of the time he was just crazy as fuck, though. He was the nicest guy in the world, but had an anger switch no one should ever accidently flip.

But Becci. Oh, Becci was a sight to behold. She had long curly hair that she always pinned up tight under her cap, but I knew it reached down to the curve of her naked ass. Her big blue eyes were framed by the longest, most seductive lashes I had ever seen. And she certainly knew her way around a...

Lanval! George, who was dealing at the moment, waved a hand in front of me. Hit or stay?

I looked down at my cards. A queen and a seven? What an awful hand. But what the hell. Hit.

George dealt me an eight.

I threw my cards down. Son of a bitch!

Stay, Becci said, grinning like the cat that caught a mouse.

Hit, Trevor said, groaning loudly when he didn’t get the card he needed.

That’s right, bitches, Becci said, taking the pot, which consisted of a bottle of water, a package of Skittles, and some Cheez-its. We never played for money – none of us made that much. We played for snacks. Because sometimes calls took forever, and it was hard to save lives on an empty stomach.

Before George could deal again, the blue light over Sally’s office started to clang, announcing a call. Sally threw open her door. "Lanval, Sanders, we’ve got a pediatric case, child choking, nonresponsive. You guys are the pediatric experts. Get on it."

Yes, Boss, Becci and I spoke in unison. Keys in hand and coats thrown on, we raced to our vehicle. Despite our past relationship issues, we were in full work mode. Communication was minimal unless necessary. And even with everything between us, we made a good team. Usually.

You didn’t call, Becci said as soon as I pulled out of the station.

Becci, I told you, I started, throwing on the lights and sirens as I peeled onto the highway, I’ve been busy with school.

Two years, Gill, we’ve known each other for two years.

I breezed through a red light, swerving around traffic. So what?

Becci swung in her seat, but I was focused on the road. Twenty-three months of sleeping together, the least you could do is call!

Becci, not now, I said, trying to concentrate. Why couldn’t I have taken Trevor? He never talked. Even George’s phone in my face of a diaper experience would have been better.

We could have been good together, she mumbled, swinging her legs to the front again, her arms crossed.

I pulled in front of our destination, a twelve story apartment building. Becci hopped out and grabbed the equipment while I raced through the doors and started up to the sixth floor. I could hear a woman screaming, Someone help, please! He can’t breathe!

I threw on a pair of blue rubber gloves as I took the stairs two and three at a time. I made it to the landing with Becci on my heels, our red emergency bag hoisted in front of her. An older woman with curly red hair was kneeling on the landing in front of the open door to apartment 603B. A child of about two years old languished on his side on her lap. His face was purple, his eyes bulging, as he clawed at his throat and whimpered. He was still breathing, but barely.

Time was of the essence.

Gill, check for obstruction! Becci yelled behind me.

It’s too late for that!

I slid to my knees and took the child, turning him over my knee, and hit him squarely between the shoulder blades.

He choked and coughed, but his breathing remained shallow. I hit him again, harder this time. Finally, he coughed loudly and spit out a long, small, black object.

Breathe, kiddo, I said. Spittle and vomit flew all over his mother, who didn’t seem to care. Parenthood’s gross.

He looked at me, breathing heavy, then climbed into his mom’s arms. She started crying and begging him not to scare her ever, ever again.

Is that...? Becci reached around me with her gloved hand and picked up the object covered in spit and vomit. She turned it over in her hand.

Yeah, it’s a Hot Wheel, I said, snapping off my gloves and putting them in the disposal bag.

Gross, Becci said. She dropped it in the bag along with my gloves.

I pulled the paperwork out of the corner of the bag and turned to the mom. I ruffled the boy’s curly head. You okay, champ? He nodded, promptly sticking his thumb in his mouth. I had mom sign the papers, and after profusely thanking us for saving his life, we took our leave.

It was a normal night after that, rife with emergencies and traumas. We had a call for not one but two ladies who thought they were having heart attacks that just turned out to be anxiety. Then, there was a young man who just turned out to be an addict who wanted pain pills. Yet it was our final call of the night that both of us would remember for a long fucking time – a young college student who had been assaulted.

At the exit to the emergency room where we had dropped off our drug addict before our last call of the day came in, my phone beeped and I slid it out. I was excited to see a message from my social media site – and bonus, a goddamn red head. Hello there, I said to the phone as I began an eloquent response.

Becci leaned over my shoulder. Shit, Gill, seriously? Girls R Us app? How low can you go?

Oh, what’s this? I said, holding my phone up as I pulled the door open to the ambulance. Becci, 23, loves Fred, ocean cruises, and screwing her ex-boyfriend? I said in a high, sing-song voice.

I’ll kill you where you stand, Gillaume Lanval, Becci said, sliding into the seat opposite me. She sat the triage bag between us and crossed her arms. I’m so sorry I ever posted that. Asshole.

It was an okay pic, I pocketed my phone, but you look better naked.

Shut the fuck up, she glared at me.

I did, not because I wanted to, but because our conversations always ended this way, me teasing, her taking it personally. Some part of me still loved to see her so irritated.

I hadn’t even pulled away from the curb when Becci laid into me again. I’m still mad at you, she said suddenly, not even one text while I was away.

Becci, enough, really. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just got... busy. College stuff, you know.

I know why we didn’t work, you and I, she said.

I pulled away from the curb. Because I fucked your sister?

My twin sister.

I shrugged. It’s all pink down there.

Gill!

I stopped at a light and turned to her. What? I warned you before we got involved that this would happen.

What?

That we’d be like ... this. I turned back to the green light as we headed back to the station.

Only because you can’t be anything else.

It was the second rejection in less than six hours. First Selena, now Becci. Uncle Richard was dead; not that it had anything to do with my seduction skills, but a little part of me was gone, and it made me feel like less of a man. It was time to show someone who Guillaume Lanval really was. I slammed on the brakes and jerked the ambulance into a parking garage adjacent to the mall, a few blocks from the station. The yellow bar above the entrance scraped the top of the ambulance as we barreled through.

What the hell are you doing? Becci said, grabbing the dash in front of her.

I pulled into a deserted corner of the garage. It was well past nine, and the mall was closed for the night. Throwing the vehicle into park, I looked at Becci. I’ll show you what I can be.

Gill, what...

I didn’t let her finish. I took her head in my hands and kissed her. But not the way I usually did. Not the kind of kiss that had them quivering at the knees, hungering for more. A sweet, delicate kiss. You know, the kind that made them think, what else could this guy have to offer if he’s this gentle? Of course, Becci knew over the last twenty-three months I was capable of a lot more, but this time, I had to show her I was different.

She responded kissing me back, fiercely, deeply. Her hands roamed my chest, unbuttoning my jacket and shirt underneath, sliding them off.

Fucking in an ambulance isn’t the most comfortable, or sanitary, for the most part. I bet if a lot of people knew what went on in the back of one, they would be less likely to call 9-1-1 in the face of an emergency. The sex is always down and dirty, and most of the time you keep the majority of your clothes on. That was what Becci and I shared: a blowjob in the locker room or a quickie in the back of an ambulance.