Goddess Rising Page 14

“I’d rather show you.”

  Sam set her coffee down, pushing away from the table.

  “Where are you going?” Wes asked her, hand coming down to cover hers. “You haven’t finished eating.”

  “You’re confusing the hell out of me, and I’m struggling enough this morning as it is,” Sam answered honestly, rubbing her brow with her free hand.

  “Sit. I’ll be good for a while,” Wes answered, standing smoothly. He disappeared for a moment as she fidgeted, wondering if she should just leave. When he returned, he put a couple aspirin into her hand.

  Sam glanced at him in surprise. “First you give up your bed, then you feed me. Now you nurse me back to health?” She swallowed the pills, chasing them with another sip of coffee. “You’re not going to expect me to repay your kindness with nookie, are you?”

  Wes shot her an amused look. “Can’t a guy just be nice to you?”

  “I dunno, Wes. Can a guy and girl just be friends?” she replied, pulling her hand out from under his.

  Wes sat back, considering her as he sipped his coffee. “I’ll admit being friends with you is just about the farthest thing from what I have in mind. But you’ve said no, and my mama raised me right. I’ve never needed to push a girl into anything she didn’t want.”

  “So you’re cool with just staying friends?” Sam asked in clarification, feeling strangely disappointed, though she’d have sworn up and down this was exactly what she wanted.

  Wes shrugged lightly. “Let’s not give ourselves any labels just yet, alright?”

  Sam considered him a moment. “What are you up to, Wes?”

  “Consider this morning my apology for taking it too far last night.” He smiled at her, his eyes warm. “Start over?”

  Sam had grown up playing poker with her Uncle Grant and the cowboys at the ranch, and Wes had a look she’d learned to pick up on early. It was the look of a man about to bluff his way into a good hand. But he’d done right by her last night when they both knew she would have happily let him do more. And he was extending an olive branch, even if she suspected it came with some kind of string attached.

  So Sam shook his hand, trying to ignore the spark of electricity that shot up her arm when he touched her.

  “Thank you for being so good to me this morning,” Sam told him.

  Wes smiled. “I’d like to be good to you more often. I hope you stick around long enough to let me try.”

  *

  September—Sunday Night

  Memorial Student Center, Texas A&M

  S A M A N T H A

  The MSC was like a giant living room on campus. Students milled around the large student center, socializing, studying, and eating, some in groups and others in lone seats, headphones on as they all got back in the zone for the next week of fall semester.

  Sam nursed a giant latte as she flipped through her notes from the study group she’d just finished. She was still a little queasy from the tequila hangover, but the breakfast with Wes and a short run with Rita in the afternoon had helped to get the worst of it out of her system. She was toying with the idea of picking up a snack when movement near the art gallery where she’d first met Wes caught her eye. She hadn’t been back to look at the exhibit, and as she watched a group of students shuffling out of the area, chatting, she figured there was no time like the present to get a good look at his work.

  Sam stuffed her notebook and textbooks back into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before she walked toward the artfully lit displays. She took her time with Wes’s photography, really examining the artistry, admiring his technique and obvious skill. She noticed discreet red dots next to most of his photographs. Works he’d sold, she guessed. When she arrived to the picture he’d taken of her and saw the red dot, she wondered who had purchased it. Sam was so caught up in the thought that she didn’t hear anyone come up behind her.

  “I should have known that was you the moment I saw it.”

  Startled, Sam nearly jumped out of her skin as Miranda stepped beside her, nudging her playfully on the shoulder before turning back to admire Wes’s photo of her. As always, Miranda looked fresh and lovely in a pretty sundress that matched her blue eyes. Sam plucked self-consciously at her t-shirt, wishing she’d taken the time to at least fix her hair into something nicer than a ponytail.

  “My face is covered in the shot,” Sam pointed out instead, glancing back at the photo. “I didn’t even realize it was me at first.”

  “You didn’t model for this?” Miranda asked, surprised as she looked at her.

  Sam shook her head. “Wouldn’t know how to even if I tried,” she admitted.

  Miranda laughed lightly, her smile teasing and sly. “It’s easy, honey. You just look at the camera like it’s the man you love.”

  “Then I definitely wouldn’t know how to do that,” Sam answered frankly.

  Miranda’s bemused expression morphed into one of surprise. “You’ve never been in love before?”

  Sam shrugged, looking back at the photo. “Not really.”

  “Not really or not at all?”

  Sam considered the question a moment before answering truthfully. “I knew too much about the guys I grew up around to ever be interested, and the guys I didn’t know enough about…” she paused, thinking of Wes as she looked at his photos. “I guess they made me nervous.”

  “You—nervous?” Miranda asked in mock disbelief. “I have a hard time seeing you nervous around anybody.” She looked at the photograph of Sam again. “The girl in this photo is confident and certain of herself. Just look at her stride,” she said, nodding toward Sam’s movement across the Arches, the time-capture a blur of quick motion. “That girl’s going places. And a girl like that—she doesn’t worry about what anybody thinks.”

  “Yeah, well. I do.” Sam moved on to the next set of photos—a triptych of dreamy landscapes that made her feel a little languorous and quixotic. They looked like places she wanted to run away to, places she could hide, if only for a moment. “Sometimes I worry about what other people think so much that I wonder if I’m doing things in anticipation of what they’ll say or if I’m just trying to be contrary,” she admitted quietly.

  Miranda tilted her head, considering her. If her friend was surprised by what she said, she didn’t show it. But Sam could sense Miranda’s wheels spinning.

  Sam smiled a little ruefully. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little hungover and talking crazy.”

  “I don’t think you are,” Miranda responded, her eyes thoughtful.

  Sam shifted on her feet, uncomfortable as she glanced around the gallery. “Do you have art in the show?”

  “No,” Miranda told her. “I’m an adequate photographer at best.”

  Sam glanced back at the triptych. “I wonder why this one hasn’t sold.”

  “You want to buy it?”

  Samantha shrugged. “It looks like a nice place to go to when you can’t go anywhere else, doesn’t it?”

  “Wes is an incredibly gifted photographer,” Miranda replied.

  “You wouldn’t tell him I bought it though, would you?” Sam bit her lip. “If I did, that is.”

  “Why would I?”

  Sam looked at her. “I got the feeling last time we talked that you two were a thing.”

  Miranda laughed lightly, shaking her head. “No, not a thing. Just friends and occasional rivals.”

  There was something there, but Sam couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “You sure?”

  Miranda met her eyes. “Are you really interested in Wes, Samantha?”

  She turned away and walked a couple steps toward the next photograph. “I’m interested in getting out from under the shadow of a man who has been the center of my life in one way or another for as long as I can remember,” she admitted. “No use in trading one piece of shade for another, right?”

  “No wonder you’ve never been in love,” Miranda observed, following her. “You don’t want to be defined by a man, let alone consumed by one.” She
considered Wes’s work with a discerning eye. “And Wes definitely has the potential to be the all-consuming kind.”

  “I came to college to be my own person.”

  “You can love someone and still maintain your own identity,” Miranda pointed out gently. “You don’t have to give up one to have the other.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve never been good at splitting focus,” Sam answered, moving toward another section of the gallery.

  “We’re women, honey. Multi-tasking is sort of our genetic forte,” Miranda teased. “But I hear you. You always struck me as the driven type. And boys are a terrible, if not incredibly fun, distraction,” she added with a little wink.

  “I get the feeling I’m not the only one here who’s driven,” Sam remarked, glancing at Miranda’s laptop case and bulging notebook peeking from her shoulder bag.

  Miranda chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “You’re right about that.”

  “This got anything to do with the story you told me about?”

  Miranda nodded. “I’m going after an internship with The Statesman. There’s an annual internship competition, and my professor thinks my story’s got legs.”

  “Miranda, that’s awesome,” Sam marveled.

  “Only if I win it,” Miranda said with a noncommittal shrug. “Here’s to hoping.”

  Sam shook her head. “No hope in it. It’s hard work, talent, and tenaciousness that get you what you want. You’ve got all three in spades.”

  “Says the girl on a mission,” Miranda teased, nodding back toward the photo of her.

  “Takes one to know one,” Sam answered with a smile.

  Chapter 11

  September—Monday Morning

  Professor Purcell’s Office, Texas A&M

  W E S L E Y

  Wes knocked on the frosted glass door of Professor Purcell’s office, hoping he was already in there despite the early hour.

  “Come in.”

  He took a deep breath, opening the door.

  “Hey, Wes,” Professor Purcell murmured, glancing up at him from his desk. “How was your weekend?”

  “What would my getting serious about being a photojournalist entail?” Wes asked, right out the gate. He’d been thinking about it all weekend—to the point where it already seemed like a foregone conclusion.

  Max Purcell set down his papers as he peered at Wes over his glasses. “Any particular reason for the sudden commitment?”

  I met a girl. And she expects better than a slacker who’s slinging beer and selling counterfeit IDs on the side. And if I’m halfway honest, I’d like to see if I’ve got the chops to do it.

  “The interview with The Statesman opened my eyes, I guess,” Wes answered as he sat down in front of his teacher. “I always thought that the most I’d amount to was maybe being a cameraman on some morning news show in Austin or something.”

  “No shame in that,” Purcell replied carefully.

  Wes picked up an old dog-eared copy of TIME magazine. “You ever regretted going for it? When you were a photojournalist, back in the day?”

  Purcell’s focus dropped to the magazine, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Not one minute of it. Hardest job I ever had, but I never loved anything more than the front lines.”

  “And you think I’ve got what it takes?” Wes asked, setting the magazine down.

  Purcell sat back, considering him. “What have you got to lose, Wes?”

  He recalled Samantha sitting in his shirt across from him at his kitchen table. He remembered the determination in her eyes when she talked about why she was doing ROTC that night at Dixie’s. Truth was, she inspired the hell out of him. She knew what she wanted, and she was going right after it. Against all sorts of odds.

  “I don’t have anything to lose,” Wes admitted. “I don’t want to look back and wonder if I shouldn’t have tried harder. Worked harder, even if it doesn’t pan out.”

  “It’s not an easy life, Wes,” Purcell warned, leaning back in his leather chair. “You’re on the road all the time, capturing other people’s lives instead of out there living your own.”

  “Thought you wanted me to do this,” Wes pointed out.

  “I do,” Purcell nodded. “I just want you to know that being great at this kind of living requires a great deal of sacrifice. You go down this path, you need to be aware of that. You’re not dropping in and out of some nine to five. You’re living in the foxhole, seeing everything like a nomad. There isn’t a lot of space for anything else.”

  “That why you quit?”

  Purcell sat back in his seat. “Took me a couple divorces and an angry adolescent son to figure out not everyone is cut out for the life. I just had to change my priorities.”

  Wes recognized he was toeing the precipice, making the first big decision he’d ever really made for himself; it was the first real risk he’d ever taken for a future he’d never really allowed himself to believe in.

  “I’m not coasting anymore,” he said, resolute. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  Professor Purcell sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “The Statesman has two internship spots open. There’s an unofficial competition between A&M and UT Austin for the spots. A dozen journalism students competing with compelling stories.”

  Wes nodded. “I bet a recommendation from you goes a long way.”

  “It’s a competitive situation, Wes. I’ve already got someone going after that spot, and they’ve got a very good chance of winning.”

  Wes thought through all the best A&M journalism majors, flipping through the individuals in his mind rapidly like a slide carousel. Before he landed on one, Purcell said the name.

  “Miranda Cross,” he told Wes. “She’s good.”

  She was good. Wes knew firsthand. Great writer, good technical experience, somewhat decent photographer, and a knockout in the sack. Or in their case, the darkroom. Two, maybe three times last year. They’d remained friendly, their casual encounters just shy of affectionate. He liked her, respected her work. Miranda was fierce, independent, and talented.

  Remind you of anyone? His mind whispered.

  “Great—I could use a pace car,” Wes replied jauntily. “What’s the first assignment?”

  Purcell smiled. “First rule of photojournalism—cover an eye-catching story nobody else has, can get, or even wants to. Got anything like that?”

  Wes smiled slowly. “Yeah, I think I’ve got something in mind.” He leaned forward. “But I think I’m going to need your help pulling a few strings first…”

  *

  September—Monday Morning

  Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M

  S A M A N T H A

  Chris dropped into the seat beside Sam and laid his head against her shoulder as the rest of the class filed in, taking their seats in the lecture hall.

  “I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt,” he told her pitifully, lolling against her as she smiled down at him.

  “Oh, I know you did,” Sam teased. “Even Johnny Cash probably couldn’t have put away as much tequila as you did, buddy.”

  “Buddy?” Chris looked affronted. “I’ve been friend-zoned posthaste ’cause you saw my head in the toilet, haven’t I?”

  “You surprised?” Sam replied with a smirk, flipping open her notebook. “What girl wants to date a guy she’s seen crying for his mommy?”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Chris sighed, forlorn. “What about you? You look alright.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t too far behind you,” she admitted. “I just missed the porcelain god by a few shots, I suppose.” Sam wondered if Wes had mentioned to Chris that she’d spent the night in his bed. “Guess I got lucky.”

  “Well, I tried to call you earlier, on account of how embarrassed I was about how our first date went—”

  “First date?” Sam lifted a brow. “What makes you think I’ll let you take me out again?”

  “Cause I ain’t drinking anymore!” he swore, holding up three fin
gers in a Scout salute. “Swear to God.”

  “Better not go telling tales,” Sam chided. “Besides, it’s all good, Chris. We had a fun night out. I coulda done without the headache the next day, but nothing happened that I didn’t willingly participate in.”

  Now wasn’t that the truth? Sam pushed her guilt back as Chris smiled with relief.

  “So you’ll go out with me again?” he asked hopefully, blue eyes earnest.

  Sam considered him. It’d be so easy to be with a guy like Chris. Simple, uncomplicated fun. He was just as focused and committed to his football career as she was to the Ranger Challenge. And he was honest and decent and nice. What you saw was what you got with him. Basically the exact opposite of Wes.

  “Let’s just make it through this class, first,” she suggested as Professor Hammond walked into the room. “Then you can take me to lunch and see if you can talk me into something that doesn’t involve Firewater.”

  The lecture passed by quickly. Sam focused on taking notes as Chris playfully kicked her foot a couple times, trying to get her attention. As they stood to leave, Professor Hammond called her down to the podium while the other students cleared the room.

  “Uh-oh,” Chris murmured, ducking his head. “I’d better wait for you outside.”

  Sam shrugged, wondering what their teacher wanted with her.

  Professor Hammond looked pristine and polished as always. Sam could tell she’d been beautiful once, though the woman was handsome now, with lush silver streaks shot through her dark hair. She watched Sam approach with sharp eyes and an astute expression.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Sam asked, shifting her messenger bag back onto her shoulder.

  “You’ve been doing an excellent job in this class,” Hammond told her, making no bones, no small talk.

  “Thank you. I’ve been really enjoying it so far,” Sam answered honestly.

  “I can see that.” Her professor nodded. “I understand you’re interested in linguistics?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you considered what you’d do with that when you graduate?”

  “I thought maybe I’d become an interpreter for the UN or maybe join the Foreign Service,” Sam told her. “But my dad wants me to run the family business, so I’m not really sure I’ll have much of a say in the matter,” she admitted, shifting on her feet.