Goddess Rising Page 5

The door opened, startling him from his reverie. Wes glanced up as his adviser, Max Purcell, strolled in.

  “Professor Purcell,” he said, straightening. “What brings you in this early in the morning?” He watched his professor make a beeline for the coffee maker Wes had turned on when he’d arrived.

  “Figured you’d be here,” Purcell replied as he poured two cups of coffee.

  “You looking for me?” Wes asked, curious.

  Purcell smiled as he handed Wes a mug. “Why are you the first one in here most days, Elliott?” he asked.

  Wes accepted the drink with thanks. “I like the quiet, I guess. No need to tangle with anyone else over the equipment.”

  “Nah, that ain’t it,” Purcell replied with his thick Texan drawl. “You come in here because you have a passion for it, Wes. You’re in here first thing most mornings because photography is your religion, and you need your private time to worship.”

  Wes laughed softly into his mug.

  “What?” Purcell asked, peering at him over his horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Guess that makes you my preacher then.”

  “Aw, hell.” Purcell chuckled. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of being holy.”

  “Want to look at some of the early negatives and tell me what you think?” Wes asked, gesturing toward the light box.

  “Sure,” Purcell replied, setting down his coffee as he leaned over the box. He remained silent as he examined Wes’s work, going through each frame carefully. Wes admired the man’s artistic eye and technical skills. Purcell’d been a freelance photojournalist for years before becoming a professor. He’d even had a couple shots make it into TIME magazine back in the day.

  “You got chops, kid,” Purcell murmured after a moment. “Got a natural eye, and your lighting technique is nearly there.” He straightened and looked Wes directly in the eye. “But you lack discipline. These shots are sound, but they’re not pushing the envelope.” And Purcell was honest—almost brutally so.

  Wes looked at him. “I followed the assignment to the tee.”

  “Exactly,” Purcell replied, leaning back. “You’re doing only what’s expected of you, relying on your talent to glide you across that finish line. When you’re serious—really serious, then you’re always trying to go farther, do better.” He glanced down at the negatives. “This is above-average work, Wes. But you’ve got above-average potential. You’ve got what it takes to make a name for yourself as a serious photojournalist. You just have to push yourself to go there.”

  “You callin’ me lazy?” Wes asked.

  “No, son. I’m saying you’re content merely coasting.” Purcell shrugged. “I guess there’s no shame in that, but I wonder why you’re in a lane with box cars when you oughtta be running rings around the track.”

  Wes crossed his arms. “That why you submitted my photo to The Statesman behind my back?” he asked. A few weeks back, Purcell had taken his photo of the girl at the Arches and submitted it to the Austin newspaper’s annual photography competition. Wes had only just found out, and he wasn’t sure whether to be proud that Purcell thought it was that good or pissed that his professor had shared his private muse with a few thousand other people without his knowledge.

  “I wanted to show you what’s possible,” Purcell replied, clearly unrepentant. He leaned back against a table, crossing his arms. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Wes shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m not ungrateful. I just don’t like feeling beholden—”

  “I’m your teacher. It’s my job to show you what you’re capable of,” Purcell pointed out. “You’re a twenty-one year-old kid. You got your whole life ahead of you and no boundaries—”

  “Oh, I’ve got boundaries,” Wes responded, thinking of his tuition, his living expenses…all the constraints and limitations he’d grown up with having a single mother who’d worked her ass off just to provide them with basic necessities.

  “No, Wes,” Purcell shook his head. “You don’t. That’s what I’m trying to show you. All you got to do is want this bad enough to make it happen. You could be working for the greats one day, seeing your work in the best magazines and newspapers the world has to offer if that’s what you want.”

  “Well, thanks for submitting the photo,” Wes told him. “I guess I’ve got a flagship piece for my portfolio now.”

  “You do,” Purcell nodded. “And you’ll be featured in The Statesman this Sunday. Interview happens Friday.”

  Shock rolled through him. “Wait, what?”

  Purcell’s smile was smug. “It was a statewide competition, son. What did you think they’d do? Not announce it?”

  Wes pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I guess I thought they’d just print it. Maybe cut me a nice check.”

  “That too,” Purcell answered. “You’re getting featured in the Arts section. Be at the Memorial Student Center on Friday afternoon at four p.m. The reporter will interview you there.” Purcell refilled his coffee mug before he headed toward the door of the studio.

  “Hey, Preacher,” Wes called out.

  Purcell turned, smirking at the nickname.

  “Thanks for pushing me,” Wes told him earnestly. He rubbed the back of his neck, unused to expressing himself so candidly. “I know it doesn’t always seem like I’m listening, but I am.”

  Purcell’s mustache twitched in amusement. “I know it, kid. You know where to find me when you get serious.”

  *

  September—Wednesday, Early Evening

  Evans Library, Texas A&M

  S A M A N T H A

  Sam wove her way through the library stacks carrying the books she’d collected for research on her first project with Chris. She was running late from her afternoon training for the Challenge, and she was sore as hell from practicing military drills for the past few hours. But she and Chris had already agreed to meet up after class once their first major assignment had been doled out. And Sam found that the more she talked to Chris, the better she liked him. So, now, despite being tired and sore, she was actually looking forward to working on the project with him.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Chris said in relief as he spotted her walking toward him. He stood from the broad library table he’d taken over, helping her put down the stack of books she’d been carrying. He was wearing an A&M football t-shirt and blue jeans, and he looked like he’d just finished up with practice himself, hair still damp and curling, his cowlicks more prominent than usual.

  “I’ve been neck deep in psychology and criminal-history books for the past hour, and I’m fixin’ to lose my mind here,” he admitted before glancing at some of the titles on her stack of books. “Did you seriously bring more to research?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Don’t be such a whiner,” Sam replied with a smile. “You’ll love me when I tell you I think I’ve got the premise for our paper figured out.”

  Chris perked up immediately. “Out with it.”

  “Proven techniques in detecting criminal deception without the use of machines.”

  Chris frowned. “Like human lie detectors?”

  “Exactly. I’m curious about how criminal-psychology techniques can be applied in daily life, like language or facial expressions—by psychologists, police officers, jurors. You know, ordinary people having to detect lies without the benefit of technology.”

  Chris’s face lit up. “So how to detect deception in interviews, on dates, during negotiations—that sort of thing.”

  “Exactly,” Sam nodded. “Regular interactions you might be having with a career criminal or a petty thug. Basically liespotting.”

  “How’d you get on this?” Chris asked.

  “Professor Hammond said the other day that we’re told something between ten and a hundred lies a day, everything from ‘I like your outfit’ to ‘I did not attack that man.’ Remember?”

  Chris nodded.

  “So that got me to thinking… How many times have I been lied to?” Sam met his eyes. �
�It’s one thing to be told a little white lie, and it’s a completely different ballgame when you’re being misled about something major—something really meaningful.” Like when your father withholds important information from you, she thought, frowning.

  Chris’s big hand covered hers on the table. His eyes were kind and maybe a little too understanding. “Happens to the best of us.”

  Sam smiled blithely and shrugged, pulling her hand back before she handed him one of the books off her stack. “So I thought we could research some clinically proven methods to detect deception using psychology, linguistics, and body language.” Sam glanced at him askance. “What do you think?”

  “I like it,” Chris answered with a broad grin.

  Pleased, Sam opened one of the books from the stack. “We don’t have time to run labs or trials, but I found plenty of examples in studies that have already been done on body and language analysis. We just need to find consistent patterns to support our theories.”

  Chris picked a book from her stack. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed when you turned me down for a date, but if this pans out, we’re definitely getting an A. And trust me when I say I’m really happy about that.”

  “I can tell you’re not lying,” Sam teased.

  Chris watched her for a moment, openly curious. “So why are you taking this class? Are you a psych major?”

  Sam shook her head. “Modern Languages.”

  Chris’s brows shot up. “Smart girl.”

  “For your sake, I hope you didn’t think you were pairing up with a moron. This paper is worth a third of our grade this semester,” she remarked, reading through the table of contents.

  Chris leaned forward. “I knew for a fact I was pairing up with the prettiest and smartest girl in the class.”

  “You’re a terrible flirt, Chris,” Sam replied with a smirk. “I don’t know who that crap works on, but God help the girl it does.”

  “I do all right.” He looked momentarily bemused. “Until you, that is,” he admitted. “So what are you planning on doing with that big brain of yours?”

  “Not sure yet,” Sam admitted. “I’m in ROTC, so I’ll definitely be in the service right after school. Figured having multiple languages under my belt would be a useful thing nearly anywhere.”

  “How many languages do you speak besides English?”

  “Five.”

  “Dayum…” He raised his brows. “Which ones?”

  “Spanish, Japanese; I’m learning Mandarin, and I speak a bit of Cherokee and French.”

  “How do you know Japanese and Cherokee?”

  “My mother was Japanese. She taught me growing up. And I stuck with it after she died.” She smiled briefly. “Guess it made me feel close to her to read her books. My father still had all his course materials from the military when he was stationed in Japan, and he hired me a tutor.”

  “And the Cherokee?” Chris asked, clearly impressed.

  “My granddaddy was full Cherokee.” She smiled, remembering. “He was just about my favorite person in the world.”

  “So you doing the ROTC thing cause your dad served?” Chris asked.

  “My daddy and granddaddy were both in the Navy,” she told him. “I grew up listening to their stories. Always thought I’d want to go on my own adventures one day. How about you?” she asked. “What’s Chris Fields all about?”

  “I’m studying communications and journalism. Figure I gotta have a backup plan in case I don’t make the NFL.”

  “Smart guy,” she quipped.

  Chris rolled his eyes. “For your sake, I hope you didn’t think you were pairing up with a dumb jock for a paper worth a third of our grade.”

  “Touché.”

  “So where’s home?” he asked after a moment.

  “Oh, a ranch a couple hours away,” she replied. “Had the chance to go to school up north, but I’m really close to my little brother. I know it’s not cool to say, but I miss him like crazy most of the time,” she admitted. “He’s coming to campus in a few days with my dad.”

  “No, I get it.” Chris pulled out his wallet, flipping a worn and weathered photo out. “I’m from a big family down in Galveston. Freshman year, I missed my mama’s cookin’ so much, I nearly cried the first time she came up here to visit with a pot full of her chili.”

  Sam smiled, admiring the candid shot of his family. “It’s a damn shame you’re the ugliest of your brothers,” she teased.

  “Ain’t it, though?” he grinned good-naturedly.

  “That’s a great photo,” she told him, handing it back.

  “Thanks. My roommate took it freshman year. He’s a photographer.” Chris slid the photo back into his wallet. “Guess I should’ve taken better care of it. It’ll probably be worth big bucks one day.”

  “Why?”

  He looked surprised. “You didn’t hear? He won this award. It’s gonna be in the paper soon.”

  “No kidding?” Sam began flipping through the book in front of her, continuing her research.

  “Yup,” Chris nodded. “The portrait is hanging over in the Student Center. You should check it out when you get the chance.”

  “Sure,” she replied, already distracted. “Let’s get rolling on this. I can’t stay late. Got an early morning tomorrow. We’ve got another obstacle course to get through.”

  “Really?” Chris’s brows shot up. “I’ve always been curious what those are like.”

  “You never know what you’re up against until you show up,” she admitted. “Could be running miles through mud while they stab us with pitchforks for all I know.”

  “Pretty sure that’s hell, Sam,” he commented. “You get pitchforks after you kick the bucket. Not before.”

  She shot him a wry look. “Clearly, you’ve never trained to be in the military. SEALs are famous for saying the only easy day was yesterday. So quit burning daylight,” Sam told him with a smile. “We’ve got an A to make.”

  *

  September—Thursday, Early Morning

  Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  The cool morning air washed over her as she picked up her pace, passing Alejandro and another couple guys on the obstacle course, her eyes on the slowly brightening horizon. Morning runs had become part of her ritual since she’d joined ROTC freshman year. They were almost a relief compared to the hard labor she’d had to do before dawn on the ranch growing up. She’d take a fast jog through an obstacle course any day over wrangling steer to pasture before the caffeine kicked in.

  “You better run fast, pisshead!” Alejandro yelled. “We’re coming for you!”

  Sam hated that moniker with a vengeance. But like freshman year, she bore it silently, focusing on the massive wooden planks ahead of her, a significant hurdle if she didn’t pick up enough speed to make the hardscrabble.

  Today was another timed elimination event, and the obstacle course was built for men at least a head taller than her. She had to work twice as hard at every turn, but she’d grown up like that on a ranch full of cowboys and roughnecks, so she’d learned to get over the unfairness a long time ago. She had to be twice as fast and twice as smart to keep up, so she took to running flat-out to each section in the first third of the course, giving herself more time to meet each tall wall, each rope swing, each ridiculously difficult ladder.

  Sam gauged the barrier ahead of her to be about eight feet tall with a slight slope. She skipped hard the last few steps with a burst of speed, scrambling a couple feet up the planks before grasping the top with a quick clench so she could swing her legs over. Sam glanced down in time to see the water waiting for her below.

  Oh, shit—

  The momentum was already carrying her down. Sam hit the water hard, a surprised yelp coming from her mouth as the cold wetness flooded her fatigues, simultaneously shocking her and weighing her down in the slop. She popped back up for air just as Alejandro came over the barrier. Sam scrambled in the muddy water to get o
ut of the way, but her water-logged fatigues billowed around her like inflatables, and she just couldn’t move fast enough.

  The heel of Alejandro’s boot slammed into her back so hard it knocked the wind out of her. Sam opened her mouth in a pained gasp as she was dragged down into the murky water. She felt his knee dig into her side, making her gulp reflexively, her mouth filling with liquid and mud.

  Sam flailed, drowning as Alejandro gripped her arm and her shoulder, holding her facedown in the muck. Thick, dirty fluid seared her lungs as she fought for air, her arms and legs flailing uselessly as he held her down. Seconds passed in blind, wet pain. Sam toed the edge of unconsciousness, everything blurring, her lungs on fire, desperate for oxygen.

  A moment passed, and then another set of arms grabbed her and jerked her up. Disoriented, Sam was distantly aware of being dragged out of the water as she gasped for air, coughing and spluttering in painful, wheezy bursts. She was laid out on the bank, water streaming down her face as she gripped the slippery earth in relief, hacking.

  “She okay?” she heard someone call out.

  “Yeah—I got her!” Alejandro responded. He smacked her hard on the back, making her cough up more water. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he leaned close to her.

  “See how easy it is for me to take you out, Wyatt?” he murmured into her ear, too low for any of the other cadets working their way past them to hear. “You don’t belong here.”

  Sam coughed again, glaring at him through tearing eyes, anger only highlighting her humiliation and her helplessness as he held her down. She should have knocked his knees out, she should have put him in an arm pin and snapped that thing clean off.

  “Eyes on the ground, pisshead!” he hissed.

  He grabbed her head, slamming it hard into the dirt. Sam saw stars, finding the hand gripping her hair, fingers gliding uselessly from the slippery wet of the mud. She couldn’t gain purchase. She was dazed and sloppy now, probably half-concussed, unable to fight him off.

  “You will disqualify from the competition today,” Alejandro continued, close to her ear. “Or I’ll make sure you’re disqualified permanently. You get me?”

  Sam’s only response was another round of hacking coughs as she expelled the leftover water in her lungs. Satisfied, Alejandro released her just as Rita waded over.