Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (77 page)

“He’s just a guy I have class with. We’re doing a project together.” They made it down the walkway toward the street where she’d parked her car.

“Oh, I bet he wants to ‘
do a project’
with you,” Rita cackled loudly, amusing herself with her air quotes. “And you should let him do all kinds of projects with you,
jaina
. So uptight all the time.”

Trouble was, Sam didn’t think of Chris’s all-American good looks and winsome smile when she imagined doing any kind of anything with a guy. She imagined a photographer with just-ravished hair and bright golden eyes. But that same photographer made her feel hot and uncomfortable without even trying, and Sam wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that weird, new awareness.

“I’m serious,
chica
!” Rita insisted drunkenly as she stumbled toward Sam’s Mustang. “That boy could really loosen you up.”

“Rita, honey, you’re loose enough for all of us.”

“I am
not
a slut!” Rita smacked her back. “I’m an empowered woman!”

“Perfect. Then empower your ass all the way into my car,” Sam answered, unlocking the door. She helped Rita in, buckling her seatbelt.

“You gotta ease up sometimes, Sammy,” Rita told her tiredly as she settled in, her head dropping back. “Life’s made for living, you know? I just want you to be happy sometimes,
chica
.”

“I am happy, Rita,” she promised.

“Then how come I’m always having to drag your ass out?”

Sam didn’t have a really good answer for that, so she remained quiet. Truth was, she felt a little shy most of the time. She’d grown up with guys all her life—got along with them better than girls, in truth—but when it came to girly stuff like dating boys and daydreaming about hearts and curlicues, well, she didn’t know much about that, all told.

So Sam went with what she knew. And that had always been acting just like one of the boys. Besides which, when guys came knocking, Sam never really knew what they were interested in—her or her daddy’s money. So she steered clear most of the time, figuring she didn’t want to end up anybody’s notch. Not on their bed and definitely not on their bank account. Maybe that made her a hardass. But that’s how it was.

“You should go out with that cute blonde bear,” Rita suggested blearily, still fixated on Chris. “Guy that big—I bet he’s hung like a—”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Sam interrupted, turning over her Mustang.

“Okaaay,” Rita sighed. “But you should listen to me,
jaina
. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I know you do, Rita.” Sam steered them out of the parking space, careful to avoid the drunken coeds roaming the streets, either leaving the Sig party or looking to get into it.

“Oh, and one more thing—” Rita held a hand up to her mouth. “You should also help unroll my window because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be sick.”

September—Monday, Early Morning

The Viz Lab, Texas A&M

W E S L E Y

W
es leaned over
the light box, examining the negatives through a magnifier, in the cool quiet of the photography studio. At least a couple times a week, he woke up early to get in some time at the Viz Lab before the day became frenetic. He’d spend an hour or two looking for ways to draw out the subtleties in his work, before the lab got flooded with bodies and the subsequent noise.

Wes loved photography with a passion—had since his mother gave him his first camera, an old Polaroid beater whose film had been more expensive than the actual camera itself. He loved looking at the world through the lens, coaxing things out, capturing distinct moments in time when everything seemed to fly right by him most days. In the quiet coolness of the lab, he loved losing himself in the varied perspectives, the light, and the angles.

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.”