Goddess Rising (3 page)

Sam immediately stood straight and stiff, saluting him. Sasser nodded at her before thunder cracked outside the wide window, drawing his attention.

“You picked a helluva day to return to campus, Wyatt,” he remarked, gesturing for her to follow him into his office.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” she answered, waiting until he gave her permission to sit.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to one of two leather visitors’ seats in front of a broad oak desk. His office wasn’t much more personal than his waiting room, his desk covered with only a blotter, his name plate, a photo of a woman she assumed was his wife, and one of those fancy office conference phones. But he had a spectacular view of the campus, which was now doused in rain, the trees bending and swaying with the gale-force winds.

“How was your summer, Wyatt?” he enquired, purely out of politeness.

I wrestled two-ton steer in roundups, practiced my marksmanship, played cards with my little brother, and avoided my dad
. Somehow, she didn’t think he gave a damn. So she kept it simple.

“Excellent, sir. And yours?”

He smiled briefly. “Likewise. What can I do for you?”
Get to the point.

Sam took a deep breath. The best thing Sasser could say was “yes” and the worst, “no.” If it was going to be no, at least they’d get to it faster.

“Sir, I returned to campus early to ask for permission to train for the Ranger Challenge,” she stated frankly, keeping her tone brisk and businesslike.

If he was surprised by her directness, he didn’t show it.

The Ranger Challenge was an annual competition between the top military schools and programs ranked regionally. Typically, the top fifty upperclassmen cadets from the Corp were hand-selected for early training, though only nine ever made it to the final university team following rigorous elimination rounds. Texas A&M had won the competition nearly every year since 1990, an intimidating and nearly impossible feat. And though it wasn’t an outright rule, the final team had never before been co-ed.

Sasser watched her for what felt like a good, long minute, resting calmly against his seat back, his hands crossed.

“We rarely have underclassmen make the cut,” Sasser finally pointed out.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not most underclassmen.”

Sam could have sworn his mouth twitched under his moustache, but she couldn’t be certain.

“I’m one of your top ten rifle marksmen,” she continued, going for broke. “I can run five miles in thirty-four minutes. I’d just like the opportunity to prove to you that I’m capable and ready, sir. That’s all.”

“And if you’re not?”

Sam met his eyes. “Then I suppose I have two more years to try to qualify.”

Sasser considered her for a moment. “Why do you want into an Army competition so bad? Isn’t your family legacy Navy?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam nodded.
But I don’t want to be like my father. And I definitely don’t want to follow his footsteps or stand in his shadow.
“This is one of the most prestigious competitions a cadet can compete in, Army or otherwise, and I’m up for it, sir,” she told him. “I’m just asking for a chance to try.”

Sasser cocked his head, looking at her as if he were trying to gauge something. Finally, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it to her.

It was a list of names. Cadets, specifically. Name, sex, DOB, class and military branch affiliation, followed by some kind of score. Alejandro was at the top. She was in the middle and Rita was second from the bottom.

“You’re looking at the current list of cadets ranked by FTX performance last year,” Sasser told her, watching her face.

FTX. Field Training Exercises. Sam knew they’d been watching and grading every exercise, every practice, every maneuver. She felt her eyes widen as she realized what she was holding in her hand. There were no number assignations on the list, but she guessed she was looking at the top fifty.

Holy shit.

She felt her heart jump in her chest. She was already in. There was never a need to ask. Sasser had just been reeling her along, seeing what she had to say for herself.

“Training for the Ranger Challenge begins Thursday,” he continued. “That was in the packet we sent home to you a month ago. I’m assuming you didn’t receive it?”

A month ago.
Sam felt her mouth compress as she struggled to keep her face smooth.
Her father. It had to be.

That had been around the same time her dad had pushed her to make a commitment to the Navy ROTC unit at the university. It was her second year—this was the time to do it. Declare her major, then declare her military commitment and affiliation. Her dad had been nineteen when he’d gone into the Navy. Figured it was time for her too.

But she’d pushed back. And they’d fought about it—gone round and round in fact. But Sam didn’t want to believe her father would stoop to not telling her she’d made it into one of the most visible and highly regarded ROTC exercises in the nation just because it was the Army. Sam realized she needed to say something—the silence in the office stretched into uncomfortable as Sasser stared her down.

“I live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, sir,” Sam said by way of explanation. “It’s amazing if we see the postman more than once every three months,” she lied.

Sasser nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “You can pick up a fresh orientation packet when you leave,” he said, effectively excusing her. “We depart at 0600 for Fort Hood, so be on time.”

Be early
, she decoded. This was going to be her chance. And she’d better not screw it up.

Too bad, Dad,
she thought, wondering if he really had tried to sabotage her.
Looks like I win this round.

August—Late Morning

Wes and Chris’s Apartment, Texas A&M

W E S L E Y

W
es rolled over,
groaning. His arm hit something soft.

“Morning, you sexy sonofabitch.”

Startled awake, he opened his eyes. A pretty brunette with bright blue eyes smiled sexily at him. He didn’t recognize her, but even rumpled and sleep-tousled, she looked pretty terrific.

“Hey, angel,” he murmured, unable to recall her name. “Did I wake you?”

“You mean when you smacked me with your arm?” she teased, voice raspy from sleep.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Feel like someone tried to hang me but the rope broke.”

“Cuervo will do that to you,” she husked, nuzzling his neck.

Scenes from the night before flashed into his mind. Bartending at Dixie’s, the pretty brunette ordering shots near closing, challenging him to keep up. He recalled the laughter, then the swirling. God, the damn room was spinning still… He groaned again.

“You were an animal last night, Wes,” she told him, her lips close to his ear. “Didn’t think you were gonna let me sleep.”

Smooth skin, hot mouth. Wes vaguely recalled pushing her up against the wall, hands in her hair while she struggled with his belt buckle.

“What time is it?” he asked, squinting against the sunlight.

“Dunno,” she shrugged, snuggling up against him. Her hand slid down his belly until she gripped him. “Well, well,” she purred into his neck. “What do we have here?”

“Don’t knock morning wood, angel,” Wes responded with a smile. He figured he could ignore the pounding in his head long enough to give as good as he got. Another go with a nameless tequila bar girl might even help ease the hangover a little. Just as he pulled her closer, his roommate knocked loudly at his door.

“Hey, Wes!” Chris called out.

“Yeah?” he answered, his face buried between the girl’s breasts.

“Some guy just called. Says your bike’s ready—” Chris paused. “You still need a lift down to Austin, or are you otherwise occupied?” he asked, voice amused.

Wes’s head shot up. His motorcycle was finally ready! “Coming!” Wes shouted, more eager to get his bike than he was to get laid again.

The brunette squeezed him under the covers. “Not yet, you’re not.”

Briefly tempted, but not enough, Wes dropped a kiss on her lips before slipping out of bed. “I’ve gotta go, angel.”

The girl sat up, her hair a mess, a little pout on her lips.

“Should I leave my number?” she asked, getting out of bed too.

“Sure,” Wes answered, getting an eyeful of her lush, pear-shaped ass.
And your name too, whoever you are.
“I’d like that.”

She tossed him a smile over her shoulder. “You better call me.”

Now
that
he couldn’t promise.

“See ya around, angel,” he called out before stepping into the bathroom and starting the shower.

Less than two hours later, he and Chris pulled into Ryker’s Automotive, a custom chopper shop down in Austin, his hometown.

As Wes stepped out of Chris’s truck, a voice called out, “You lost, pretty boy?”

Wes turned just in time to see a tatted-up biker approach him from the garage, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

“Nah,” he replied casually. “Just here to pick up your mom.”

“Oh, Jesus, we’re gonna get our asses kicked,” Chris muttered under his breath as the biker crossed his arms, eyeing Wes’s roommate. Chris was a big boy by anyone’s standards, a full 6’5” and over two hundred and fifty pounds of solid beef. He was big enough to be a starting linebacker for the Texas A&M football team, but only Chris’s closest friends realized the guy was a giant, peace-loving marshmallow off the field.

Wes suppressed a smirk.

“You gonna bring her back at a decent hour this time?” the biker replied, expression stern.

Wes could almost feel Chris’s confusion as he glanced back and forth between them.

“Depends,” Wes shrugged, stepping forward. “Your sister going to be around later?”

“Oh my God.” Chris ran a distraught hand down his face. “Wes, are you
trying
to get us killed?”

“Your old lady looks nervous,” the biker observed, gesturing toward Chris.

“You would be too if you were about to be maimed and killed by a psychotic biker,” Chris muttered.

“
Psychotic
biker?” the guy chuckled, visibly amused. “I’m just a mechanic, man.”

“Yeah, and I’m just a lost little lamb at a wolf party,” Chris replied, getting an eyeful of the other bikers working in the garage. “Let’s just get your bike, Wes. Stop talking shit about this nice man’s mom and sister.”

“Nice man?” Wes lifted a brow. “Who—this asshole?” He strode forward, doing the half-hug, half-handshake back-pat thing with the biker. “You done scaring the shit out of my roommate?” he asked, grinning.

The biker smiled back at him through his thick beard. “Can’t help it. He looks just about ready to keel over,” he said, glancing at Chris. “And you play football? Man, I sure as hell hope you’re less of a wuss on the field.”

“Wait—what?” Chris’s eyes bounced back and forth. “You guys are friends?”

“Chris, this is Ryker Whitlock. We grew up together here in Austin,” Wes explained. “Our moms are best friends. Ryke, meet Chris Fields, first-string lineman for the Aggies when he’s not pissing his pants.”

“Nice to meet you, man,” Ryke said as he shook Chris’s hand.

“Oh,
thank Christ
,” Chris exhaled, visibly relieved. “I thought for sure we were dead.”

“Not today, Chris. Not today.” Ryke chuckled before turning to Wes. “Your Panhead’s back here,” he said, nodding toward the garage. “Just finished her this morning.”

“You put in the dual carburetors?” Wes asked, following Ryke and his mechanics into the garage.

“You know it.” Ryke nodded, pointing toward a beautifully restored 1959 Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the bay. “Haven’t taken her out on a test run yet. Figured you’d want to do the honors.”

Wes ran a hand lovingly over the classic lines of the bike’s frame, his fingers tracing over the fine custom details and pristine paint. “You’re a goddamn artist, Ryke.”

His friend shrugged casually, but Wes could see Ryke’s pride. He’d only been customizing choppers and hotrods for a few years, after he dropped out of high school, and he’d really started to develop a reputation for something other than troublemaking and driving his poor mother nuts. “She was a friggin’ disaster sitting in your mama’s garage all these years, but she came together nice, didn’t she?”

“Even better than I remembered.”

Chris whistled as he examined the bike. “Man, you’ve been holding out! I had no idea you had this.”

“It was my dad’s,” Wes replied, offhand. “Left it when he split years back.” Wes nodded toward Ryke. “We should settle the remainder of what I owe you.” Wes turned to Chris. “Thanks for the lift, man. Catch you later tonight at the Sig party?”

“Sure thing,” Chris replied. “Nice meeting you, Ryke.”

“Likewise.”

Chris turned and headed back to his pickup truck.

“You got what I asked for?” Wes asked, as his friend backed out of Ryke’s lot.

Ryke nodded as he led him to his office. “Got you a couple hundred templates,” he said as soon as he shut the door. “You sure you can move that much?”

“Business is about to go way up,” Wes answered with a casual shrug. “Incoming freshman class of five thousand, half of the sophomore class still underage, and all of them just dying to get into the bars on campus—I’d be shocked if I still have all these in a month.”