Goddess Rising (34 page)

She gripped his neck as she pressed closer, her breasts soft and her skin warm against his chest. Wes’s hand dropped instinctively to her ass, urging her harder against the rising pressure of his erection.

She pulled back a little, catching her breath, her blue eyes more than a little turned on. “I’m thinking that the darkroom may need a quick visit.”

Wes held his breath, his arousal abating as he searched her eyes, suddenly wishing he were looking at eyes so dark that he could see his own reflection in them. He caught the sliver of the photo up on the screen behind Miranda—a clear shot of Samantha smiling as she looked at one of her teammates, unaware she was being photographed.

Dammit.
What was it about her?

Miranda felt the sudden change in him, the surprising resistance. She shifted backward, blocking the photograph of Sam from his view.

“Wes—you okay?”

He pulled back, blinked, and shook his head to clear it.

“Miranda, I’m sorry—I’ve got a class,” he lied swiftly, the excuse rushing out of his mouth in a breathless heave. He set her on her feet gently as he pushed back, closing out of the computer program before picking up his bag.

“I’ll catch up with you later, all right?” He didn’t wait to hear her bewildered response, racing for the door like his life depended on it. He made it to his first class nearly forty-five minutes early. Paced back and forth, running his hands through hair.

What the hell am I doing?

Wes was tied up in knots over a girl who didn’t want him, and now he was saying no to a sure—
and good
—thing, running around like a scalded cat.

“Man, you got to pull your shit together,” he muttered to himself.

“You talking to yourself, son?”

Wes’s head snapped up. Colonel Sasser stood in front of him, watching him curiously, twirling a set of keys.

Wes straightened, smiling a little self-consciously. “Got here a little too early for class today.” He shrugged, gesturing at the locked lecture hall he’d been pacing in front of. “Guess I was raring to go.”

Sasser nodded. “I was actually heading up to my office. You got a minute to talk?”

“Sure do, sir.”

Wes followed the ROTC commander through a series of rooms and into a spacious corner office with an excellent view of the campus. He remained standing while Sasser situated himself behind a broad desk so sparsely and impersonally decorated, it almost looked barren.

“Please, have a seat,” Sasser told him.

Wes glanced around the office. Plaques, photos of various ROTC classes, one of Sasser with General Schwarzkopf in desert fatigues—

“Wes, I’ve had a discussion with the president of the school, and it looks like we’re going to have to rescind permission for you to write the article on the upcoming Ranger Challenge,” Sasser told him somberly, folding his hands over his immaculate desk. “We know you’ve put a lot of good work into this, and we know you’ll be disappointed with the decision, so we’d like to use some of the photos you’ve taken for admissions brochures and the ROTC recruitment materials. You’d be paid a royalty of course, for any photographs we select.”

“Sir?” Wes blinked, confused. “What happened? How did you all come to this reversal?”

Sasser leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Well, son—on the slim chance A&M doesn’t win the Challenge this year, we felt the potential for negative publicity could impact the program.”

Wes felt rapid-fire disagreement rise up his throat but stayed it, knowing Colonel Sasser wouldn’t appreciate the reaction. “Is that the reason there hasn’t been coverage in the past of the Ranger Challenge?” he asked instead.

Sasser inclined his head. “In part. Also, how we train for the Challenge is unique to A&M. The exact training regimen is therefore proprietary to this particular program. We’d rather not broadcast our methods for other schools to replicate.” His smile was brief and conciliatory. “I’m sure you understand.”

Wes digested the information, keeping his demeanor calm and his body language relaxed, despite the roaring in his ears. Everything about this conversation felt off, like a smoke screen for a larger issue. He wondered briefly if Sasser had figured out his angle, or if Purcell had somehow inadvertently tipped him off. Women serving in the military was still a strangely sensitive topic. Particularly in the largely conservative state of Texas.

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s a free country, and we both know the First Amendment protects my right to free speech,” Wes pointed out, careful to keep his tone respectful. “You may be rescinding permission for me to attend the remaining Challenge training sessions, but you can’t dictate whether or not this article gets written,” he finished, genial but firm.

Sasser tilted his head, eyes narrowing. He had the look of a man unaccustomed to being argued with. And he was certainly not used to being challenged by a college kid half his age and a civilian to boot.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Sasser said calmly. “You will not be publishing any articles on the Challenge as it relates to A&M.”

“You were very clear,” Wes countered. “And this certainly puts a crimp in my plans, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be willing to drop it.”

“Now, son—”

“Sir, respectfully, I’m not your son,” Wes pointed out, standing. “I appreciate your feedback, and thank you for letting me know what’s going on,” he said. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but it sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“You won’t be able to use any of the photos,” Sasser responded calmly.

“Actually, that’s up for grabs,” Wes replied. “The photos I’ve taken outside the college grounds are technically
not
under the university’s jurisdiction, and since the U.S. government has already granted me civilian access to Fort Hood and Camp Swift for the express purpose of covering ROTC training, I figure I’m covered.”

“That’s unlikely,” Sasser replied. “One call from me changes that completely.”

“Well then I’ll leave you to your phone calls, then,” Wes replied. He smiled briefly before extending his hand. When Colonel Sasser didn’t accept his hand, Wes shrugged, heading for the office door.

“You don’t want to go down this road, Wes,” Sasser said quietly.

Wes turned. “Oh, I think I do, sir. There’s something here that you either don’t want me to know or you don’t want me to report on. Either way, that’s the stuff of good stories. I’d be doing my major a disservice by not bothering to pursue it now. And you’ve only made me want it more.”

He was pissed but invigorated as he left Sasser’s office. He thought about Ryke’s advice, about going after the things he wanted to do—not to impress a girl or even for some kind of glory—but for himself. Now Wes wanted to follow the story because he hated being told what to do. He hated being manipulated and lied to, and he wasn’t going to take that lying down.

Wes spent the rest of his time before class thinking over the alternatives, planning his next method of attack, figuring out how we could get the story
and
the girl—on his own terms.

September—Wednesday Night

Sam’s Apartment, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

“L
ord, what is
this heaven?” Chris asked, leaning over her kitchen counter as she adjusted the heat on the stove.

“Chile rellenos,” Sam answered succinctly, frying the queso-stuffed pasilla chiles she’d dipped in batter.

“Oh my God, they smell good,” he groaned.

“My Aunt Hannah taught me how to make them,” Sam explained. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

He grinned like a kid at Christmas, inhaling the rich aroma of the classic Mexican dish.

“Can I help?” he offered.

“Sure—there’s some spicy tomato salsa in the fridge. Get it out?” she asked. “We’ll use that to top the peppers when they’re done.

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighed happily.

They had to work on another big mid-term project for Professor Hammond’s class, so Sam had invited Chris over for dinner. She didn’t cook often, but she figured he was probably long overdue for a home-cooked meal. She wondered sometimes how he and Wes survived on pizza, burgers, and whatever strange concoctions the college cafeteria served up. She guessed Chris consumed about six thousand calories a day in season. That probably made about five to six meals a day. Lord, he probably ate his parents out of house and home.

“Why are you smiling?” Chris asked, as he stood next to her, watching her work.

“Your poor mama,” Sam teased. “I was just imagining how relieved she must be not having to worry about feeding her football-playing son anymore.”

“And I ain’t the only jock in the family,” he agreed with a wink. “My brothers are all athletes of some kind. Basketball, baseball, you name it. Mama used to say our grocery bill was bigger than the mortgage.”

“You better be real nice to her on Mother’s Day.”

“I’m real nice to her
every
day,” Chris replied with a note of pride. “I ain’t ashamed to say I’m a mama’s boy through and through,” he told her, looking through kitchen drawers until he found the silverware. He even found the placemats her Aunt Hannah had bought her, more proof he’d legitimately helped his mother in the kitchen. Sam watched him out of the corner of her eye as he set the table.

She liked Chris a great deal. He was a good guy, one who would grow up into a solid man. She could see that clear as day—the foundation was all there.

Getting off campus and heading home had helped her clear her head for a bit. Even being around her dad and spending some time on the rig had also given her some fresh perspective. Sam was more certain than ever that she was going to carve her own path. Between declaring a major, figuring out what she wanted to do with her life, and becoming a serious contender within the ROTC, Sam had enough on her plate without boy drama. Chris was uncomplicated and nice and sweet. She felt comfortable with him, and if it bloomed into more…
Well, why the hell not?
He was a good guy. Reliable.

And he doesn’t make you feel hot and bothered and out of control
, her mind whispered. Sam tamped the thought down as she slid their hot chile rellenos onto plates with a spatula.

“These are pretty,” Chris said, shifting a bouquet of flowers in a charming porcelain pitcher to the side of the dinner table as he finished with the place settings. He plucked the card from the bouquet.

“
‘I’m not too proud to say I’m sorry for underestimating you,’
” he read aloud. “
‘Let me make it up to you next time you’re in Houston. –Travis.’
” Chris lifted a brow in question as he slowly set the card down. “What kind of moron would underestimate
you
?” he asked, somewhere between aggrieved and amused. “And why’s he sending you flowers?”

“Just a guy who’s working for my dad,” Sam answered. “Thought he’d school me a little when I was out on one of our rigs.” She carried their plates to the table. “I think he’s hoping to get on my good side as some sort of promotion strategy.”

Chris stood there still as she sat down across from him.

“I don’t think he’s looking for a promotion, Sammy,” Chris remarked, dropping the card.

“Well, whatever he’s after, he’s not getting it with me,” she replied easily, gesturing for Chris to sit down. When he didn’t move, Sam looked him square in the eye. Chris relaxed when he realized she was being totally serious. He moved to sit down, looking massive, tucked behind her modestly-sized kitchen table.

The same table Wes had had her spread out on just a few days ago. The same table where she’d nearly said
yes
to him. Sam suppressed the recollection as she busied herself with spooning spicy salsa on top of the chiles. Chris rubbed his hands together.

“Oh, man, I’m as happy as a clam at high tide, Sammy. Thank you for making dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam answered, pleased.

They chatted casually about how their weeks were going as they ate dinner. Chris moaned over the hot queso stuffing, making Sam grin at his dramatically enthusiastic expressions. Chris finished four chiles before he sat back, patting his belly.

“Best meal I’ve had in weeks,” he declared. “I’m gonna have to learn to make that recipe.”

“I’ll teach it to you,” Sam promised, getting up to clear the table.

Chris grabbed her wrist as she reached for his plate, standing. “You cooked, I’ll do the dishes,” he declared. “Those are my mama’s rules, and I figure they’re good here too.” He leaned forward quickly, planting a kiss on her mouth. Sam stiffened in surprise, her eyes widening as they stared at each other across the table.

She watched his eyes dilate, watched the baby blue darken as his eyes dropped to her lips. Sam held her breath as Chris leaned forward again, kissing her slowly with gentle contact. He smelled clean and pleasant, his skin warm and vital as he crowded her space. Chris’s kiss was tender, lips soft and mouth a little spicy from the salsa. It reminded her exactly of the handful of times she’d been kissed by the boys she’d grown up with. Wholesome good ol’ boys just like Chris. He held her carefully, gentle in the way only a big guy could be. But Sam didn’t feel the same dark and erotic thrill she felt with Wes. All she felt for Chris was…affection.