Goddess Rising (6 page)

Chris coughed a gruff “
bullshit”
into his hand. Thankfully the girl didn’t notice as her friend tugged her toward the dance floor.

“Come find me later?” she asked, eyes sparkling with invitation.

“Sure thing, angel.” Wes nodded, winking at her.

Chris shook his head at him as the girls disappeared in the throng. “You have no idea who the hell that girl is, do you?”

“We’ve clearly met before.” Wes shrugged, sipping his beer.

“How is it that a guy who gets around as much as you do still gets more ass than he can shake a stick at?” Chris asked in mock consternation. “I don’t know whether to admire you or be afraid for you.”

“You just don’t understand women, Chris,” Wes replied sagely. “That’s why you have to work so damn hard for them. You want it too much.”

“You’d want it too if you knew what true love was like, asshole,” Chris countered confidently. “Nothing like it in the world. Best high there is. When it happens, you’re going to be a stupid, lovesick fool, and I’ll have a field day seeing some girl drag you to your knees.”

Wes looked on in amusement. “On occasion, I quite enjoy being dragged to my knees by the right girl,” he admitted. “With a little submission comes a great deal of power.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Do
not
tell me you’re into whips and chains.”

“I’m into pleasure and exploration,” Wes replied. “Who am I to deny a lady her accessories? If she wants to dress up like Catwoman and boss me around—then I say,
‘Why the hell not?
’” He shrugged.

Chris shook his head at him. “It’s kind of funny, really.”

“What is?”

“You’re ‘
Mr. I’ll-Try-Anything-Once,
’ except when it comes to real emotions or commitment. Then you lock down tighter than a submarine.”

Wes caught the eye of another girl passing them. “For a smart guy, you’ve just never learned how to separate your cock from your heart, Chris. The sooner you learn to do that, the happier you’ll be. Mark my words.”

“Yeah, well this one’s different,” Chris replied, a happy grin stretching his mouth. “Hell, I’m half in love with this girl, and we’ve only been in class a week.”

“Always so eager to lose your damn mind.” Wes shook his head. “I’ll stock up on the whisky for when you get your shit kicked in.”

Chris just shrugged, like it was all so inevitable. “Where would we be without women to fuck us up?”

“And you think I’m the one into whips and chains,” Wes pointed out before he spotted the president of the fraternity and two of his minions approaching.

“How’s it going, man?” one of them grinned, already several warm beers in, while another was visibly distracted by all the fine ladies surrounding them.

“Be back in a few,” Wes said to Chris.

“Be careful
,” Chris mouthed before turning away. Chris knew what Wes’s side gig was, and though he wasn’t exactly approving, he’d sponsored enough of his own football buddies to know not to preach. Besides, Wes knew Chris was just watching his back, worried he might get caught. But Wes was careful, and he was also smart.

He gripped the frat brothers by the neck, leading them away from the crowd, ready to do business.

*

August—Same Time

Sigma Tau Fraternity House, College Station, Texas

S A M A N T H A

“But it’s not
even one a.m.!” Rita protested as Sam pried her off the drunken idiot who was pawing at her.

“Yeah, well, it’s close enough, and trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning,” Sam muttered, looping Rita’s arm around her shoulder as she guided her through the hot, messy throng of coeds grinding on each other like monkeys.

“I
liked
him!” Rita insisted, barely able to stand on her stilettos.

“Really?” Sam drawled. “What’s his name, then?”

Rita concentrated like she was trying to do advanced calculus in her head. “Rick!” she replied, snapping her fingers. “Or wait, maybe it was Ryan,” she mumbled uncertainly, her face pinching a little.

“I rest my case,” Sam replied, hitching an arm around Rita’s waist as she guided her toward the front door of the frat house.

Her photographer.

Sam would have recognized him anywhere. He’d been impossible to overlook that day she’d seen him on the Quad, totally focused as he took his pictures behind a tripod. Up close, her photographer was arrestingly attractive—all tousled, tawny bed-hair, sun-kissed skin, and easy masculinity. He chatted with Chris, his smile fast and blithe as a hummingbird, a flash of even, white teeth gleaming as he laughed at something Chris was saying.

Sam glanced away, uncharacteristically anxious, just like she’d been the day she’d seen him at the Arches. She doubted he’d recall seeing her on that windy, stormy day anyway, but she kept her face averted just the same as they passed.

“Wait, stop!” Rita slurred as Sam dragged her away. “I wanna talk to him—”

“No, you don’t,” Sam replied, determined to get to the door.

“Oh,
yes I do
,” Rita insisted, struggling to turn around and nearly falling over in her bid to make the connection.

Sam grabbed her friend’s arm again, catching a glimpse as a girl wearing next to nothing launched herself into her photographer’s arms. He caught her easily, his smile bemused as his hands circled her waist with easy familiarity.

“See?” Sam gestured, disappointment coursing through her. “He’s moved on. Perhaps it wasn’t lust at first sight after all.”

“But we could have been
so good
together,” Rita moaned, leaning heavily on Sam as she trudged toward the door. “He’s hot, I’m hot. He’s probably a knockout in the sack, and I’m
definitely
awesome in bed—”

“A match made in drunk heaven, I’m sure,” Sam agreed, cutting her off as she maneuvered them out the front door past the throngs of students still trying to get in.

“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.