Goddess Rising (60 page)

“Hey, Buddy—what’s doin’?” Wes called out, surprised to see him.

Chris stopped, turned, and looked at him. The parking lot lighting cast shadows across his expression, but the guy looked tense, his big hands clenching.

“You all right?” Wes asked, approaching him.

“You lied to me,” Chris answered in a low voice.

Wes stopped, sensing the danger.

“About what?” he asked cautiously.

“You made it sound mutual,” Chris replied, squaring his shoulders. “You made it sound like she was all right with the way you two left it.”

Samantha.
He should have known Chris would find the truth out sooner or later.

Wes sighed, rubbed a tired hand down his face. Now that he wasn’t full-tilt behind the bar, the exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him.
God, I miss sleep.
Most of all, he missed sleeping beside Sammy.

“It should have been mutual,” Wes confessed after a moment. “What I did was the best for both of us. She’ll see that when she gets some distance from it.”

Chris moved toward him. It was too dark to make out his features, but Wes felt the hostility coming off of Chris like a heat wave.

“You have no idea what’s best for her,” he told Wes. “You have no idea how badly you messed her up.”

Wes closed his eyes. “What do you know about it, Chris?”

“I
saw
her, you dipshit!” Chris snapped, his voice rising. “I just spent the last few hours cleaning up the mess you made.” Chris shook his head, made a disgusted sound. “She could barely get out of bed, barely eat. She looks
goddamn hollow
, man. You carved her up good.”

Wes made no reply, the jagged edge of pain he felt at hearing how bad she was rendering him speechless with guilt. He thought about jumping on his bike and going to her. He thought about begging her to take him back.

“What did I tell you?” Chris asked, advancing.

Wes stepped back swiftly. “What
the hell
are you doing, Chris?”

“I told you I’d hand you your ass if you hurt her, didn’t I?” he replied, swinging.

Chris was huge, but his speed belied his size. He didn’t land the first punch, but he landed the second and the third, stunning Wes with an uppercut to his gut that knocked the wind straight out of him.

“
Jesus—
” Wes gasped, stumbling backwards.

Chris tackled him hard to the ground, sat up, and punched the shit out of his ribs. Wes felt the sharp agony of a rib crack, distantly registered the people filing out of the bar to watch him get his ass kicked.

Sheer luck and decent timing gave him the opening he needed to buck Chris off. Wes just managed to roll away when Chris came at him again, grabbing for his legs. Wes kicked him away, not trying to hurt him—giving his hits just enough
umpf
to keep Chris back as he scrambled up.

“Stop it, Chris!” Wes shouted. “
Jesus
—!”

Chris ignored him, coming at him again. Wes dodged and danced back, one hand cradling his damaged side. He managed to avoid the worst of it, only narrowly, before Chris landed a punch that nearly broke his nose. Blood spurted everywhere. Wes clutched his nose, seeing stars, blood dripping through his fingers in a torrent.

“I oughtta break your arms,” Chris panted heavily.

The vivid flash of red and blue police lights sent the spectators scattering to their cars or back into the relative safety of the bar. The headlights of the patrol car froze Chris and Wes in their place in the suddenly silent parking lot. Two cops stepped out.

“What the hell’s going on here?” one of them asked as they advanced forward.

“I’m the one that called this in, officers.”

Chris, Wes, and the patrolmen swung toward the shadows of the bar. Alejandro de Soto stepped into the dim light of the lot.

“I saw this one start a fight with the football player,” De Soto told the cops, pointing at Wes. “He was trying to deal to him, and when the football player declined, he threw the first punch,” he lied, his expression impassive.

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Wes spat through gritted teeth, still cupping his nose.

“No, it’s not,” De Soto replied calmly. He turned to the cops. “If you don’t believe me, check his pockets,” he said, nodding toward Wes. “I saw everything. It was self-defense.”

October—Thursday Morning

County Jail, College Station, Texas

W E S L E Y

W
es spent a
long, painful night in jail, with Chris staring stonily at the wall across the cell from him after they’d both gotten arrested, the two of them separated by a couple of drunks and a scared-looking kid who’d wrecked his dad’s car on a midnight joyride.

Chris’s coach came to pick him up sometime before six a.m. College Station police were loathe to keep an Aggie football star after an ROTC witness swore up and down that Chris was just trying to protect himself from the low-life drug dealer who’d accosted him in the parking lot. He hadn’t even been booked. It was like Chris had never been there. Except for the damage to Wes’s face and his cracked ribs, that is.

The weed they’d found in Wes’s pocket wasn’t enough to nail him with intent to distribute, but it was enough to keep him in hot water for the foreseeable future, especially without the services of a good lawyer.

Wes spent the quiet hours alternately wondering whether he should call Ryke to bail him out or whether he should just use the one phone call he’d eventually get to apologize to Sam. It had to have been bad for Chris to unleash like that. It had to have been beyond bad if his roommate was refusing to speak to him, even after delivering one hell of a good ass-whoopin’.

Wes just sat there, dazed and hurting physically, but numb emotionally. He reminded himself that this breakup was for the best, though he was having a harder and harder time believing it, with a tampon stuck up his nose and his head throbbing something awful.

“Wesley Elliott?”

He glanced up in surprise, wondering if he’d get that phone call.

“That’s me.”

“You’re free to go,” the officer told him grimly, opening the cell door.

Surprised, but not about to argue, Wes stood and walked stiffly past his fellow inmates, grateful when he passed through the membrane separating prisoner from free citizen. He followed the cop slowly to discharge, collecting his wallet, watch, and keys before being allowed to use the restroom. He did what he could to fix his bruised face, but the blood was dried on his dirty, torn shirt. He looked like a damn hooligan, but there was nothing to be done about that. When Wes finally stepped out into the bright morning sunlight, wondering whether he should bother trying to go home, he was shocked to see Professor Purcell leaning against the fender of an old Volvo.

“Man, you look like shit,” Purcell remarked as he drank coffee from a paper cup. “Looks like you got beaten by the wrong end of the stick.”

“How did you know I was here?” Wes asked in surprise.

“Got a call from one of the student reporters who watches the arrest logs for good stories,” Purcell told him. “Couldn’t believe you’d be stupid enough to deal
and
get your ass whooped by an Aggie linebacker in the same ten minutes. Figured something wasn’t adding up.”

“You bail me out?” Wes asked, running a hand through the mess of his hair.

“Your one get-out-of-jail-free card,” Purcell confirmed with a slight nod as he pushed off his car.

Wes touched his nose before wincing. “I look like a damn mess,” he said sheepishly.

“Yeah, you do,” Purcell nodded. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift back home.”

“Better not.” Wes shook his head, squinting against the sunlight.

“Why?” Purcell cocked his head.

“The guy who kicked my ass is my roommate.”

Purcell let out a startled laugh, then shook his head. “I knew there’d be a story there.”

Wes shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not a good one.”

“Yeah, well, get in anyway,” Purcell told him. “I’d like to hear what the hell you have to say for yourself before I lecture you on how badly you fucked up.”

Purcell took him to a lonely little diner off the frontage road. The waitress who took their orders didn’t bat an eye at the dried blood on Wes’s shirt or the bruises on his face. Wes sipped the hot coffee gratefully, trying to find a way to sit that didn’t jostle his aching ribs.

Purcell waited him out, his gaze astute and assessing.

“I’ll pay you back,” Wes told him. “You know, for the bail.”

“No need,” Purcell waved him off. “Sheriff’s an old buddy of mine. When I told him you were one of my top students, and I’d take responsibility, he got the county to back off. You’re a first-time offender, and Chris isn’t pressing charges. No one’s looking to hang you out on a noose this time.”

“There won’t be another time,” Wes promised him.

“There shouldn’t have been a
this
time, I reckon.” Purcell put down his coffee cup, eyed Wes as he took off his glasses and wiped the lens with his shirt. “Tell me what’s going on, Wes.”

Wes thought about and discarded a variety of explanations, each designed to smooth over the truth. Push came to shove, he owed Purcell honesty, and frankly, he was heartsick and lonely and beaten up, and Lord knew he could use some decent advice. So Wes told Purcell the whole story, from the beginning, letting his breakfast get cold as he half-heartedly pushed around his eggs and bacon.

He told Purcell about seeing Samantha across the quad, taking the photo that began everything—the whole reason he’d gone after the internship with
The Statesman
in the first place. He shared his subsequent fascination with Samantha, followed by the pursuit. Then he relayed how it turned dark and twisted and confusing. Wes confessed how he caved when her father threatened him, how he was certain Sasser pulling his access was related though he couldn’t prove it…and as Wes recounted all the hoops he’d jumped through to be with her, all he could think was how each and every one of them seemed worth it—how he’d do it again if he had to, just to have that slice of time with her again, maybe try to do it over—
better
.

“So how did you get here?” Purcell asked, polishing off his toast.

“I ended it,” Wes admitted. “I figured any way I looked at this, it ends bloody for me. Sam’s going to become this superstar someday. And I’ll just be this moderately talented photographer from Austin who loves her enough to follow her around like a lapdog.” His mouth compressed into a thin line at his own admission.

“That’s bullshit, Elliott,” Purcell countered. “I’ve always said you’ve got the chops, you just don’t push yourself as hard as you need to in order to reach the next level. If you want to be a good journalist, it’ll happen. Now whether or not that means you’re in Sam’s life?” he shrugged. “I think that’s more your choice than fate choosing it for you. In fact, I think you cut ties because you couldn’t handle the idea that a girl like that requires more of a guy like you. And maybe you just don’t have the confidence yet to become the man she sees. So why not end it before you really know what’s possible?”

Purcell’s assessment hit a little too close for comfort. Wes shifted in his seat, his ribs aching.

“I’m not saying she’s blameless,” Purcell pointed out, taking a swig of coffee. “Maybe Sam is using you to get back at daddy. She wouldn’t be the first girl to do that. Not by a million. But I’m saying you’re a natural self-saboteur, Wes. Before you go off pointin’ fingers, maybe you oughtta take a good hard look in the mirror.”

“What are you talking about?” Wes replied, stung. “I’ve been busting my ass to be the kind of guy a girl like Sam deserves.”

“Have you?” Purcell replied with a knowing look. “I’m sitting across from a guy I just bailed out of jail for fighting his best friend and holding dope, and that was after you bailed on writing the article on the Challenge, to pair up with Miranda on a sure thing.”

“
Shit
, Miranda’s article—” He’d completely forgotten to worry about that in the countless hours he’d spent obsessing about Samantha. He’d put Miranda off for days, using class and work and any other excuse he could think of, and it wasn’t fair. Not right at all.

“No, it’s
your
article too,” Purcell corrected. “It’s the two of you, remember? A team—
the
team. You think
The Statesman
hears about your stint in county lockup last night, and they’ll want to get within ten feet of you?” he asked pointedly.

Wes would kick his own ass if he ruined Miranda’s chance of getting the internship, much less his own. He wiped his hands down his bruised face, unsure of what to say.

“I’ll withdraw my photos,” he finally said. “Or I’ll let her take the credit for them.”

“No, you won’t,” Purcell replied. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Wes. You take the easy way out instead of standing and facing the music. You tell yourself you’re doing it for Miranda or Sam, but the truth is, you just don’t want to see if you’ve got the stuff it takes to make it to the majors—in life and in love.”

Wes didn’t say anything for a long time as he absorbed Purcell’s words.