Goddess Rising (61 page)

“The way I see it, the only difference between you and those young women is that they’ve got the guts to see things through, despite the risk that it might not pan out,” Purcell continued. “That’s the difference between all-stars and might-have-beens, Wes. You just have to man up and decide which you are.”

*

October—Friday Morning

Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

Sam strode into
Professor Hammond’s class about ten minutes early. She’d emailed her professor, asking if they could speak the day before, but since Hammond had a full day, her teacher had suggested they meet just before class.

Hammond smiled as she saw Sam enter the lecture hall. “Figured you’d have to be felled by something pretty bad to miss class twice this week.”

“Yeah, sorry about that—been burning the candle at both ends,” Sam hedged, stopping in front of the professor’s desk. She wasn’t quite a hundred percent yet, but she was near to it. A few pounds shy of her usual weight and still a little pale, but a couple days of Rita’s mothering and nagging was probably as useful as it was irritating. Sam was hurting still, no doubt, but she was bound and determined to get back into gear and get the rest of her life on course with or without Wes.

She pulled the copy of
The Reid Technique of Interviewing and Interrogation
her professor had lent to her from her messenger bag. “I finished the book.”

Hammond nodded, sitting back in her seat, her eyes quizzical. “And?”

“And I’d like to declare a double major in linguistics and behavioral psychology,” Sam added. “I’d also like to take you up on your offer to be my advisor for the psych portion of the major if you’re still offering.”

Hammond smiled briefly. “I am.”

“And your husband emailed me,” Sam continued. “He said he’d be willing to see me next week to discuss his work at the Kennedy Center.”

“Is that what helped you decide about the major?” Hammond asked.

“No.” Sam shook her head. “Truth is, I’m really interested in psychology. More than I’d realized. You just helped me think about it in terms of practical application. But I think I would have been interested in it regardless of whether I was going into the service or not.”

Hammond pushed her seat back and stood, easing the creases out of her pencil skirt. “So you believe you can do both.”

Sam’s brow creased. “Both what?”

Hammond rounded her desk. “You believe you can be both heir to the Wyatt legacy and all that comes with it—and be your own person,” her teacher clarified.

Sam ran her fingers down the book’s spine for a moment before looking Hammond in the eye. “I don’t believe the two will be easy to balance—”

“I never said it would be.”

“But I think maybe I’ve been making them more at odds than they need to be,” Sam finished honestly. “And I’d be disappointed in myself if I didn’t try to make both possible.”

Hammond considered her for a long moment, two women in the quiet of the soon-to-be-filled lecture hall. “I’m happy to hear you’ve come to this conclusion, Samantha.” She extended her hand. “Because if anyone can make it work, it’s likely to be you.”

Samantha shook Professor Hammond’s hand. She felt a mutual respect in the undercurrent of the action. A question asked and answered.

“Fill out all the relevant paperwork with the Registrar and bring it to me to sign,” Professor Hammond told her. Sam nodded just as the earliest students began filtering into the room.

Sam found her seat as the lecture hall began to fill with chatter and the familiar commotion of students shuffling into their seats, getting ready for class. She felt lighter and better than she had in days, relishing the kind of deep satisfaction that came with making a big decision. This was how she was going to do it—with one foot in front of the other, one good move after another. Sam was smiling to herself when Chris slid into the seat beside her.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” he told her, his grin tired and a little relieved. “You back in your seat.”

Sam ran her eyes down the bristles lining his jaw. Chris was usually as clean shaven as the cadets. It wasn’t like him to look scruffy. Then she noticed the cut on his brow, the raw damage to his knuckles. Not his typical football war wounds. This was something else altogether.

“You been brawling?” she asked, taking in his clothes. He was wearing a rumpled Aggie football t-shirt and a pair of shorts that looked like they’d been living in the bottom of his gym bag.

Chris shrugged, chewing on his pen cap as he flipped open his notebook with his bruised hand. “If I have?”

“I’d like to meet the idiot who would take on a lineman worth two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of solid beef,” she drawled, wry. “Or is the poor bastard still unconscious in the ER somewhere?”

“He’s probably still locked up in county,” Chris muttered under his breath.

Sam blinked. “Whoa, what?”

Chris sighed, meeting her eyes. “I got into it with Wes. We both got thrown in the bullpen a couple nights ago.”

“Jesus,” Sam breathed in shock. “
What the hell
, Chris?”

Chris rubbed a hand down his face. “Can we talk about this after class?”

“You bet your ass we will.”

Sam struggled to stay focused on Professor Hammond’s lecture over the next hour. It was ironic that she’d finally gotten on track after a long week of revolving around her abject misery over Wes, only to get sucked back into the drama. She wanted to thump Chris over the head for fighting a battle she didn’t need his help with.

Somewhere between having Rita and Alejo drag her out of bed and the present moment, Sam had realized and accepted the plain and simple truth that she was just going through a terrible rite of passage that nearly everyone in the world experiences at some point. Getting her heart broken wasn’t the end of the world—it just
felt
like it. And while she alternated between wanting to cry her heart out and kick Wes’s ass herself, she didn’t want Chris or anyone else getting involved in what was ultimately between her and the guy she wished she didn’t still love.

Class was barely over before Sam was dragging Chris out from his seat. He followed her morosely, clearly not wanting to spill the goods, but she wrangled it out of him anyway. They hadn’t hit the lawn outside the psych building before she rounded on him.

“Tell me what you did,” she demanded.

Chris shifted his backpack on his shoulder. “I set things to right.”

“That’s not your job, Chris.”

His chin came up. “Like hell it isn’t.”

Sam crossed her arms. “Do I look like the kind of girl who needs a guy to solve her problems?”

“On Wednesday, yeah, you kind of did,” Chris retorted, making Sam flinch. She’d had that coming.

“How did you get arrested?” she asked instead.

“We were fighting in the parking lot at Dixie’s.” Chris glanced away. “That prick De Soto called it in.”

Sam reared back in shock. “He did
what?
”

“Alejandro called the cops.” Chris swallowed, glancing left, then right, looking for eavesdroppers. Sam’s radar went up.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Chris shifted on his feet, squirming under her hard stare. “I don’t know how or why Wes had pot on him, but he did,” Chris said in a low voice. “And De Soto told the cops he’d been trying to deal to me. So we both got locked up.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Holy crap—are you
kidding
me with this shit?”

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Coach bailed me out. I don’t know about Wes. I haven’t seen him since. I’ve been staying over with a couple football buddies of mine.”

“You
left
him there?”

Chris tossed her a defiant look. “Like he left
you
, Sammy?” he replied. “Then yeah. I guess I did.”

Sam spun around, pushing her hands through her hair. The brief moment of resolution and calm she’d felt just a scant hour ago after her talk with Professor Hammond had long since dissipated. She wanted to run to the county jail and get on the horn with her father’s best lawyers, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her place. She wanted to see with her own eyes that Wes was okay, but it was over. He didn’t belong to her any more than she belonged to him. Shit.
Shit
.

Sam rounded on Chris once again. “I know that you were just trying to do right by me,” she told him. “But you need to go take care of this situation right now. For your sake and for mine, you need to make sure he’s okay. You can’t leave him—
not
like this. You’re his friend, and he needs you—”

Chris’s eyes softened. “I’m your friend too, Sammy.”

“I know you are,” Sam murmured, squeezing his big hands in hers. “But I never meant to get between the two of you—I never wanted that. You need to make sure he’s okay. Will you do that, Chris? For me?”

He looked torn for a moment and then resigned. “We’ve been friends since freshman year.”

“I know.”

“And I beat him pretty good.”

Sam winced, just imagining it. “No doubt.”

“Why do you care so much still, Sammy?” he asked. “Why don’t you want me to go kick his ass again? Most girls would.”

He was right. Most girls would want the retribution
and
a guy as protective as Chris to deliver it. But somehow, Sam knew Wes was hurting already without adding Chris’s punishment into the mix. Maybe not the same way as she. Maybe not even as much, but Wes hurt too. She
knew
it. And there was plenty of that to go around without Chris whaling on him.

Sam stepped back. “We may not have worked out, but I still care about him, Chris. And so do you.” She let go of his hand. “And Wes needs you, even if he won’t admit it.”

Chris met her eyes. “He needs you too.”

Sam turned away. “Apparently not.”

*

October—Same Day

The Viz Lab, Texas A&M

W E S L E Y

Miranda had given
him an earful, the moment he’d stepped into the lab. And she’d had every right to. He’d left her hanging for more than a week, right until they were pressed up against the deadline. Lucky for him, they had dozens of good photos to work with. All that was left for him now was fitting the right photos with the story. Tougher for her, the story had to be hard-hitting but poignant, fearless but fair.

She hadn’t mentioned anything about Sam, much to his relief, though she’d eyeballed the cut on his nose and the palette of somewhat revolting colors Chris had left behind.

“Do I want to know how you got that?” she asked.

“Bar fight,” he’d answered, laconic.

She’d waved him over to her computer. “You can fill me in on the story after you read the final product.”

That had been thirty minutes ago.

Now Wes was trying hard to ignore Miranda as she paced back and forth in front of him, atypically anxious, chewing on her thumbnail while he typed out some line edits.

“Do you think it’s too provocative?” she asked, pausing to look at him. “It’s too provocative, isn’t it? Or is it not provocative
enough
?”

“Let me finish reading,” he answered, eyes on the screen.

“I’ll just make a few more changes—” Miranda answered, stepping toward him.

Wes put up a hand to ward her off as she tried to reach around for the keyboard. “Just hold your horses and give me a minute, M. I’m almost done.”

She yanked her hair back into a haphazard knot, sticking a pen in it to keep it all together. “You’ve been editing for half an hour—” she complained.

“Miranda, calm down. I’m almost done,” he reiterated, eyes on the screen, fingers moving quickly as he clacked out a few more edits.

Miranda let out a pent-up breath. “What if Purcell hates it?”

“He’s not going to hate it.”

“Oh God, he’s is going to hate it,” she groaned, smacking her hands over her eyes—pure drama queen.

Wes looked up her in amusement. “Miranda, if you get this worked up about every article you write, you’re going to be a shitty journalist.”

She dropped her hands, glaring at him. “
This
is different! This could launch both of our careers—how can you
not
be freaking out right now?”