Goddess Rising (7 page)

Wes looked at him. “I followed the assignment to the tee.”

“Exactly,” Purcell replied, leaning back. “You’re doing only what’s expected of you, relying on your talent to glide you across that finish line. When you’re serious—really serious, then you’re always trying to go farther, do better.” He glanced down at the negatives. “This is above-average work, Wes. But you’ve got above-average potential. You’ve got what it takes to make a name for yourself as a serious photojournalist. You just have to push yourself to go there.”

“You callin’ me lazy?” Wes asked.

“No, son. I’m saying you’re content merely coasting.” Purcell shrugged. “I guess there’s no shame in that, but I wonder why you’re in a lane with box cars when you oughtta be running rings around the track.”

Wes crossed his arms. “That why you submitted my photo to
The Statesman
behind my back?” he asked. A few weeks back, Purcell had taken his photo of the girl at the Arches and submitted it to the Austin newspaper’s annual photography competition. Wes had only just found out, and he wasn’t sure whether to be proud that Purcell thought it was that good or pissed that his professor had shared his private muse with a few thousand other people without his knowledge.

“I wanted to show you what’s possible,” Purcell replied, clearly unrepentant. He leaned back against a table, crossing his arms. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Wes shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m not ungrateful. I just don’t like feeling beholden—”

“I’m your teacher. It’s my job to show you what you’re capable of,” Purcell pointed out. “You’re a twenty-one year-old kid. You got your whole life ahead of you and no boundaries—”

“Oh, I’ve got boundaries,” Wes responded, thinking of his tuition, his living expenses…all the constraints and limitations he’d grown up with having a single mother who’d worked her ass off just to provide them with basic necessities.

“No, Wes,” Purcell shook his head. “You don’t. That’s what I’m trying to show you. All you got to do is want this bad enough to make it happen. You could be working for the greats one day, seeing your work in the best magazines and newspapers the world has to offer if that’s what you want.”

“Well, thanks for submitting the photo,” Wes told him. “I guess I’ve got a flagship piece for my portfolio now.”

“You do,” Purcell nodded. “And you’ll be featured in
The Statesman
this Sunday. Interview happens Friday.”

Shock rolled through him. “Wait,
what?”

Purcell’s smile was smug. “It was a statewide competition, son. What did you think they’d do?
Not
announce it?”

Wes pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I guess I thought they’d just print it. Maybe cut me a nice check.”

“That too,” Purcell answered. “You’re getting featured in the Arts section. Be at the Memorial Student Center on Friday afternoon at four p.m. The reporter will interview you there.” Purcell refilled his coffee mug before he headed toward the door of the studio.

“Hey, Preacher,” Wes called out.

Purcell turned, smirking at the nickname.

“Thanks for pushing me,” Wes told him earnestly. He rubbed the back of his neck, unused to expressing himself so candidly. “I know it doesn’t always seem like I’m listening, but I am.”

Purcell’s mustache twitched in amusement. “I know it, kid. You know where to find me when you get serious.”

*

September—Wednesday, Early Evening

Evans Library, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

Sam wove her
way through the library stacks carrying the books she’d collected for research on her first project with Chris. She was running late from her afternoon training for the Challenge, and she was sore as hell from practicing military drills for the past few hours. But she and Chris had already agreed to meet up after class once their first major assignment had been doled out. And Sam found that the more she talked to Chris, the better she liked him. So, now, despite being tired and sore, she was actually looking forward to working on the project with him.

“I thought you’d never get here,” Chris said in relief as he spotted her walking toward him. He stood from the broad library table he’d taken over, helping her put down the stack of books she’d been carrying. He was wearing an A&M football t-shirt and blue jeans, and he looked like he’d just finished up with practice himself, hair still damp and curling, his cowlicks more prominent than usual.

“I’ve been neck deep in psychology and criminal-history books for the past hour, and I’m fixin’ to lose my mind here,” he admitted before glancing at some of the titles on her stack of books. “Did you seriously bring
more
to research?” he asked, incredulous.

“Don’t be such a whiner,” Sam replied with a smile. “You’ll love me when I tell you I think I’ve got the premise for our paper figured out.”

Chris perked up immediately. “Out with it.”

“Proven techniques in detecting criminal deception without the use of machines.”

Chris frowned. “Like human lie detectors?”

“Exactly. I’m curious about how criminal-psychology techniques can be applied in daily life, like language or facial expressions—by psychologists, police officers, jurors. You know, ordinary people having to detect lies without the benefit of technology.”

Chris’s face lit up. “So how to detect deception in interviews, on dates, during negotiations—that sort of thing.”

“Exactly,” Sam nodded. “Regular interactions you might be having with a career criminal or a petty thug. Basically liespotting.”

“How’d you get on this?” Chris asked.

“Professor Hammond said the other day that we’re told something between ten and a hundred lies a day, everything from ‘I like your outfit’ to ‘I did not attack that man.’ Remember?”

Chris nodded.

“So that got me to thinking… How many times have I been lied to?” Sam met his eyes. “It’s one thing to be told a little white lie, and it’s a completely different ballgame when you’re being misled about something major—something really meaningful.”
Like when your father withholds important information from you,
she thought, frowning.

Chris’s big hand covered hers on the table. His eyes were kind and maybe a little too understanding. “Happens to the best of us.”

Sam smiled blithely and shrugged, pulling her hand back before she handed him one of the books off her stack. “So I thought we could research some clinically proven methods to detect deception using psychology, linguistics, and body language.” Sam glanced at him askance. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” Chris answered with a broad grin.

Pleased, Sam opened one of the books from the stack. “We don’t have time to run labs or trials, but I found plenty of examples in studies that have already been done on body and language analysis. We just need to find consistent patterns to support our theories.”

Chris picked a book from her stack. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed when you turned me down for a date, but if this pans out, we’re definitely getting an A. And trust me when I say I’m
really
happy about that.”

“I can tell you’re not lying,” Sam teased.

Chris watched her for a moment, openly curious. “So why are you taking this class? Are you a psych major?”

Sam shook her head. “Modern Languages.”

Chris’s brows shot up. “Smart girl.”

“For your sake, I hope you didn’t think you were pairing up with a moron. This paper is worth a third of our grade this semester,” she remarked, reading through the table of contents.

Chris leaned forward. “I knew for a fact I was pairing up with the prettiest
and
smartest girl in the class.”

“You’re a terrible flirt, Chris,” Sam replied with a smirk. “I don’t know who that crap works on, but God help the girl it does.”

“I do all right.” He looked momentarily bemused. “Until you, that is,” he admitted. “So what are you planning on doing with that big brain of yours?”

“Not sure yet,” Sam admitted. “I’m in ROTC, so I’ll definitely be in the service right after school. Figured having multiple languages under my belt would be a useful thing nearly anywhere.”

“How many languages do you speak besides English?”

“Five.”

“
Dayum
…” He raised his brows. “Which ones?”

“Spanish, Japanese; I’m learning Mandarin, and I speak a bit of Cherokee and French.”

“How do you know Japanese and Cherokee?”

“My mother was Japanese. She taught me growing up. And I stuck with it after she died.” She smiled briefly. “Guess it made me feel close to her to read her books. My father still had all his course materials from the military when he was stationed in Japan, and he hired me a tutor.”

“And the Cherokee?” Chris asked, clearly impressed.

“My granddaddy was full Cherokee.” She smiled, remembering. “He was just about my favorite person in the world.”

“So you doing the ROTC thing cause your dad served?” Chris asked.

“My daddy and granddaddy were both in the Navy,” she told him. “I grew up listening to their stories. Always thought I’d want to go on my own adventures one day. How about you?” she asked. “What’s Chris Fields all about?”

“I’m studying communications and journalism. Figure I gotta have a backup plan in case I don’t make the NFL.”

“Smart guy,” she quipped.

Chris rolled his eyes. “For your sake, I hope you didn’t think you were pairing up with a dumb jock for a paper worth a third of our grade.”

“Touché.”

“So where’s home?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh, a ranch a couple hours away,” she replied. “Had the chance to go to school up north, but I’m really close to my little brother. I know it’s not cool to say, but I miss him like crazy most of the time,” she admitted. “He’s coming to campus in a few days with my dad.”

“No, I get it.” Chris pulled out his wallet, flipping a worn and weathered photo out. “I’m from a big family down in Galveston. Freshman year, I missed my mama’s cookin’ so much, I nearly cried the first time she came up here to visit with a pot full of her chili.”

Sam smiled, admiring the candid shot of his family. “It’s a damn shame you’re the ugliest of your brothers,” she teased.

“Ain’t it, though?” he grinned good-naturedly.

“That’s a great photo,” she told him, handing it back.

“Thanks. My roommate took it freshman year. He’s a photographer.” Chris slid the photo back into his wallet. “Guess I should’ve taken better care of it. It’ll probably be worth big bucks one day.”

“Why?”

He looked surprised. “You didn’t hear? He won this award. It’s gonna be in the paper soon.”

“No kidding?” Sam began flipping through the book in front of her, continuing her research.

“Yup,” Chris nodded. “The portrait is hanging over in the Student Center. You should check it out when you get the chance.”

“Sure,” she replied, already distracted. “Let’s get rolling on this. I can’t stay late. Got an early morning tomorrow. We’ve got another obstacle course to get through.”

“Really?” Chris’s brows shot up. “I’ve always been curious what those are like.”

“You never know what you’re up against until you show up,” she admitted. “Could be running miles through mud while they stab us with pitchforks for all I know.”

“Pretty sure that’s hell, Sam,” he commented. “You get pitchforks
after
you kick the bucket. Not before.”

She shot him a wry look. “Clearly, you’ve never trained to be in the military. SEALs are famous for saying the only easy day was yesterday. So quit burning daylight,” Sam told him with a smile. “We’ve got an A to make.”

*

September—Thursday, Early Morning

Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

S A M A N T H A

The cool morning
air washed over her as she picked up her pace, passing Alejandro and another couple guys on the obstacle course, her eyes on the slowly brightening horizon. Morning runs had become part of her ritual since she’d joined ROTC freshman year. They were almost a relief compared to the hard labor she’d had to do before dawn on the ranch growing up. She’d take a fast jog through an obstacle course any day over wrangling steer to pasture before the caffeine kicked in.