Goddess Rising (20 page)

“Wes is an incredibly gifted photographer,” Miranda replied.

“You wouldn’t tell him I bought it though, would you?” Sam bit her lip. “If I did, that is.”

“Why would I?”

Sam looked at her. “I got the feeling last time we talked that you two were a thing.”

Miranda laughed lightly, shaking her head. “No, not a thing. Just friends and occasional rivals.”

There was something there, but Sam couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “You sure?”

Miranda met her eyes. “Are you really interested in Wes, Samantha?”

She turned away and walked a couple steps toward the next photograph. “I’m interested in getting out from under the shadow of a man who has been the center of my life in one way or another for as long as I can remember,” she admitted. “No use in trading one piece of shade for another, right?”

“No wonder you’ve never been in love,” Miranda observed, following her. “You don’t want to be defined by a man, let alone consumed by one.” She considered Wes’s work with a discerning eye. “And Wes definitely has the potential to be the all-consuming kind.”

“I came to college to be my own person.”

“You can love someone and still maintain your own identity,” Miranda pointed out gently. “You don’t have to give up one to have the other.”

“Maybe, but I’ve never been good at splitting focus,” Sam answered, moving toward another section of the gallery.

“We’re women, honey. Multi-tasking is sort of our genetic forte,” Miranda teased. “But I hear you. You always struck me as the driven type. And boys are a terrible, if not incredibly fun, distraction,” she added with a little wink.

“I get the feeling I’m not the only one here who’s driven,” Sam remarked, glancing at Miranda’s laptop case and bulging notebook peeking from her shoulder bag.

Miranda chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “You’re right about that.”

“This got anything to do with the story you told me about?”

Miranda nodded. “I’m going after an internship with
The Statesman
. There’s an annual internship competition, and my professor thinks my story’s got legs.”

“Miranda, that’s awesome,” Sam marveled.

“Only if I win it,” Miranda said with a noncommittal shrug. “Here’s to hoping.”

Sam shook her head. “No hope in it. It’s hard work, talent, and tenaciousness that get you what you want. You’ve got all three in spades.”

“Says the girl on a mission,” Miranda teased, nodding back toward the photo of her.

“Takes one to know one,” Sam answered with a smile.

September—Monday Morning

Professor Purcell’s Office, Texas A&M

W E S L E Y

W
es knocked on
the frosted glass door of Professor Purcell’s office, hoping he was already in there despite the early hour.

“Come in.”

He took a deep breath, opening the door.

“Hey, Wes,” Professor Purcell murmured, glancing up at him from his desk. “How was your weekend?”

“What would my getting serious about being a photojournalist entail?” Wes asked, right out the gate. He’d been thinking about it all weekend—to the point where it already seemed like a foregone conclusion.

Max Purcell set down his papers as he peered at Wes over his glasses. “Any particular reason for the sudden commitment?”

I met a girl. And she expects better than a slacker who’s slinging beer and selling counterfeit IDs on the side. And if I’m halfway honest, I’d like to see if I’ve got the chops to do it.

“The interview with
The Statesman
opened my eyes, I guess,” Wes answered as he sat down in front of his teacher. “I always thought that the most I’d amount to was maybe being a cameraman on some morning news show in Austin or something.”

“No shame in that,” Purcell replied carefully.

Wes picked up an old dog-eared copy of TIME magazine. “You ever regretted going for it? When you were a photojournalist, back in the day?”

Purcell’s focus dropped to the magazine, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Not one minute of it. Hardest job I ever had, but I never loved anything more than the front lines.”

“And you think I’ve got what it takes?” Wes asked, setting the magazine down.

Purcell sat back, considering him. “What have you got to lose, Wes?”

He recalled Samantha sitting in his shirt across from him at his kitchen table. He remembered the determination in her eyes when she talked about why she was doing ROTC that night at Dixie’s. Truth was, she inspired the hell out of him. She knew what she wanted, and she was going right after it. Against all sorts of odds.

“I don’t have anything to lose,” Wes admitted. “I don’t want to look back and wonder if I shouldn’t have tried harder. Worked harder, even if it doesn’t pan out.”

“It’s not an easy life, Wes,” Purcell warned, leaning back in his leather chair. “You’re on the road all the time, capturing other people’s lives instead of out there living your own.”

“Thought you wanted me to do this,” Wes pointed out.

“I do,” Purcell nodded. “I just want you to know that being great at this kind of living requires a great deal of sacrifice. You go down this path, you need to be aware of that. You’re not dropping in and out of some nine to five. You’re living in the foxhole, seeing everything like a nomad. There isn’t a lot of space for anything else.”

“That why you quit?”

Purcell sat back in his seat. “Took me a couple divorces and an angry adolescent son to figure out not everyone is cut out for the life. I just had to change my priorities.”

Wes recognized he was toeing the precipice, making the first big decision he’d ever really made for himself; it was the first real risk he’d ever taken for a future he’d never really allowed himself to believe in.

“I’m not coasting anymore,” he said, resolute. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Professor Purcell sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “
The Statesman
has two internship spots open. There’s an unofficial competition between A&M and UT Austin for the spots. A dozen journalism students competing with compelling stories.”

Wes nodded. “I bet a recommendation from you goes a long way.”

“It’s a competitive situation, Wes. I’ve already got someone going after that spot, and they’ve got a very good chance of winning.”

Wes thought through all the best A&M journalism majors, flipping through the individuals in his mind rapidly like a slide carousel. Before he landed on one, Purcell said the name.

“Miranda Cross,” he told Wes. “She’s good.”

She
was
good. Wes knew firsthand. Great writer, good technical experience, somewhat decent photographer, and a knockout in the sack. Or in their case, the darkroom. Two, maybe three times last year. They’d remained friendly, their casual encounters just shy of affectionate. He liked her, respected her work. Miranda was fierce, independent, and talented.

Remind you of anyone?
His mind whispered.

“Great—I could use a pace car,” Wes replied jauntily. “What’s the first assignment?”

Purcell smiled. “First rule of photojournalism—cover an eye-catching story nobody else has, can get, or even wants to. Got anything like that?”

Wes smiled slowly. “Yeah, I think I’ve got something in mind.” He leaned forward. “But I think I’m going to need your help pulling a few strings first…”

*

September—Monday Morning

Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

Chris dropped into
the seat beside Sam and laid his head against her shoulder as the rest of the class filed in, taking their seats in the lecture hall.

“I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt,” he told her pitifully, lolling against her as she smiled down at him.

“Oh, I know you did,” Sam teased. “Even Johnny Cash probably couldn’t have put away as much tequila as you did, buddy.”

“Buddy?” Chris looked affronted. “I’ve been friend-zoned posthaste ’cause you saw my head in the toilet, haven’t I?”

“You surprised?” Sam replied with a smirk, flipping open her notebook. “What girl wants to date a guy she’s seen crying for his mommy?”

“I did, didn’t I?” Chris sighed, forlorn. “What about you? You look alright.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t too far behind you,” she admitted. “I just missed the porcelain god by a few shots, I suppose.” Sam wondered if Wes had mentioned to Chris that she’d spent the night in his bed. “Guess I got lucky.”

“Well, I tried to call you earlier, on account of how embarrassed I was about how our first date went—”

“
First
date?” Sam lifted a brow. “What makes you think I’ll let you take me out again?”

“Cause I ain’t drinking anymore!” he swore, holding up three fingers in a Scout salute. “Swear to God.”

“Better not go telling tales,” Sam chided. “Besides, it’s all good, Chris. We had a fun night out. I coulda done without the headache the next day, but nothing happened that I didn’t willingly participate in.”

Now wasn’t that the truth?
Sam pushed her guilt back as Chris smiled with relief.

“So you’ll go out with me again?” he asked hopefully, blue eyes earnest.

Sam considered him. It’d be so easy to be with a guy like Chris. Simple, uncomplicated fun. He was just as focused and committed to his football career as she was to the Ranger Challenge. And he was honest and decent and nice. What you saw was what you got with him. Basically the exact opposite of Wes.

“Let’s just make it through this class, first,” she suggested as Professor Hammond walked into the room. “Then you can take me to lunch and see if you can talk me into something that doesn’t involve Firewater.”

The lecture passed by quickly. Sam focused on taking notes as Chris playfully kicked her foot a couple times, trying to get her attention. As they stood to leave, Professor Hammond called her down to the podium while the other students cleared the room.

“Uh-oh,” Chris murmured, ducking his head. “I’d better wait for you outside.”

Sam shrugged, wondering what their teacher wanted with her.

Professor Hammond looked pristine and polished as always. Sam could tell she’d been beautiful once, though the woman was handsome now, with lush silver streaks shot through her dark hair. She watched Sam approach with sharp eyes and an astute expression.

“Yes, ma’am?” Sam asked, shifting her messenger bag back onto her shoulder.

“You’ve been doing an excellent job in this class,” Hammond told her, making no bones, no small talk.

“Thank you. I’ve been really enjoying it so far,” Sam answered honestly.

“I can see that.” Her professor nodded. “I understand you’re interested in linguistics?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have you considered what you’d do with that when you graduate?”

“I thought maybe I’d become an interpreter for the UN or maybe join the Foreign Service,” Sam told her. “But my dad wants me to run the family business, so I’m not really sure I’ll have much of a say in the matter,” she admitted, shifting on her feet.

“That’s understandable.” Hammond leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms. “I have another question for you: Have you considered the CIA or the FBI?”

Sam’s brows shot up.

Hammond smiled. “I take it that’s a
‘no.’
”

“I guess the idea of being a spy never really crossed my mind.”

“I was actually thinking more along the lines of a negotiator or an interrogator.” Professor Hammond cocked her head. “That’s a very specialized skill, Ms. Wyatt. But I think you may have a natural aptitude for that type of work. Coupled with your language interests, you may have an incredibly versatile set of options, don’t you agree?”

Sam blinked.

“You’re analytical, cool-headed, and perceptive,” Professor Hammond continued. “Not to mention the fact that you’re not afraid of confrontation. From what I can tell, you’ve got one hell of a poker face.” She pulled a book from the desk and handed it to Sam.

It was a heavy, leather-bound copy of
The Reid Technique of Interviewing and Interrogation.

“I want you to read that and come back to me,” Hammond told her. “It’s just one school of thought related to the practice of interviewing and interrogation. If you’re interested in learning more about psychology as a major, let me know.”