Goddess Rising (43 page)

“She’s right, Alejo,” Rita added, squeezing her cousin’s shoulder.

Alejandro stayed quiet for a couple minutes, mulling over the options, and probably weighing how much he hated Sam versus how much he thought he could gain from an alliance with her.

Sam stood still and serious, waiting for him to come to his senses.

“You slack off or drag me down in any way, I’ll end you,” he said after a long pause.

Sam smiled slowly. “Check your ego at the door, De Soto. You’ll do well to try to keep up with me.”

He crossed the room and slowly, deliberately extended his hand. “The goal is we beat every ROTC record we can this year,” he said, his voice and expression completely serious.

She clasped his hand. “Agreed.”

“And we don’t hang out or talk or braid each other’s hair between training, right? We’re not friends,” he said sternly. “We’re just partners.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “The only thing we do together is go down in history as the best military duo this school has ever seen.”

September—Monday Morning

Professor Purcell’s Office, Texas A&M

W E S L E Y

W
es stood outside
Professor Purcell’s office for a good ten minutes, pacing, and planning what he was going to say. It had been a long damn weekend, and Wes felt like a freaking yo-yo—high from Sam on Friday, side-swiped by her father on Saturday, then nearly manic trying to come up with viable alternatives to, or at least some damn good excuses for, bailing out of a contest he’d practically begged his way into.

Any way Wes looked at it, he didn’t have a good enough alternative for the story, and Purcell wouldn’t be satisfied with any excuse Wes gave, no matter how reasonable. Purcell wouldn’t want to hear that Sasser had pulled his access, and Wes definitely wasn’t admitting he’d signed an NDA like a complete coward just so he could screw himself over by violating said NDA within thirty-six hours of signing it.

But there was no way to face the music except to just do it. So Wes stepped up to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in.”

Wes opened the door after he heard Purcell’s muffled response. “Sir, can I have a moment—”

“Goddamn, these are terrible.” Purcell sat behind his broad, old desk, a dozen photos spread out in front of him.

Wes stepped forward and peered down at the desk, curious about what Purcell was referring to and more than a little willing to procrastinate on his admission.

They were photos of inmates—harshly done, a cross between mug shots and austere black-and-white portraiture.
Miranda’s work
, Wes realized quickly. The result of her portraits was harrowing—you
wanted
to dislike the subjects. They looked exactly like the murderers and rapists they’d been convicted as, not as sons and fathers and brothers. Wes had thought Miranda was going for a more empathetic feel, something to show the humanity of these prisoners. Flawed, certainly, but still—individuals with lost souls, given the slant of her article.

“Miranda’s a damn good writer, don’t get me wrong, but—” Purcell lifted up a sheaf of papers he’d already edited and red-inked—clearly her
Statesman
article submissions. “That girl has no understanding of light or composition—”

“Or how to humanize her subjects,” Wes finished for him, leaning over the desk. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the article.

Purcell handed it over and Wes skimmed through it.

Holy shit, it was good.

Damn
good.

There were some novice errors and a little hyperbole, but Miranda had the chops to write at a national level, and she was still only a junior. Wes realized suddenly that even if he had gotten to do the articles as he’d intended, she probably would have smoked him—with the exception of the photography, that is.

“She was always going to hand me my ass, wasn’t she?” he murmured, looking up at Purcell.

His teacher smiled behind his hand. “Well, you said you needed a pace car.”

“If you call Dale Earnhardt’s #3 a pace car,” Wes replied.

Purcell chuckled softly. “I like your gumption, though, Wes. I like that you’re taking this seriously.”

“Sir, about that…” Wes bit his lip, setting Miranda’s article down.

Purcell sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap. He had the look of a man expecting to receive bad news.

“I can’t write the articles as I originally intended,” Wes admitted in a single rushed breath, like the faster he said it, the less likely his favorite professor and advisor would be disappointed by the admission. That, or maybe he was afraid that if he didn’t say it fast, he wouldn’t say it at all.

“Why?” Purcell asked, cocking his head.

“A couple reasons: Sasser pulled my access and is threatening intellectual-property-rights claims from the school if I try to publish anything without his say-so, and I—” he swallowed. Forced himself to continue. “I’ve developed feelings for my subject. I’m not impartial on this anymore. Doing a story on her specifically would be exploitative of a personal relationship I’m developing with her, and I don’t want—I
can’t
be that guy. No matter how badly I want this internship.”

Purcell leaned back in his chair. “This the girl from the time-lapse you took? ‘
The Unnamed Muse
’?”

Wes looked at him blankly. “How did you know?”

Purcell rested his chin on his clasped fingertips as he watched Wes over his horn-rimmed glasses. “This girl the reason you got so interested in the internship to begin with?” he asked instead, ignoring the question.

Wes shuffled uncomfortably. “At first.”

Purcell cocked his head. “And now?”

“I realized I wanted to do more with my skill than just impress a girl,” Wes admitted. “But I’m not willing to use her to do it either. So that’s changed.”

Purcell nodded. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“Honestly, I thought you’d be in here sooner,” his professor told him. “Sasser called me and told me he wasn’t supporting the article idea, after I’d pulled the strings to get you in there in the first place.” He smiled grimly at Wes’s look of surprise. “Sasser and I go back. He wanted me to know it was nothing personal.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Purcell leaned forward. “Because I wanted to see how seriously you were really taking all this, Wes. When I saw you still working on the article anyway, I figured maybe you’d figured something else out. I liked the initiative. I liked that you weren’t giving up the first time it got hard.”

“Even if I didn’t have a chance?” Wes picked up the draft of Miranda’s article again. “Miranda was going to win, hands down—no matter what I wrote.”

Purcell pulled off his glasses, considering him as he leaned back again. “Wes, you’re a better photographer than you are a writer. She’s a better writer than she is a photographer. You see where I’m going with this?”

Wes put the article down. “You want us to pair up.”

“Between the two of you, you’ve got that
Statesman
article in the bag.”

Then the realization hit him. “You planned this all along didn’t you?” Wes asked.

Purcell shrugged. “Well, I knew what you two were coming to the table with. Figured I’d let you get far enough along before you realized you’re better matched up than competing against each other.”

“Is there even a real contest?” Wes asked, dubious.

“There sure is,” Purcell nodded. “But it’s for two slots, remember? Figure that works out just right—a staff writer and a staff photographer. You win this, and you both get a big résumé builder and the experience you need to land something substantial when you graduate.”

And I could do it without Robert Wyatt’s help. Sam would never have to know about the deal I made…

A slow smile rose. “You’re a wily old coot, aren’t ya?”

Purcell’s grin was pure mischief. “Well…yeah. And it just so happens that Miranda’s got to go back up to the prison tomorrow. Maybe you can hitch a ride.”

*

September—Tuesday Afternoon

Somewhere on TX-30 E, heading to Polunsky, Texas

W E S L E Y

Wes rolled down
the window of Miranda’s ancient VW Rabbit, smiling a little as he flipped through the little CD holder he’d found wedged between the seat and the console.

She glanced at him sideways, the wind whipping her hair around a little. “What?”

“You’re definitely a girl’s girl, M,” he teased. “This is like the Lilith Fair encapsulated. Sarah McLachlan, Sheryl Crow, Luscious Jackson, Indigo Girls—”

She swatted his leg playfully. “That’s some good shit, you country hick.”

“Just sayin’—” Wes smirked. “If you’re going to be a hardened journalist interviewing death row inmates for a living, you might want to toughen it up a little.” He shrugged. “You know, get yourself into their mindset.”

Miranda shot him an amused look. “You’re the one who got reassigned to my beat, Elliott. Seems like I’ve been doing alright so far, if you had to can your article and come latch on to mine—”

“
Help
you with yours,” Wes corrected affably. “Besides, Purcell was right. You and I together make one hell of a duo. No way will we lose those internships now.”

Miranda glanced at him again, her brow knitted a little behind the shade of her sunglasses. “Is that what we are? Wasn’t sure after you ran out of Viz Lab like a scalded cat last time I touched you.”

Wes busied himself with slipping a CD into the player. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Miranda and Wes had been friends and classmates first, before they’d ever hooked up. And since then, they’d been casual competitors who enjoyed a little fun, no-strings-attached sex on the fly. He’d known she was going to bring it up—he just hoped it wasn’t going to be a big thing.

“I was shocked as shit if we’re going to be honest about it,” Miranda admitted, wry. “I’ve never known you to turn down nookie.”

“Yeah, well…” Wes stretched his long legs out in front of him before looking over at her. “I should tell you that I’ve started seeing someone,” he admitted.

If Miranda was surprised, she hid it well. “Anyone I know?” she asked lightly.

He paused a beat. “Samantha.”

Her slender hands tightened a little on the wheel. “Wes, I know you’re a bit of a dog, but isn’t she with your roommate?”

“
Was
,” Wes amended with a slight wince. “And it was a mutual thing that they broke it off.”

She looked at him in askance. “So you just swooped right in?”

“There was something between us from day one,” he replied with a shrug. “Just took us a minute to get there.”
Because Sam doesn’t all-the-way trust me. And maybe in the beginning, I didn’t give her much reason to
.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, listening to Sheryl Crow strum and croon.

“So I know this is nosy as hell,” Miranda began, “and I’m just a girl you hooked up with a few times—”

Wes glanced over at her. “You’re my partner-in-crime, Miranda. I don’t think of you like one of my regular hookups.”

She shrugged a little, a faint blush under her sunglasses. “Fact is, Wes, I
am
one of your hookups. Or I used to be.”

Wes rubbed the back of his neck, feeling karma pushing up against him in a big way. “That going to be a problem, Miranda?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” she said with a quick smile. “I guess I’m just curious is all.”

“About?” he prompted.

“I know Sam. We’ve been friends for a year now. She’s cool as hell, so take what I ask with that in mind, okay?”

Wes nodded.

“One of the biggest players on campus gets taken down by a pretty tomboy who spends all her free time practicing a hundred different ways to kill a man.” Miranda smirked a little. “This doesn’t strike you as ironic?”

Wes’s chuckle welled up in his chest. “Guess I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“You pick the one chick on campus to get with who could, and probably
will
, seriously injure you if you cross her, Wes.”

He closed his eyes, leaning against the headrest. “Maybe I just enjoy living dangerously.”