Goddess Rising (62 page)

Wes looked at the screen. He finished reading through the last couple paragraphs of the series, made some finishing touches, and leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head as he grinned up at her. “Because it’s really goddamn good, that’s why.”

And it was. Miranda was a spectacular writer. She’d done an incredible job bringing the stories of the Polunksy death row inmates to vivid, humanizing light while raising the racial issue in a thought-provoking way. The series was engaging, jarring, and best of all—it was juicy. The kind of story that would turn heads and raise questions.

Paired with his photographs—a startling combination of heavily grained monochromatic close-ups that Richard Avedon would have approved of and prison scenes playing on light and shadow—the whole package was edgy enough to be a standout, but polished enough to be professional. If Purcell and the panel at
The Statesman
weren’t impressed as hell, he’d eat his hat.

“You really think so?” she asked, uncertain, but hopeful he wasn’t jerking her chain.

Wes hit “save” and stood up. “It’s really goddamn good,” he said again, looking her square in the eye. “And you know I wouldn’t just say that—not with this much on the line.”

Miranda chewed on her lip, searching his face. When she saw the complete and total confidence he had in their work, the
we’ve-got-this-in-the-bag
smile, she launched herself into his arms.

“You’re serious?” Miranda asked. “You better not be messing with me, Wes!”

“I am one-hundred-percent serious,” he told her emphatically. “I’ll be shocked as shit if we don’t win this thing.”

Miranda whooped in delight and relief, her baby blues sparkling as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “Oh my God! Oh my God!
Ohmigod
—” she trilled, delivering a happy smattering of loud, smacking kisses to his cheeks and forehead, accidentally hitting his bruised nose.

Wes squeezed his eyes shut on a wince, though he was smiling too, laughing with her until she laid one on him. He stiffened in shock when it happened—her mouth warm against his, the feeling familiar and carnal and sweet all at once. He registered it all with a sort of restless awareness before opening his eyes, staring down at her as she pushed closer, her breasts against his chest, her body warm. His arms had gone around her automatically when she’d leapt toward him, but now he ran his hands along her sides as he gripped her. Not holding her to him, but not pushing her back either.

“
Miranda
—” he breathed, staring at her. After the long, difficult, and lonely week he’d had, it would be so easy to find comfort here. She was lovely and she cared about him. And he wanted to be cared for…so badly.

But not by her.

Wes watched as Miranda slowly opened her eyes, like the spell had been broken. She drew her hands in as she stepped back from him, contrition and pained embarrassment chasing themselves across her face.

“Christ—this keeps happening, doesn’t it?” she muttered, pushing a hand through her hair. “I heard you’d broken up with Sam,” she admitted. “I tried to get ahold of her, but still—I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“You heard right,” Wes admitted. “We’re through.”

Her head popped up. She looked a little less mortified and little more puzzled.

“Which one ended it?” she asked.

Ah, Miranda. Ever the journalist.

Wes smiled bitterly. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Miranda, I mean this with all due respect, because I consider you a friend, but it’s really none of your business.”

She smirked. “That’s a nice way of saying ‘butt out.’” She eyed his nose. “She do that to you?”

Wes shook his head. “Chris.”

“Damn,” She answered, eyebrows raised. “There’s a very good story there, I’m sure.”

“Not really.”

Miranda scoffed, crossing her arms. “Wes, if breaking up with Sam wasn’t a profound loss for you, my ankles would be up to my ears by now.”

“Jesus, Miranda.” He shot her a look of censure.

She lifted a brow. “Am I wrong?”

Leave it to her to state the narrative bluntly. But he couldn’t argue, because she wasn’t wrong. The Wes of a few months ago would have walked away from Sam without a second thought. And that guy would have pushed Miranda up against the very wall he was leaning on. Wes rubbed a tired hand gingerly down his bruised face, not wanting to relive the ordeal again. But for some reason, he knew with certainty she’d give him her frank opinion. And after days of living too much in his own head and with no one to really talk to about Sam, he figured he didn’t have much to lose by telling her what was on his mind at least.

“The abbreviated version is that I shouldn’t have ended things. I hurt her bad,” Wes admitted. “And now I don’t think there’s any way I could ever get that girl back.”

“Why did you end things with Sam, Wes?” Miranda asked.

He sighed. “Because I’m a yellow-bellied idiot. The closer we got, the more I started second-guessing why she was with me, and things got ugly, fast.”

“Yeah, you’re an idiot, alright,” Miranda agreed readily, leaning back against the desk. “That girl’s way out of your league. You were lucky to land her in the first place.”

“You think I’m not painfully aware of that fact?” The very last thing Wes needed to hear from Miranda was what a moron he was. Now he wondered if he should have told her anything in the first place.

“Have you tried getting her back?” Miranda asked him point blank.

Wes shot her a
how dumb do you think I am?
look.

Miranda shook her head, laughing softly at him. “Wes, no college-aged guy is good enough for the girl he wants. That’s why girls tend to like older men, generally speaking. Those kinds of men have been around the block some, and they know how to treat a woman by that point. But the way you two feel about each other—I’d wager Sam’ll take you back if you don’t give her a good reason not to.”

He rubbed a hand at his neck. “You really think so?”

“For a guy who supposedly knows women as well as you think you do, you’re pretty dumb, Wes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know Sam loves you as much as you love her. You just need to pull your head out of your ass, admit to what you did, and beg for forgiveness.” Her smile was damn-near feline. “Girls like the groveling, Wes. Works every time. The more, the better.”

Wes looked up at the ceiling, considering it. “I hurt her pretty bad, Miranda. Said some things that cut her to the quick.”

“Then nut up and fix it,” she replied, shrugging. “Because Sam’s not coming back to you otherwise. She’s too smart for that—got a good head on her shoulders, and she knows you don’t deserve her anyway—hell, you basically proved it. But I’m telling you, man—love has a strange effect. Makes us do things we shouldn’t, even if we know better.”

“How do you know?” he asked, skeptical.

Miranda crossed her arms. “I keep kissing you when I know you don’t want me back, don’t I?”

Surprised, Wes raised his brows in question.

“You really are an idiot, Wes,” Miranda remarked. “It’s so damn obvious to everyone except you.”

He blinked. “What are you on about?”

“I’m in love with you, you stupid jerk,” she told him frankly, baby blues bright with emotion.

Wes backed up a couple steps, halted, and then stepped forward. Miranda was his buddy, his confidante, his pace car. He’d always thought of her as a good friend. Someone he admired, sure, and yeah, they’d had some good times, but—

Miranda held a hand up before he could say anything. “Look, I don’t expect anything from you, Wes. And I didn’t tell you to make you feel weird—”

“Miranda, I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely apologetic. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t, Wes,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m not under any illusions.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

She shrugged lightly. “That’s my point, Wes. A girl can hope, and Lord knows, love makes women messy.” She took a breath, let go of a little wistful sigh. “My point is, you’re not good enough for me, and you’re definitely not good enough for Sam, but that’s not a measure most girls give a damn about. Not when it comes to you.”

“Why not?”

“Let me ask you something,” Miranda said, changing tactics. “You were raised by a single mama, right?”

“So?” He blinked, confused.

“Any guy she ever brought home good enough for her?” she asked. “Including your daddy?”

“No.” Wes’s chin jutted up. “Especially not my good-for-nothing daddy.”

“I rest my case.”

“I’m not my father,” Wes told her resolutely.

“Really? Because he sounds like a quitter,” she observed. “And that’s exactly what you are if you don’t come to your senses and go get the girl, Wes.”

October—Friday Afternoon

Student Recreation Center, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

S
he wasn’t a
hundred percent on her game, but she was holding her own—just barely.

Sam panted as Alejandro hit out at her, employing everything at his disposal—fists, elbows, knees, kicks. She had no doubt he would have bitten her if she’d let him get close enough, and if he wasn’t wearing a mouth guard.

“Stop playing defense, Wyatt!” their Navy SEAL trainer, Chief Petty Officer Raymond Clarke commanded as he circled them on the wrestling mat. “You hit first, and you hit
hard
. You get your strikes in first—don’t wait for De Soto to back you into a corner!”

Alejandro came at her with a fast combo of punches followed by an elbow and a swift knee. Sam parried and blocked, moving out of his path, looking for a break in his momentum.

“Come on—
go at him!”
Clarke shouted.

All her life, Sam had only fought defensively. She excelled at blocks, throws, chokes, and pins—all tactics that required using someone’s momentum and power against them. She’d never just come right out and beaten someone down without them starting it. Alejandro, on the other hand, was the direct opposite. He attacked fast and furiously, launching his retaliation well before the bell even rang, a study in overwhelming force. He narrowly missed her face with a strong right elbow that Sam just managed to dodge, leveraging his forward momentum to shove him to the mat. She aimed a kick at his ribs and he caught her foot, yanking her down with brute strength as he rolled over.

She landed on him and immediately went for a pin.

“Aim is to kill or severely incapacitate—not to get him to submit,” Clarke coached, circling them on the mat as they struggled. On the ground, Alejandro was slower and less capable. Sam took advantage of his brief scramble to maneuver around him and get him into a sleeper chokehold, leveraging her legs to yank his head back. He gritted his teeth, breathing hard, hands squeezing her arm, attempting to pry her off. Sam snapped back harder—forcing a wheeze of breath out of him in a high whistle. He grappled uselessly against her relentless hold, grunting as she squeezed him tighter.

“Good, good!” Clarke told her, kneeling beside them. “Wait three, maybe four more seconds, when he’s about to black out, and then you snap his neck, like this—” Clarke put his hands around Alejandro’s temple and one at the back of back of his neck, showing her where to grip. “A vicious, fast twist,” he coached her.

Alejandro stiffened hard once, then his body began to loosen, the hardscrabble around her arms diminishing as he began to lose consciousness in her grip. Sam was sweating and breathing hard, staring at Clarke as he looked back at her, as if he was trying to ascertain whether she’d be able to do it or not. Clarke had midnight black skin and eyes a few shades lighter, an entrancing hazel. Sam kept her eyes on his as she felt Alejo go lax, then she moved her hands into position exactly as Clarke had showed her. She held Alejandro’s head in her hands, one swift move away from ending him. A position of power she’d longed for just a few short weeks ago.

The group of cadets around them seemed to hold their breaths, thinking she might actually do it, given their history. Rita moved to the edge of the mat, her eyes watchful, posture tense. Sam moved slowly to show Clarke she’d understood his instructions. Sam gripped Alejandro’s head from the front, her other hand at the back of his neck, and she slowly pulled it to the side, her eyes never leaving Clarke’s face.

The SEAL smiled grimly and nodded once, standing slowly and stepping back.

Sam slid out from under Alejo’s unconscious form, gently laying him back against the mat.

Rita came to stand beside her, patting her on the back.

“I was worried for a second there,” she murmured.

“Don’t be,” Sam replied, glancing down at Alejo’s inert body. “Your cousin just needed a little nap is all.”

Rita snickered just as Clarke gathered the group around him.

“Hand-to-hand is about how fast you can kill or maim,” Clarke explained, looking at the cadets sternly. “You don’t want your enemy to get back up again to present a threat while you or your team are still in the vicinity.”

Four SEALs had shown up to train them for today’s FTX, each hard-edged and disciplined, ready to whip them into line. Or at least scare the cadets senseless. Clarke was their leader, breaking them into individual groups for the training, under Sasser’s watchful eye. And train them they did—mercilessly, SEAL-style, giving the group the occasional luxury of a water break to break up the last four hours they’d been working on hand-to-hand techniques.