The humiliation of yesterday’s elimination challenge still burned in her gut. She’d basically just laid on the ground, helpless and shaking, while Alejandro threatened her like she was a cowering animal.
Sam looked at the bruise again, her hand tightening on the door. To hell with that. She had nothing to hide or be ashamed of. She’d made it through the elimination round after all, even if by a hair. And Alejandro could go screw himself. Let that bastard do his worst. She wouldn’t bow and scrape to him.
“He can kiss my ass,” she muttered, squaring her shoulders as she opened the door to the student center.
“Hey, Sammy!” Ryland called out, eyes alight with excitement and happiness as he caught sight of her across the lobby.
“Hey, Ry,” she called back, her heart expanding.
“There’s a picture of you!” He practically shouted as he bounded toward her, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward a large student art exhibit before she had a chance to hug him.
Ry stopped in front of a large photograph, and Sam took the opportunity to wrap her arms around his small shoulders, giving him a tight hug that nearly lifted him off his feet. Ryland was still skinny and a little scrawny for a twelve-year-old, but he was so winsome and toothy, it didn’t matter. He wiggled a little, laughing before he managed to squirm away enough to point toward the photo.
“See!” he told her excitedly. “It looks like you—just like!”
Sam looked up, surprised to see a large black and white photo of her walking past the Corp Arches, her dark hair whipping in the wind in a dramatic furl. Her face was indistinct in the shot, but she immediately recalled the day it was taken, the blackening storm surrounding her, just minutes before the rains drenched the plains surrounding them.
Sam released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
It was a stunning photo—artfully done. The dark sky behind her was impressive and forbidding, both gorgeous and breathtakingly dangerous, the clouds a wicked spiral. It was just a moment in time, but it looked almost animated. Like you were almost inside the picture if you stared at it long enough.
Her eyes fell to the nameplate by the photo.
Wesley Elliott.
The beautiful photographer was clearly incredibly talented, and now he had a name.
*
September—Same Time
Memorial Student Center, Texas A&M
W E S L E Y
The fine hairs shot up on the back of his neck as he watched his muse walk across the student center. She was headed toward a dark-haired young boy who stood, bouncing, clearly thrilled to see her.
“The journalist is setting up over there by the couches,” Professor Purcell’s TA was saying. “Hey, Wes? You listening?”
He nodded distractedly, eyes fixed on the girl in front of him. He watched as the boy gripped her hand, pulling her over to the photograph Wes had taken of her.
“The reporter will take a photo of you unless you want to submit a head shot of your own—”
“Thanks,” Wes said, cutting the TA off. “I think I’ve got it. Would you excuse me a moment?”
“But—”
Wes strode across the room, right toward his muse. As he neared her, he heard the boy say, “And it won an award—see? Did you pose for the picture?”
Wes watched her lean in, looking closely at the picture he’d taken of her, as if she were trying to discern if it was her or not.
“I’m afraid she didn’t,” Wes said from behind them.
Startled, the girl glanced up, and Wes watched her eyes widen in what seemed like recognition. Wes felt like a magnet snapped into place, the attraction between them nearly kinetic. If he’d thought the girl was breathtaking from afar, she was an absolute stunner up close. He admonished himself for staring, though he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he told her with feeling. “I meant to thank you for the shot. It’s getting published in the paper tomorrow.”
He watched with fascination as surprise, then bewilderment, chased themselves across her features.
She glanced at the photo again. “It’s a beautiful picture, but are you sure it’s me?”
“Absolutely,” he answered readily. “You were the most interesting subject I’d seen all afternoon.”
A distinguished-looking man stepped toward them, clearly their father. Wes instantly saw the family resemblance in the sharp blades of their cheekbones and the hellfire dark eyes. They had Native American blood; that was for certain. But there was something else to his children’s features; some additional element was softening the angles, making them more clement, a shade subtler than this older man’s harshly-defined face.
“What’s this about you being in a photo?” the man asked, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders as he kissed her brow gently. Wes watched high color hit the girl’s cheeks, and he caught the bruise she’d tried to hide on her cheekbone. Wes wondered immediately who had hurt her.
His eyes returned to her father.
“I should introduce myself,” Wes said, watching the man. “I’m Wes. Wes Elliott. I’m a junior here, majoring in communication and journalism,” he told Sam’s father in a good approximation of affability, though he wondered briefly if he’d been the one to mark his daughter. The very idea of it got his back up, and he unwillingly recalled his own mother’s bruises before his good-for-nothing father finally skipped out.
“Robert Wyatt,” the man responded, his handshake firm, his gaze direct and unflinching. Wes noted the expensive watch, congruous with the dress clothes but an odd contrast to the obvious callouses on the man’s hand. Wes understood immediately that this man had come by those callouses honestly, despite the obvious wealth.
Robert Wyatt radiated the personal confidence and powerful demeanor of a self-made man—and the inquisitive acuity of a protective father. The same intuition told him Robert wasn’t responsible for the mark on his daughter’s face. Robert’s grip tightened fractionally around Wes’s hand just before he released him, and Wes felt like he’d been granted some sort of reprieve.
“This is my son, Ryland, and my daughter, Samantha,” Robert Wyatt said. “Sam’s a sophomore here,” he added with a distinct note of pride in his voice.
Wes’s gaze rested on her. Samantha. The name suited her. “How have I not seen you around before?” he asked her.
Samantha shifted, looking uncomfortable under the weight of his attention. “I don’t spend much time on campus outside of classes and ROTC,” she admitted. In an obvious bid for distraction, she nodded toward the photograph. “It’s a lovely shot,” she murmured, her voice warm with a little rasp—like she’d swallowed expensive whisky—a sweet, singed quality to it.
“I had a good subject,” Wes replied, trying to put her at ease. “Got lucky, I guess. Right time, right place.”
Robert Wyatt examined the photo. He glanced back at Wes with a pleased smile on his mouth. “Can I buy the photo, son? This one rarely lets me take pictures of her,” he confided, nodding toward Samantha. “It’d be nice to have a photo of her in the house besides the ugly ones from the yearbook.”
“God, Dad!” she muttered, mortified.
“What?” her father replied, unrepentant. “You always look so damn mean in those photos.”
“It’s true, Sammy,” Ryland chimed in. “You look cranky as all get-out every single year.”
She pinched her brother, making him squeal as he jerked away with an unrepentant grin. “You try lining up for ages in a hot cafeteria to take those damn pictures.”
“I do and I look good,” Ryland sassed before jumping back so she couldn’t pinch him again.
Wes pulled out a tattered Moleskine he took everywhere. Now that he knew her name, there was no way he was going to let her walk away without getting all the information he could. He figured he’d start with her father and work his way around to her, given her surprising reticence.
Wes knew it was pure hubris, b
ut he’d had a way with women all his life. Since he could remember, he’d had no difficulty coaxing whatever he’d wanted from them, but Samantha seemed to shy away from him, nervous, even diffident. Wes recalled the way she’d crossed in front of him that day, the confidence in her carriage, the deliberate gait: head high, back straight. He wondered at her sudden shyness.
Wes opted to address her father directly. “If you give me your address, sir, I’ll print and mat another photo to send to you. It’s the least I could do as a thank you for your daughter’s unwitting participation in my work,” he added with an easy smile.
Robert Wyatt accepted the notebook, jotting down the information in a firm, bold scrawl.
Samantha met his eyes briefly, sending another pleasant jolt to his system, but when she looked away again, Wes scrambled to find another reason to draw her attention back.
“The photograph will be featured in The Statesman tomorrow,” Wes told her, careful to keep his tone a humble brag. “I’m actually here to meet the reporter who’s interviewing some of the featured photographers and artists in this exhibition.” He gestured toward seating area off from the pop-up gallery. “Maybe you could join us?”
“I wish I could,” Sam hedged, clearly looking for an excuse not to. “But we have plans.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Robert Wyatt answered. “My kids and I were going to grab a bite to eat.” He considered Wes briefly as he returned the notebook. “It’s nothing complicated—just some good old-fashioned barbeque. If you’re free after that interview, you’re more than welcome to join us,” he added amiably, though Wes caught the glint in the man’s eye.
Robert Wyatt knew Wes was hankering after his daughter. Clearly, the man was no fool. Wes nearly grinned, recognizing his invitation for what it was—an opportunity to get in a good grilling.
“I’ve never turned down a barbeque,” Wes replied tongue-in-cheek as he offered his arm to Samantha. She looked momentarily confused. “We’re meeting the reporter over there,” he nodded, indicating the group of people milling around the seating area. “Shouldn’t take too long.” He favored her with his best smile, a guaranteed deal-closer with the fairer sex, and certain to deliver what he wanted—even when they knew better.
To his delight, Samantha succumbed, slipping her fingers around his elbow. Wes automatically cinched her closer, delighted when she squeezed back tentatively.
“Ry and I are just going to check out the rest of the exhibit while we wait,” her father called after them.
Samantha only nodded, as Wes led her away.
“You should know I went back every day for a week hoping to see you again,” Wes confided, leaning toward her. He caught a drift of her scent, something lightly floral and deliciously hypnotic, like jasmine. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d dreamed you.”
*
September—Friday, Late Afternoon
Memorial Student Center, Texas A&M
S A M A N T H A
“Honestly, I was just fiddling with time-lapse techniques. The storm rolled in, and I figured I might get very lucky catching a lightning bolt,” Wes explained to the reporter as Sam listened. His striking, golden eyes caught and held hers. “But I captured a completely different kind of lightning altogether,” Wes finished with a wicked grin.
Samantha’s breath hitched as the reporter glanced at her. “So you’re the ‘Unnamed Muse’ Wes named the photograph for?”
“Umm… I suppose I am.” Sam shifted on the sofa, reddening at the sudden attention. “I didn’t realize the photo existed until a few moments ago—much less that it had won an award.”
In the brief time she’d been sitting there, Sam could have sworn she’d fallen down some sort of rabbit hole. She’d gone from being anxious to see her family to being confronted with a guy who made her feel so tongue-tied and stupid, it was a wonder she could answer the reporter’s question at all. What the hell was wrong with her?
The reporter returned to Wes. “So, you two aren’t together?” she asked, her question clearly targeted at a different kind of information gathering.
Samantha pressed her lips together as she considered the reporter. She gauged the woman to be in her mid-twenties, clearly an up-and-comer, wearing a pencil-thin skirt and a silky blouse that was opened just a single button down from appropriate. The reporter leaned toward Wes, making her interest apparent, her behavior a hair’s breadth short of outright flirtation.
Wes sat back against the sofa, legs crossed casually, his expression genial, and his answers just the right amount of modest. But Sam wasn’t buying that b.s.—not for one moment. She’d only just met him, but Sam knew that Wesley Elliott had charisma to burn, magnetism coming off of him like heat. It was impossible to overlook or ignore him. And he knew it too. Sam didn’t know if she liked that about him or if it turned her off, but she watched with unwilling fascination as he turned toward her again, picking up her hand and interlacing their fingers like he’d been doing just that for years—as if he had every right to do it. A frisson of awareness flowed like an undercurrent between them, followed by the sound of alarm bells.
Wes Elliott wasn’t just trouble. He was an alluring, seductive operator who could—and probably had—gotten everything he ever wanted, women included. He was unapologetically, head-snappingly handsome despite being a little rough around the edges. He reminded her a little of the good-looking cowboys her Uncle Grant had occasionally employed during the busier seasons—charming rascals who were oftentimes more trouble than they were worth—the kinds of guys who never stayed around when the best of the action was through, always looking for the next thing.
“We only just met,” Wes told the reporter as he smiled at Sam. “But I’m hoping to win this one over,” he added in a confiding tone. “She’s my muse, after all. And a real thunderbolt.” Wes squeezed her hand.
“So what’s this thunderbolt’s name?” the reporter asked, annoyance flashing briefly before her expression smoothed. She stared Sam down with the eyes of a woman unused to not getting a man’s undivided attention.
“I’d rather not say,” Sam answered quickly, cutting Wes off at the pass. “I’m not interested in any additional attention, and remaining unnamed is my preference. Now if you don’t mind, I actually need to excuse myself,” she finished, pulling her hand from Wes’s grip. “Congratulations again on the win. It was nice meeting you, Wesley Elliott.”
Sam stood quickly, but Wes was faster.
“Where are you going?” he asked, snagging her elbow as she turned to go.
“I haven’t seen my brother in a few weeks,” Sam said in a low voice, so the reporter couldn’t hear. “I really want to spend some time with him before he has to leave. We’ve only got a few hours.” She met Wes’s eyes. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you would stay here and talk to this reporter. I know my dad invited you but—”
“You think I’m going to let you leave just after I finally met you?” Wes asked, incredulous.
The reporter watched on in obvious interest.
“Look. I apologize if you received some mixed signals, but I’m not looking to get involved with anyone—”
“Are we talking about a barbeque or an arranged marriage here?”
“We’re talking about neither,” Sam answered quickly. “Please don’t let me keep you.” She pulled away, moving backward in a quick two-step even as Wes advanced.
“You’re not keeping me,” Wes replied, slipping his hand around the small of her waist as he drew her toward him. “Not yet, anyway,” he murmured, close to her ear.
Sam breathed his scent in, imagining for a split second that his skin would taste a little spicy if she touched her lips to it—her eyes popped open. Holy shit.
Wesley Elliott was bold as brass and astonishingly provocative without even really trying. Sam might not be very experienced, but she knew better than to play with fire. And Wes burned bright. Bright and hot. Too hot.
Sam snapped back, eyes w
ide as she stared at him with a mixture of embarrassment and self-recrimination.
“I have to go,” she insisted.
His amber eyes glittered. “I’ll find you again, Samantha Wyatt,” he murmured, releasing her gently.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she told him honestly.
“And why’s that?” he asked, his slow smile utterly disarming.
“Like I said, I’m not looking for anything—”
Wes leaned toward her. “Good thing you’re not the one who will be doing the looking.” He glanced over her shoulder to where her father and brother were waiting. “Send your dad my regards. Tell him I got tied up. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m standing him up, after all. I’d like to stay on his good side while I’m chasing after his daughter.”
“You’re either deaf or you’ve got a big set of balls, Wesley Elliott,” she replied tartly.
“Probably a bit of both,” he admitted with an amused expression. “My mama always said I had selective hearing. And as for the other thing… Well, guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”
Dear Lord. Sam flushed. “That’s my cue to go.”
The reporter tapped Wes on the shoulder. “Are we continuing with this interview, Wes, or should I move on?”
“He’s all yours,” Sam replied, neatly stepping away.
She didn’t look back as she left him, though she could have sworn she heard his soft chuckle.
About Alexi Lawless.
Corporate Runaway. Novelist. Wanderer. Bourbon Drinker.
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Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 57