“Do not call me that,” Sam replied through gritted teeth, even though she knew it was pointless. All returning sophomores in the university’s ROTC program were known as “pissheads,” just like all freshmen were called “fish.”
“And you’re not in my chain of command,” she added, eyes narrowing.
“I’m in every sophomore cadet’s chain of command,” Alejandro countered, though that was only partially true. She wasn’t technically in the Army ROTC. She was still “undeclared,” so to speak, though if her father had anything to say about it, she’d be a midshipman cadet with the Navy ROTC before the year was out, continuing the Wyatt family tradition.
Alejandro was one of the best Army cadets at the university, a shoe-in for Ranger School, and his hubris went unchecked as talk of Delta Force intensified. He was a grade A asshole of the highest order, but he was good. And everybody knew it. Sam suspected that’s why he’d gotten away with the amount of hazing he inflicted on the underclassmen, particularly the freshmen. She suspected that’s why everyone turned a blind eye when he broke underclassmen down into sniveling, pathetic messes.
Everyone but her, that is.
She’d been the only one to withstand it, stone-faced and impassive in the face of his near-constant abuse. He’d had a full year to break her down. But she hadn’t budged—much to his consternation.
Alejandro stepped closer. He was tall, over six feet already, and strapping, despite the youth of his face. He was reinforcing his position over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on him. Sam stood rigid, wet clothes dripping on the tile floor, listening distantly to the sound of thunder rumbling over the building.
School wasn’t starting for a couple more weeks, and the foyer outside the ROTC office was empty except for them. She’d deliberately scheduled her appointment with Colonel Sasser for the end of the day, hoping to catch him before he went home. She realized now that Alejandro must have known she was coming, deciding to head her off at the pass. Maybe scare her a little to set the tone for the year.
“Why are you here, pisshead?” he asked.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business why I’m here.”
He crossed his arms and glared down at her. “I’ll block your early access to the Corp housing if you don’t answer.”
“I’m off campus this year,” she replied, lifting a brow. “I’m surprised your cousin didn’t tell you.”
She’d offered Marguerita Ramos, his cousin and her freshman-year roommate, a chance to share the apartment she’d rented just a stone’s throw away from campus. Rita was the only good thing that had come out of her early fallout with Alejandro. Rita was the yin to his yang, because the only reason Rita had come to Texas from Chicago at all was because she’d followed her rat-bastard cousin here. And the only reason Rita had joined ROTC was because of her rat-bastard cousin’s influence.
Sam half-suspected no real harm had ever been visited upon her by Alejandro or his crew was because of Rita—because Sam and Rita had gotten on like gangbusters from week one. Two soul sisters from radically different walks of life who saw an affinity in one another and established instant rapport. What were the odds her best friend at college would also be the first cousin of her worst enemy? Irony was a bitch.
But Rita was at the university on an ROTC scholarship that covered room and board, so it’d been a moot point to try to get her to move off-campus in the end. After a year of enduring midnight wake-up calls only to be shouted at and berated, forced to run in her pajamas until sunrise, and having their room tossed during random searches, Sam’d decided the safest bet was to get out from under Alejandro’s thumb while the getting was good. She’d told her father she needed the space to study, but the truth was, if she’d stayed inside that box they called student housing for another year, she’d be arrested for murder at worst or arson at best. She knew that much.
“Cadets are supposed to remain in the Quad,” Alejandro pointed out flatly, referring to the Corps housing.
“I had a special exception,” Sam replied, neatly stepping around him before he could react. And she suspected her father had pulled all kinds of strings to receive it, but for once, she was thankful for his influence. Sam rarely pulled rank with the Wyatt name, for all it was worth inside a state like Texas—which was a lot—but in this one particular instance, she’d figured it was best for everyone all around if she had a little slice of peace to return to at the end of the day.
Sam walked right into the Commandant’s office, with Alejandro hot on her heels. She saluted Sasser’s adjutant, a lieutenant, explaining that she had an appointment with the colonel as she resolutely ignored Alejandro.
“Yes, he’s expecting you.” the lieutenant nodded, seemingly unaware of the tension between her and Cadet De Soto. “Please step in.”
The colonel’s office had an anteroom, a spare seating area devoid of any personal knick-knacks or charm. The lieutenant shut the door behind her, leaving her alone in the quiet space. There were commendations on the wall, a large photograph of the president of the school along with the board of trustees, a picture of the colonel shaking hands with a well-known four-star general in battle dress fatigues somewhere with a desert backdrop. There was also a neatly lined row of photos of every single graduating class of cadets since Colonel Sasser had taken over from the previous CO.
Sam pulled her damp hair back into a tight knot as she waited, smoothing down her own class A’s under the dark trench she’d worn, feeling a little nervous. She hadn’t spoken more than ten words to Colonel Sasser since she’d joined the program, and today she’d be asking for what was tantamount to special consideration. It was nerve wracking, waiting and hoping he wouldn’t laugh her out of the room.
His office door opened and Colonel David Sasser stood in front of her dressed in his crisp uniform of a short sleeve khaki shirt and razor-sharp slacks. He was a lean, whippet of a man with a cool, steely gaze and closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, though his moustache was more pepper and his head was a little more salt. He had a nice smile, on the rare occasion he cared to show it. Today he didn’t show it. Just a brisk nod that said you’re-my-last-meeting-so-better-make-it-good.
Sam immediately stood straight and stiff, saluting him. Sasser nodded at her before thunder cracked outside the wide window, drawing his attention.
“You picked a helluva day to return to campus, Wyatt,” he remarked, gesturing for her to follow him into his office.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” she answered, waiting until he gave her permission to sit.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to one of two leather visitors’ seats in front of a broad oak desk. His office wasn’t much more personal than his waiting room, his desk covered with only a blotter, his name plate, a photo of a woman she assumed was his wife, and one of those fancy office conference phones. But he had a spectacular view of the campus, which was now doused in rain, the trees bending and swaying with the gale-force winds.
“How was your summer, Wyatt?” he enquired, purely out of politeness.
I wrestled two-ton steer in roundups, practiced my marksmanship, played cards with my little brother, and avoided my dad. Somehow, she didn’t think he gave a damn. So she kept it simple.
“Excellent, sir. And yours?”
He smiled briefly. “Likewise. What can I do for you?” Get to the point.
Sam took a deep breath. The best thing Sasser could say was “yes” and the worst, “no.” If it was going to be no, at least they’d get to it faster.
“Sir, I returned to campus early to ask for permission to train for the Ranger Challenge,” she stated frankly, keeping her tone brisk and businesslike.
If he was surprised by her directness, he didn’t show it.
The Ranger Challenge was an annual competition between the top military schools and programs ranked regionally. Typically, the top fifty upperclassmen cadets from the Corp were hand-selected for early training, though only nine ever made it to
the final university team following rigorous elimination rounds. Texas A&M had won the competition nearly every year since 1990, an intimidating and nearly impossible feat. And though it wasn’t an outright rule, the final team had never before been co-ed.
Sasser watched her for what felt like a good, long minute, resting calmly against his seat back, his hands crossed.
“We rarely have underclassmen make the cut,” Sasser finally pointed out.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not most underclassmen.”
Sam could have sworn his mouth twitched under his moustache, but she couldn’t be certain.
“I’m one of your top ten rifle marksmen,” she continued, going for broke. “I can run five miles in thirty-four minutes. I’d just like the opportunity to prove to you that I’m capable and ready, sir. That’s all.”
“And if you’re not?”
Sam met his eyes. “Then I suppose I have two more years to try to qualify.”
Sasser considered her for a moment. “Why do you want into an Army competition so bad? Isn’t your family legacy Navy?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam nodded. But I don’t want to be like my father. And I definitely don’t want to follow his footsteps or stand in his shadow. “This is one of the most prestigious competitions a cadet can compete in, Army or otherwise, and I’m up for it, sir,” she told him. “I’m just asking for a chance to try.”
Sasser cocked his head, looking at her as if he were trying to gauge something. Finally, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it to her.
It was a list of names. Cadets, specifically. Name, sex, DOB, class and military branch affiliation, followed by some kind of score. Alejandro was at the top. She was in the middle and Rita was second from the bottom.
“You’re looking at the current list of cadets ranked by FTX performance last year,” Sasser told her, watching her face.
FTX. Field Training Exercises. Sam knew they’d been watching and grading every exercise, every practice, every maneuver. She felt her eyes widen as she realized what she was holding in her hand. There were no number assignations on the list, but she guessed she was looking at the top fifty.
Holy shit.
She felt her heart jump in her chest. She was already in. There was never a need to ask. Sasser had just been reeling her along, seeing what she had to say for herself.
“Training for the Ranger Challenge begins Thursday,” he continued. “That was in the packet we sent home to you a month ago. I’m assuming you didn’t receive it?”
A month ago. Sam felt her mouth compress as she struggled to keep her face smooth. Her father. It had to be.
That had been around the same time her dad had pushed her to make a commitment to the Navy ROTC unit at the university. It was her second year—this was the time to do it. Declare her major, then declare her military commitment and affiliation. Her dad had been nineteen when he’d gone into the Navy. Figured it was time for her too.
But she’d pushed back. And they’d fought about it—gone round and round in fact. But Sam didn’t want to believe her father would stoop to not telling her she’d made it into one of the most visible and highly regarded ROTC exercises in the nation just because it was the Army. Sam realized she needed to say something—the silence in the office stretched into uncomfortable as Sasser stared her down.
“I live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, sir,” Sam said by way of explanation. “It’s amazing if we see the postman more than once every three months,” she lied.
Sasser nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “You can pick up a fresh orientation packet when you leave,” he said, effectively excusing her. “We depart at 0600 for Fort Hood, so be on time.”
Be early, she decoded. This was going to be her chance. And she’d better not screw it up.
Too bad, Dad, she thought, wondering if he really had tried to sabotage her. Looks like I win this round.
Chapter 2
August—Late Morning
Wes and Chris’s Apartment, Texas A&M
W E S L E Y
Wes rolled over, groaning. His arm hit something soft.
“Morning, you sexy sonofabitch.”
Startled awake, he opened his eyes. A pretty brunette with bright blue eyes smiled sexily at him. He didn’t recognize her, but even rumpled and sleep-tousled, she looked pretty terrific.
“Hey, angel,” he murmured, unable to recall her name. “Did I wake you?”
“You mean when you smacked me with your arm?” she teased, voice raspy from sleep.
“Sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Feel like someone tried to hang me but the rope broke.”
“Cuervo will do that to you,” she husked, nuzzling his neck.
Scenes from the night before flashed into his mind. Bartending at Dixie’s, the pretty brunette ordering shots near closing, challenging him to keep up. He recalled the laughter, then the swirling. God, the damn room was spinning still… He groaned again.
“You were an animal last night, Wes,” she told him, her lips close to his ear. “Didn’t think you were gonna let me sleep.”
Smooth skin, hot mouth. Wes vaguely recalled pushing her up against the wall, hands in her hair while she struggled with his belt buckle.
“What time is it?” he asked, squinting against the sunlight.
“Dunno,” she shrugged, snuggling up against him. Her hand slid down his belly until she gripped him. “Well, well,” she purred into his neck. “What do we have here?”
“Don’t knock morning wood, angel,” Wes responded with a smile. He figured he could ignore the pounding in his head long enough to give as good as he got. Another go with a nameless tequila bar girl might even help ease the hangover a little. Just as he pulled her closer, his roommate knocked loudly at his door.
“Hey, Wes!” Chris called out.
“Yeah?” he answered, his face buried between the girl’s breasts.
“Some guy just called. Says your bike’s ready—” Chris paused. “You still need a lift down to Austin, or are you otherwise occupied?” he asked, voice amused.
Wes’s head shot up. His motorcycle was finally ready! “Coming!” Wes shouted, more eager to get his bike than he was to get laid again.
The brunette squeezed him under the covers. “Not yet, you’re not.”
Briefly tempted, but not enough, Wes dropped a kiss on her lips before slipping out of bed. “I’ve gotta go, angel.”
The girl sat up, her hair a mess, a little pout on her lips.
“Should I leave my number?” she asked, getting out of bed too.
“Sure,” Wes answered, getting an eyeful of her lush, pear-shaped ass. And your name too, whoever you are. “I’d like that.”
She tossed him a smile over her shoulder. “You better call me.”
Now that he couldn’t promise.
“See ya around, angel,” he called out before stepping into the bathroom and starting the shower.
Less than two hours later, he and Chris pulled into Ryker’s Automotive, a custom chopper shop down in Austin, his hometown.
As Wes stepped out of Chris’s truck, a voice called out, “You lost, pretty boy?”
Wes turned just in time to see a tatted-up biker approach him from the garage, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
“Nah,” he replied casually. “Just here to pick up your mom.”
“Oh, Jesus, we’re gonna get our asses kicked,” Chris muttered under his breath as the biker crossed his arms, eyeing Wes’s roommate. Chris was a big boy by anyone’s standards, a full 6’5” and over two hundred and fifty pounds of solid beef. He was big enough to be a starting linebacker for the Texas A&M football team, but only Chris’s closest friends realized the guy was a giant, peace-loving marshmallow off the field.
Wes suppressed a smirk.
“You gonna bring her back at a decent hour this time?” the biker replied, expression stern.
Wes could almost feel Chris’s confusion
as he glanced back and forth between them.
“Depends,” Wes shrugged, stepping forward. “Your sister going to be around later?”
“Oh my God.” Chris ran a distraught hand down his face. “Wes, are you trying to get us killed?”
“Your old lady looks nervous,” the biker observed, gesturing toward Chris.
“You would be too if you were about to be maimed and killed by a psychotic biker,” Chris muttered.
“Psychotic biker?” the guy chuckled, visibly amused. “I’m just a mechanic, man.”
“Yeah, and I’m just a lost little lamb at a wolf party,” Chris replied, getting an eyeful of the other bikers working in the garage. “Let’s just get your bike, Wes. Stop talking shit about this nice man’s mom and sister.”
“Nice man?” Wes lifted a brow. “Who—this asshole?” He strode forward, doing the half-hug, half-handshake back-pat thing with the biker. “You done scaring the shit out of my roommate?” he asked, grinning.
The biker smiled back at him through his thick beard. “Can’t help it. He looks just about ready to keel over,” he said, glancing at Chris. “And you play football? Man, I sure as hell hope you’re less of a wuss on the field.”
“Wait—what?” Chris’s eyes bounced back and forth. “You guys are friends?”
“Chris, this is Ryker Whitlock. We grew up together here in Austin,” Wes explained. “Our moms are best friends. Ryke, meet Chris Fields, first-string lineman for the Aggies when he’s not pissing his pants.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” Ryke said as he shook Chris’s hand.
“Oh, thank Christ,” Chris exhaled, visibly relieved. “I thought for sure we were dead.”
“Not today, Chris. Not today.” Ryke chuckled before turning to Wes. “Your Panhead’s back here,” he said, nodding toward the garage. “Just finished her this morning.”
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