Goddess Rising

by Alexi Lawless

  In the quiet, cool calm of her bedroom, Sam realized there was far more to it than that. Truth was, she was just really scared, and she hated admitting that—especially to herself. Sam was scared of how a guy like Wes made her feel. Largely because she suspected that she’d just scratched the surface of the emotions that he could pull out of her without even really trying. Sam was scared of letting go with him, at the risk of finding out he may be unreliable, or even worse, disappointing. And perhaps most of all, she was afraid of being vulnerable—an emotion she’d struggled with since she was a child.

  The very idea of putting herself out there, only to be left hanging, was stiflingly scary. Sam had been managing on her own for so long, she had a hard time imagining it was even possible to really and truly rely on someone else. And wasn’t that intimacy really? Beyond the passion and sex, wasn’t it really about opening up to someone so completely that you trusted them to take care of the most tender and vulnerable parts of you?

  Sam touched her heart, felt the solid throb under her fingertips as she frowned into the darkness.

  What bothered her more than admitting she was afraid was giving into the fear she felt—allowing the self-doubt and recrimination to guide her decisions, thereby controlling her. Sam had bucked what she’d perceived as unjust authority all her life. She made a point of not backing down, especially when met with obstacles and prejudice, and yet here she was, cutting herself off at the knees because she couldn’t be certain of the outcome with the only guy she’d ever met who’d made her really feel something.

  She felt her heart slow fractionally as she breathed in deeply.

  Chris had it right. Being near Wes was like touching a live wire. An altogether different side of her came alive—a side she didn’t know existed and didn’t fully understand. But if she was honest with herself, it was a side she wasn’t entirely ready to dismiss either—

  Sam was startled upright with a knock at her door. She swung her bare legs out of bed when she heard the knock again. Who the hell would be knocking on her door this late? Wearing only her t-shirt and sleep shorts, she approached the front door cautiously.

  “Who is it?” she called out, still a few feet away.

  “Wes.”

  Speak of the devil—Sam blinked. “It’s late, Wes. What do you want?”

  “Open the door, Sammy,” he replied, his voice low and intimate through the door.

  She shifted on one foot, then the other, chewing her lip while she tried to decide if she was reckless enough to let him in.

  “You know you want to,” he murmured, fingers tapping lightly against the wood.

  Sam took a quick breath, her heart skittering crazily. She touched the lock.

  Now or never…

  *

  September—Same Time

  Sam’s Apartment, Texas A&M

  W E S L E Y

  Samantha stood in front of him, wearing nothing but a tissue of a t-shirt and scanty shorts that could have doubled for swimsuit bottoms, her hair soft and loose, black as ravens’ feathers. She looked phenomenal, and Wes bit back a sound of appreciation.

  “Why are you here in the middle of the night, Wes?” she asked softly, stepping back even as he leaned forward.

  “May I come in?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if he pushed his way in.

  “Not if this is some sort of booty call,” she answered, chin coming up.

  “You’re not a booty call kind of girl, Samantha.”

  She opened the door wider. “Then what kind of girl am I, Wes?” she asked, allowing him to come in before she closed the door behind him.

  “You’re the kind of girl guys dream about all their lives,” he answered honestly, rounding to face her in the darkness of her living room.

  “Bet you say that to all the girls,” she replied, trying to sound flippant, even as she crossed her arms shyly, covering herself up a little.

  “I say that to none of the girls,” Wes corrected succinctly. “You’re the only one on my mind these days. I’m actually a little worried about myself,” he admitted, pushing his hands through his hair. “Never been obsessed before.”

  “I’m a little worried about myself too,” she confessed after a moment in the cool dark of her living room. “Would you like to sit down?” she offered.

  Wes followed her as she sat down on her sofa. Sam tucked her legs underneath her as he took a place across from her. She picked up a pillow and squeezed it to her middle like it would provide her some kind of protection. That made him smile a little. No pillow could protect her from the things he wanted to do with her.

  “Why are you here, Wes?”

  “Chris told me what happened tonight,” he told her.

  Sam’s brows rose. Wes watched her try to work out what that meant without actually asking.

  “I know you two aren’t really dating,” he clarified. “He told me that wasn’t what it was like between the two of you.”

  “We like each other,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Just nothing more than that.”

  “You might not be able to tell right now, but my relief is palpable,” Wes answered, leaning toward her, his elbows on his knees. “And I came over to tell you I never should have come on to you earlier—not like that. Not like you were some hussy I was trying to sneak around with behind my best friend’s back.”

  Sam’s cheeks colored a little. “You weren’t exactly alone, Wes. I let it get farther than it should have both times.”

  “You’re misunderstanding me, Samantha.” Wes shook his head. “I want it to go farther. I just want it to go farther the right way,” he clarified. Wes stretched his arm along the back of her sofa until his fingers feathered down her arm. He watched the goose bumps form where he’d touched her, heard her breath hitch as he traced a path down to her fingers.

  “Truth is, I’m a little out of my depth here, Sammy,” he admitted, interlacing their fingers slowly, like a stitch. “I never wanted anyone so much. I don’t really understand it—how you’ve gotten under my skin like this.”

  Sam smiled briefly, “If it makes you feel any better, it’s the same for me too.” She squeezed his hand. “You make me nervous.”

  “You make me nervous too, darlin’,” Wes murmured, squeezing her back.

  “I don’t really know what I’m doing when I’m with you,” she told him frankly, her dark eyes troubled as she finally met his. “I don’t like that—feeling out of sorts.”

  Wes lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a hot kiss to the soft skin there. “I don’t really know what I’m doing either, Sammy,” he admitted. “But I can tell you there’s no one in the world I’d rather figure it out with than you.”

  Samantha looked at him, expression uncertain and a little shy. “Can we take this slow?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that.” For the first time in his life, he was willing to take it gradually with a girl when what he really wanted to do was kiss the hell out of her. “I came over to ask you on a date.”

  Sam’s brows rose disbelievingly. “You came over here in the middle of the night to ask me out?”

  “I never said I was conventional,” Wes responded with a lopsided grin.

  “So this is like the opposite of a booty call?”

  He laughed a little. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  Sam’s smiled slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You like pie?” Wes asked, surprising her again.

  Sam blinked. “Who doesn’t?”

  Wes rubbed a thumb down her cheek, fought hard not to kiss her senseless. “Meet me at Mabel’s Diner on Friday at seven?” he asked as he stood up.

  Sam nodded slowly, watching him as he walked toward the door.

  “Sweet dreams, darlin’,” he said, making his way out before he gave in to the temptation to pick her up and carry her back into her room.

  *

  September—Friday Night

  Mabel’s Diner, College Station, Texas

  S A M A N T H Ar />
  Entering Mabel’s Diner was like stepping back in time. The place looked just like an old-school fountain shop, with checkered floors and chrome stools and a wide retro countertop that had probably been around far longer than she’d been alive. Sam admired the coin-operated jukebox that still held vinyl singles by the greats like Elvis Presley, Sam Cooke, and Chuck Berry.

  “You bring all your dates here?” Sam asked Wes as she leaned over the glass-covered selections of the day’s fresh-baked pies.

  Wes ran a hand down her back as he sidled up next to her, leaning close as he browsed over the choices. She was still unused to his touch, but she liked the little zing of pleasure that raced down her back each time his fingers brushed her skin.

  “My ideas of dates usually involved a keg stand at a frat party, so no,” he answered with a wry grin. “I figured if I was going to ask a girl out for the real thing, might as well go classic.”

  “And here I am without my poodle skirt.”

  “You in a poodle skirt?” Wes grinned. “Now there’s an image.” Wes turned his attention to the older lady at the counter waiting to help them. “Ma’am, I do believe I see a key lime pie with my name on it,” he told her with a wink. The lady chortled and lifted the cake cover to slice him a piece. “You know what you want?” he asked Sam.

  “Red velvet,” she decided succinctly, recognizing a slice of cake was going to be the nicest thing she ate the rest of the weekend. This time tomorrow night, she’d be eating an MRE with the rest of the cadets out at Camp Swift.

  “Any reason why we’re eating dessert instead of dinner?” she asked, standing next to him at the counter.

  “We started everything else backward.” He shrugged. “Figured we might as well go with dessert for our first date. Dinner for our second, and if we make it that far, I’m going for broke and taking you out for drinks and appetizers,” he told her with a smile. “You like blooming onions?”

  “I’m more of a chips-and-salsa kind of girl.”

  “I think we can swing that.”

  The lady served them their pie and coffee in an old, vinyl booth next to the window. Sam watched Wes slice into his key lime with the side of his fork, biting into the pie before closing his eyes in obvious pleasure.

  “C’est vachement bien!”15 he sighed.

  “Parlez-vous français?” Sam asked, brow raised.

  “Je ne parle pas très bien,” he replied, looking a little sheepish.

  Not well, huh? Sam raised her brows. She wasn’t an expert, but his accent seemed pretty on the money.

  “My grandmother was French,” Wes explained at her surprised look. “She taught me a little when she was still alive.”

  “Oh, I bet the ladies love that,” Sam teased. “I can see you now, whispering sweet nothings to hapless girls who have no idea what you’re really saying.”

  “What d’you reckon I was really saying?” Wes asked confidingly as he licked the meringue off his fork.

  “Why, ‘on va chez toi ou chez mio?16’—of course!” Sam replied, smirking.

  “Yeah, well…show me a girl who doesn’t love a little sweet talking in any language, and I’ll show you a liar,” he answered.

  “So besides making you even more irresistible to the female population, what else do you recall fondly of your grandmother?” Sam asked, biting into her Red Velvet cake.

  Wes sat back, sipping his coffee. “The way I heard it, she was part of the Allied resistance during World War II. She met my grandfather while he was in the Signal Corps and came back with him to Texas when the war was over.”

  “Sounds like the stuff of great romances,” she remarked.

  “Not so sure about that.” Wes shrugged. “My grandmother became a seamstress, and my grandfather ran a print shop in Austin. I don’t remember him well, but she was lovely to me. Grand-mère made me desserts even when I was bad, and she used to say two things all the time: ‘On ne sait jamais’17 and ‘Ne t’en fais pas…je me débrouillerais.’”18

  “Those are kind of your words to live by then, huh?”

  “I guess they are,” Wes admitted, taking another bite of pie. “How did you learn French?”

  “Business trips with Dad,” Sam replied. “He’d take me out with him sometimes when I was growing up. It was the only time we’d spend any time together,” she told him, her heart squeezing a little. “Paris is a favorite of his. He told me he took my mother there once.”

  “Nice,” Wes replied, brows raised. “I’ve never left the U.S., but I’d like to…someday.”

  “I saw your globe,” Sam told him. “When I woke up in your room that morning, it was one of the first things I noticed.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just sort of a thing I do when I read about a place that looks interesting.”

  Sam picked up her coffee cup. “Is that why you got interested in photojournalism?”

  Wes leaned forward, swiping a bite of her cake. Sam smiled, letting him, enjoying the light camaraderie, the ease of being together when all their previous interactions had been charged with sexual tension and melodrama. This felt surprisingly real—just a guy and a girl getting to know each other on a date. No pressure.

  Maybe they had really done everything backwards, she mused. This felt so natural and easy now.

  “When I was really young, Mom was a receptionist at a dentist’s office,” Wes continued. “She used to bring back these magazines they were going to toss. National Geographic, TIME, Highlights—and I’d read them all.” He took another sip of coffee. “I imagined sailing to Easter Island and writing about it, or going to Iceland and taking pictures of the Blue Lagoon. I thought I’d go to the refugee camp in Pakistan—meet the girl with the electric green eyes from that one National Geographic cover—you remember it?”

  Sam nodded.

  “I guess it’s far-fetched—” he shrugged, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “But when other kids were dreaming about playing for the Cowboys or becoming firemen, I thought I’d make my bones taking pictures. Go travel. See the world.”

  Sam smiled slowly. She liked this side of Wes. He came off exactly as he intended the majority of the time—as a sexy-as-sin tomcat who had more tricks up his sleeves than the day was long, but she liked this version of him. Relaxed and open like this, Wes had an irresistible combination of hopeful earnestness mixed with just the right amount of rascal, like he wasn’t sure he could conquer the world, but he sure as hell was gonna try.

  This is a guy I could love, Sam realized, sitting back in the booth. And therein lay the danger.

  Wes must have noticed the sudden change in her, because he picked up her hand across the table, squeezing it gently, the pressure assuaging.

  “Why is it that every time you start to like me, you have to remind yourself not to?” he asked, almost unerringly accurate in his assessment.

  Sam flushed. “Not everything I think is about you, you smug jerk,” she managed haughtily, taking another bite of her cake.

  “Then we’re definitely not in the same place, because damn near everything I think about these days involves you,” he replied, light in his amber eyes.

  “I was just thinking about this weekend,” Sam redirected. “This next elimination is going to be tough.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Wes looked uncharacteristically nonplussed. “I won’t be there.”

  She wouldn’t ever have admitted it to Wes, but she was immediately relieved. It was pressure enough to endure these trials without his eyes on her every move, worried about what he was recording or worse, what he might think.

  “And why’s that?” Sam asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. “I know it’s not because I asked you to drop the story. You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

  Wes smirked. “Just ’cause I like strong women doesn’t mean I’ll take to getting bossed around by one.”

  “That’s fine by me,” Sam replied. “Bending you to my will is just half the fun,” she told him with a superior smile.

&nb
sp; Wes leaned forward and surprised her by stealing a swift kiss. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than have you try,” he murmured against her mouth.

  Sam flushed again, leaning back. “So what’s your sudden absence from the FTX all about then?”

  “Sasser’s pulling my access,” Wes admitted, clearly irked. “Some bullshit about wanting to avoid negative publicity if y’all don’t win.”

  “That’s highly unlikely,” Sam replied confidently. “I’m not usually one for counting my chickens before they hatch, but we’ve got this in the bag.”

  “I agree.” Wes nodded. “So ask yourself: Why would Sasser not want any coverage of the Challenge all of a sudden?”

  Sam turned it over in her mind, looking at the angles, thinking through the possibilities.

  Wes watched her, his expression unusually serious. “You watch your back this weekend, all right? Because I’m not going to be there to watch it for you.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t back down when I asked you to?” Sam asked him.

  “How else could I learn more about you and keep an eye out for you at the same time? I saw Alejo nearly shoot you point blank at the hostage trials—”

  Sam frowned. “Wes, I don’t need your help.”

  “Maybe you do, Sam,” he countered gently. “What doesn’t Sasser want me to see all the sudden? I know the guys around you are divided. You have supporters, guys who are indifferent, and a handful who outright don’t think you should be there. I’m not saying you don’t know how to handle yourself, Sammy—I’m just saying…take extra precautions, all right?” he squeezed her hand. “Please.”

  He sounded truly worried, his concern palpable.

  “Don’t worry about me, Wesley Elliott.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’ve got this.”

  Chapter 21

  September—Saturday Night