Goddess Rising

by Alexi Lawless

  Sam didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he released the stone into the air and caught it again. He saw that he was making her nervous, and he liked it. She could see he enjoyed making her feel anxious, toeing the edge of afraid.

  “This was going to be my ticket into the Rangers after college,” he told her, matter-of-fact. “Then Delta Force after that.”

  “It still could be,” she murmured. “You’ve been in the top for nearly every trial.”

  Alejandro shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Fight or flight?

  Sam stepped back another couple paces, goose bumps rising along her arms again. This time they were not from the cold.

  *

  September—Late Saturday Night

  Wes and Chris’s Apartment, Texas A&M

  R O B E R T W Y A T T

  “Mr. Wyatt—what are you doing here?” Wes asked, bewildered.

  Robert Wyatt took advantage of the boy’s momentary uncertainty to step inside the door to his apartment. Robert watched Wes back up in surprise as he closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Wes.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Have a seat, Wes,” Robert said again, nodding toward the messy kitchen table the kid had clearly been working at before he’d answered the door.

  Wes shifted on his feet, making no move to sit, a look of defiance flaring in his eyes.

  Robert nodded. Wes had a problem with taking orders. That much was obvious. Lacking a male role model engendered problems with authority—largely because a kid like Wes was unused to being told what to do by an older man. So when he was, he probably unconsciously resented it.

  “Suit yourself.” Robert shrugged. He could make the boy sit, but he knew that would only make him ornery. Robert looked around the apartment, surprised and even a little impressed at how put together the small space was. The place definitely didn’t look like the typical bachelor pad of two college-aged boys. No neon beer signs and half-naked women on posters tacked up with duct tape.

  “Why are you here?” Wes asked again, crossing his arms. The confusion in his tone was replaced with caution as he watched Robert assess his surroundings.

  “I understand you’ve taken quite an interest in my daughter,” Robert told him, getting right to the point.

  Wes’s soft laugh was as dry as crackled leaves. “Let me guess—you’re here to play the protective daddy act. Warn me off seeing your little girl.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to chuckle. “Not quite.”

  He pulled a seat out at the end of the table, sitting down without being asked to, and gestured for Wes to do the same. Wes acquiesced slowly, flipping the chair so the back was to his front. His caution now morphed into a degree of cockiness, as he assumed he understood Robert’s intentions.

  The kid had a set of balls on him, no doubt. Robert could see why Sam liked him, in addition to his good looks. Wes didn’t back down, and any guy who was going to make a play for his daughter had to have that quality—lest she run roughshod all over the poor bastard.

  “You’re a talented guy, Wes,” Robert complimented. “I saw it the first time I looked at your photographs. And a guy like you, coming up from very little, knows how to hustle. You’ve got the makings of a successful man one day—you just need the right recipe and a decent break, don’t you?”

  “How would you know?” Wes asked, somewhere between curious and offended. “You’re wearing a watch that probably cost as much as a semester at this place.”

  “More, actually,” Robert replied with a casual smile. “And we have a little more in common than you think.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I came up tough, too,” Robert admitted. “Just me and my daddy off a reservation in Oklahoma. He worked hard, had enough for the both of us wildcatting, but I had bigger dreams for us, and I was going to see that they happened. Sound familiar?”

  “It’s a nice story, but what that hell does this have to do with why you’re at my place on a Saturday night. Your daughter isn’t even here.”

  “I know exactly where my daughter is, Wes,” Robert replied, crossing his legs, posture relaxed. “My point is that I know what it takes to get this far, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember what I was willing to do to get here when I was your age.”

  Realization lit Wes’s eyes. Robert watched him figure it out.

  “You’re not here to warn me off of Samantha at all, are you?”

  Robert smiled. “Son, I know all about the folly of warning a hot-to-trot boy off of a girl way out of his league. Hell, that’s exactly how I got Sammy’s mama to begin with. How else could a broke Cherokee sailor win the hand of a beautiful artist from a prominent Japanese family?” He shook his head. “No, I raised Sammy to make her own choices and make the best ones she can with the information she’s got, but she’s still a little bit of dreamer, isn’t she?”

  Wes’s brow knit.

  “She’s falling for your potential, Wes,” Robert clarified. “Sam’s been gifted with great vision. She sees the bigger picture, and she sees you, Wes. Like her mama saw me, Sam sees the man you want to be. She sees the man you’ve yet to become.”

  Wes’s face remained impassive but his eyes gave him away. Too expressive, all that intensity too difficult for him to hide. And Robert saw that Wes knew he was right—that he’d suspected the same, only to have it confirmed by her father, of all people.

  “I don’t care that you’re interested in my daughter, Wes,” Robert continued. “But I do care about protecting her, and it’s come to my attention that you’re trying to use her for a story.”

  Understanding dawned in Wes’s eyes. Robert saw they were reading from the same hymnal now.

  “Sasser,” Wes breathed. “You had Sasser cut my access.”

  “Of course I did.” Robert smiled. “I understand you’re interested in profiling Sammy for an article?”

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”

  “So you are.” Robert nodded, getting all the confirmation he needed. “I’m going to ask you this once, Wes. And keep in mind, I’m asking as a father who loves his daughter very much—please don’t write or attempt to publish any articles or photographs of Samantha. Now or ever.”

  “Why?” Wes asked, tilting his head. “Seems to me that most parents would be delighted to see write-ups about their children in the paper.”

  “Do I seem like most parents?” Robert replied, leaning back as he assessed the boy her daughter was falling for. “By using her to break a story, you’ll be pushing Samantha into a spotlight she doesn’t want. People will automatically make assumptions and judgements about everything she does. Anything my daughter excels at, people will wonder if she earned it rightfully or if she somehow bought or bartered her way into success. You must see this kind of exposure will only denigrate and vilify her in the long run.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do. I believe in her,” Wes replied.

  “Really?” Robert asked, his brows rising. “Wes, you don’t know my daughter very well if you think she’s okay with you telling her story for the whole world to see.”

  He saw a flash of discomfort in Wes’s expression and knew he’d hit bedrock.

  “Samantha doesn’t trade on the Wyatt name, Wes—much to my everlasting disappointment,” Robert pointed out. “She wants to be seen for her accomplishments, for her wins. The playing field may never be level for her, Wes, but you leveraging her story to get your name out will make sure everyone knows it. And ultimately, it will only hurt her, and eventually, haunt her.”

  Wes sat back, the wheels spinning.

  “I care about her, Mr. Wyatt,” he told Robert, his tone earnest, though his expression remained defiant. “There’s nothing I would do to hurt Samantha.”

  “What I’m talking about will inadvertently hurt her, Wes,” Robert corrected. “You know that now. You just hadn’t realized all the ramifications before.”

/>   Wes’s eyes dropped to the manila envelope Robert had set down on the kitchen table when he’d arrived.

  “What’s in the envelope?” the kid asked.

  “A few things.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Are you agreeing to my request as a father not to publish any stories of Sam?” Robert asked in return.

  Wes stared at him. “If I don’t?”

  “I’ve gotten where I am partly because I’m a good judge of character, Wes,” Robert remarked, sitting back. “There are carrot guys, and there are stick guys—you’re definitely the former.”

  Robert picked up the envelope casually and pulled out a handful of photos. Wes’s photos. He had maybe twenty different shots—from abstracts to journalistic shots he’d gotten from his investigator. The boy was talented. It was obvious. But there were plenty of talented starving artists out there in the world.

  He heard Wes’s sharp intake of breath.

  “I understand you’re interested in becoming a photojournalist, Wes.”

  Wes just looked at him, not saying anything.

  “I happen to have quite a few friends in that world,” Robert continued. “Reuters, AP, TIME, Newsweek,” he rattled off. “And I guarantee you that a photographer of your talent could have a top-tier placement at graduation if you play your hand right.”

  Robert pulled out another sheaf of paper that looked like a legal document.

  “What’s this?”

  “A non-disclosure agreement,” Robert told him. “Go ahead and read it. But here’s the gist: You will never disclose any private information about my daughter to anyone. You will never publish an article about Samantha or any photos of her anywhere, even after you two are over. And in exchange, I guarantee you will have my assistance, by introducing you to my varying connections upon graduation. How and to what extent will be largely up to you.”

  Wes’s mouth set in a thin line. “That’s pretty presumptive.”

  Robert chuckled. “Young love is unfortunately more hopeful than realistic.”

  “And if I break the agreement?”

  “You don’t get your wish,” Robert answered succinctly. “Hell, by the time I’m done blacklisting you, you’ll be lucky to be photographing portraits at Olan Mills, and Sam will have to watch all that potential of yours wash right down the gutter,” he finished frankly. “Not to mention the fact that she will come to resent the hell out of you for breaking her trust.”

  Wes’s eyes snapped up.

  Robert smiled. “You think my daughter’s the forgiving type, Wes?”

  “Jesus,” Wes muttered, pushing a shaky hand through his hair.

  “He won’t save you from me, son.”

  “This is extortion,” Wes said through gritted teeth.

  “No, Wes,” Robert replied. “These are the lengths a father is willing to go in order to protect his child. You’ll understand that one day when you become a father.”

  Wes stared at him, his mouth tight. “I’ll tell Sam,” he spat out finally. “She’ll hate you for interfering in her life like this.”

  “Maybe,” Robert conceded with a shrug. “But I’ll always be her daddy, Wes. And you’ll just be some guy she dated once.” Robert reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a platinum fountain pen.

  “Here,” he offered. “You’re going to need this.”

  Chapter 22

  September—Sometime between 2 and 3 a.m., Sunday Morning

  Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  Samantha glanced one more time at the darkened barracks, trying to judge how quickly she could make it back there. She wasn’t sure what Alejandro was up to, but she’d be willing to bet money he was either going to bust her for being out after hours or he was going to attempt to kick her ass. Neither scenario boded well for her—she really couldn’t risk either outcome. Sam stepped backward one more time, adjusting her stance as she got ready to launch herself into a sprint.

  “Where you running off to, pisshead?” Alejandro asked, advancing slowly.

  In the darkness, Alejandro reminded her of a panther, tracking her as she moved back a couple quick steps.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to gain by this, Alejo,” Sam told him, chin coming up. “You and I get caught out of quarters after hours, and we’re both screwed.”

  “Who says I plan on getting caught?”

  “Who says you’re smart enough not to?” Sam countered, her gaze steady, though her heart was beginning to pound like a jackhammer.

  Sam read the danger in his eyes. She could see that he thought any damage to her was worth the risk of getting caught. And she was scared. Really, deeply afraid. Because she’d never fought anyone who truly wanted to hurt her. All her training, all her hand-to-hand combat experience, had been purely athletic and not survival-based.

  Alejandro slipped a hand into the pocket of his combat pants, which he wore along with a tight black t-shirt and his combat boots. He stood there, lazily tossing the big rock with his free hand, watching her struggling to stay calm. Sam wondered what he thought he could do to her and get away with. If he threw his infamous fastball at her with that thing and she didn’t dodge fast enough, he could break her bones. No doubt about it.

  “You always think you’re the smartest person in the room, don’t you, pisshead?” Alejandro murmured. “You think tonight’s performance entitles you to a spot on the final team?”

  A stutter of incredulous laughter popped out of her before she could contain it.

  “You nearly drowned me a few weeks ago and almost got away with shooting me at the hostage rescue simulation, and you don’t see me crying about it, do you, Alejo?” Sam scoffed. “So you lost this one. Big deal. Get over it, you whining whiner.” She tossed that last part over her shoulder as she began to saunter off, staying light on her feet in case she was forced to make a run for it.

  But the moment of silence that followed made her nervous, and she looked back over her shoulder one last time. Sam read Alejandro’s intent in the way his jaw tightened. In a split second, the rock he held was sailing through the air. She dodged out of the way, but the moment she realized the rock was coming at her far slower than Alejandro could throw it, she understood it had just been a distraction.

  “Shit—” The word was barely out of her mouth before Alejandro rushed her, tackling her hard to the ground, knocking the wind out of her.

  Then she felt it. Hot and excruciating—like getting hit with a lightning bolt.

  Sam’s body locked up, frozen inside the agonizing pain. She watched, paralyzed and helpless, as Alejandro smiled, holding the Taser to her abdomen.

  Her entire body felt rigid—seemingly locked in suspended animation. Sam was unable to do anything but watch what was happening to her—and as suddenly as he’d tazed her, Alejandro released her. Sam gasped, nailed to the hard-packed earth like a sack of potatoes, her body contorted, the wind knocked out of her while the sensation of pins and needles shot through her muscles from the residual shock. Sam looked up helplessly as he stood over her, his obsidian eyes taunting her as she struggled just to breathe.

  “That’s your last warning, pisshead,” Alejandro told her in a low voice. “You withdraw from the competition tomorrow. I don’t care what reason you use. Or the next time, it’ll be much uglier and much more painful. I promise you that. And I will leave marks.”

  Sam’s muscles vibrated, and she worried her bladder would loosen involuntarily, adding to her humiliation. She’d accidentally touched electric fences at the ranch, but this was a thousand times worse—like being electrocuted underwater, the pain literally shocking and utterly surreal. Alejandro moved away from her, and Sam lay there, prone and debilitated, waiting for her muscles to unclench, willing her body to move.

  When Sam finally caught her breath and achieved some semblance of motor function and control back, she rolled to her side slowly and painfully, clenching and unclenching her fists, wo
rking the blood back through them, as if they’d fallen asleep.

  Alejandro was already fifty yards away, his gait relaxed and lazy, like he was just returning back after a leisurely midnight stroll.

  Motherfucker.

  Samantha saw red—blood red—as her mind and heart filled with a blinding wrath so total that she could actually imagine herself killing him. She’d never wanted to hurt anyone or anything in her life so badly. Hatred and anger propelled her onto her hands and knees, giving her the will to slowly straighten as her body returned to her control. Furious aggression made her rise above the pain.

  No way would she live afraid of him anymore.

  No way would she be his victim.

  I don’t care what it costs me, she thought darkly. He wouldn’t get away with this.

  “That the best you got?” Sam called out, voice hoarse. She forced her body to move, each step painful and hard fought, but she was hell-bound and determined.

  Alejandro’s back stiffened. He turned, his face too shadowed to read, but his posture was stiff with surprise as she closed the distance between the two of them.

  “You afraid to face me without your toy, Alejo?” Sam taunted, advancing in the darkness, her body becoming hers again, each jerky movement becoming smoother with every step forward. Sam got within twenty feet of him and smiled grimly. “Or are you afraid I’ll kick your ass without it?”

  Alejandro sneered and advanced on her until he was just a handful of feet away. “You need a real tune-up, don’t you, pisshead?”

  “I’ve had just about enough of your threats and bullshit.” Sam’s chin came up. “You want a piece of me?” she taunted. “Better come and get it, asshole.”

  He stepped forward like he was going to punch her hard with a cross, aimed right at her head, but he jerked back mid-swing. Sam realized in that split second he was doing something else entirely—another redirection. He used his half-extended arm to grab her neck as he brought his knee up, catching her hard in the abdomen, right where he’d just shocked the shit out of her.