Rita took advantage of her momentary feebleness to slip an arm under her shoulders. “You need a shower and hot food. When was the last time you’ve eaten?”
“I just need to be left alone—”
“Look at you, you weigh nothing!” Rita replied tartly, dragging her out of bed. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I will seriously kick Wes’s ass the next time I see him,” she muttered, wrangling Sam’s limp form into the bathroom, kicking the door shut with her foot. She sat Sam on the toilet and turned on the shower. Sam watched in a daze, her arms and head heavy.
“Strip,” Rita demanded.
“I’m too tired.” Sam shook her head, leaning against the sink.
“Fine,” Rita replied, yanking Wes’s t-shirt off of her before maneuvering her back into a stand. Once Rita managed to pull Sam’s cut-offs down her legs, she pushed Sam unceremoniously into the shower.
She stumbled, the hot water shocking, then comforting. Sam stood under the spray for what felt like half an hour before she got the energy to wash her hair. When she finally turned the water off, a fresh set of clothes lay waiting on her bathroom counter, next to Wes’s things. Sam avoided looking at his toothbrush and razor as she brushed her teeth. When she tied her hair back into a knot, Sam got a good look at herself for the first time in days.
Her cheeks were gaunt, her dark eyes seemingly hollowed out and huge. Her skin, a little ruddy from the shower, still had an unusual pallor, though the bruises from her spar with Alejandro over the weekend had faded. Sam looked like she’d dropped ten pounds in the three days she’d been down for the count. But worst of all, Sam looked like another version of herself—a weaker, pathetic version, and she was ashamed she’d let herself go like this, wallowing in the hurt.
When she finally padded into her living room, Sam was shocked to see Alejandro and Rita setting out food on the table. She shifted awkwardly, hyper-aware of the disaster they’d walked in on. No one commented about the hole in the wall, though the broken glass had been cleaned up.
“I changed your sheets, ’cause that shit was ripe,” Rita said over her shoulder as she poured Sam a glass of water.
“Yeah, sorry—I haven’t been well,” Sam answered, flushing with embarrassment.
“I’d say,” Rita agreed with a curt nod. “But you look better now that you’ve showered.”
Sam neared the table, surprised at what Alejo had been able to whip up with what was in her kitchen.
“You’ve dropped too much weight too fast,” he said, surveying her with the clinical detachment. “I heated up some soup, but you need something more substantial—like protein.”
“Chris is bringing burgers and some groceries,” Rita told him. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Sam squeezed the back of her kitchen chair. “You guys don’t have to take care of me. I’ll be fine—”
“Like hell, jaina—you’re a mess!” Rita replied. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me help you?”
Sam shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll snap out of it.”
“You’d better,” Alejandro told her gruffly, pushing the soup bowl toward her. “Now sit and eat. We have to get you back into fighting shape.”
Shit. She’d completely forgotten about the SEAL training this weekend. Her hand shook a little as she picked up her spoon.
“Don’t worry—we’ve got a few days,” Alejo said as he watched her spoon a mouthful of hot soup past her lips.
It tasted astonishingly good, and the rush to her blood sugar hit her like a shot of adrenaline. Her hand shook harder, and Sam gripped her spoon, willing it to stop as she blinked back tears of frustration. Alejandro shocked the hell out of her when his hand dropped to her forearm, squeezing it gently. Sam looked up.
“You’re just in a bad way, right now,” he told her, his eyes softening. “It’ll pass.”
She swallowed and nodded, bewildered at his sudden and atypical kindness.
“Eat your soup. You’ll feel better in a couple minutes once the nutrients enter your system,” he told her gruffly, letting her go.
Rita saved her the discomfort of making conversation by filling the silence with updates on what she’d been up to since recovering from the Challenge. Alejo sat quietly, watchful as Sam finished her soup. He pushed a water glass toward her when she finished.
“You’re dehydrated,” he told her simply.
Sam gulped down the water, staring at him.
The question must have been in her eyes, because he just shrugged. “You’re my partner now,” he said succinctly. “I need you back at the top of your game as quickly as possible, or you’ll just drag me down.”
Sam nodded silently. That was more like it. She didn’t think she could stand to see the sympathy in his eyes.
“Look, none of us know exactly what went down,” Rita started. “And we don’t need to, but you’re not going to do yourself any good like this, Sam. You’ve got to snap out of it, jaina.”
“No guy is worth this, Wyatt,” Alejo added quietly. “We’re all assholes.”
“You would know,” Rita teased, nudging his shoulder.
“I got a little sister,” he reminded Sam as he ignored Rita’s jab. “And I tell her all the time, you can’t let guys jerk you around—because we will.”
“Why?” Sam blurted, humiliation making her cheeks flame.
“Because we can.” Alejo shrugged. “Or because we’re idiots. But mainly, because we’re assholes.”
“That’s so profound.” Rita rolled her eyes.
“Hey, it’s just the truth,” he replied frankly. “Chicks are always trying to look for some deep meaning. Sometimes it’s just that simple.” He looked Sam square in the eye. “You don’t let any guy wrap you around the axle, Wyatt. We’re not worth it.”
Sam could see Wes’s face so clearly, see the pain in his eyes just before he walked out. There’d been something there—something beyond regret. She was certain of it. But she said nothing as she finished her soup.
“Look, I’ve got to go,” Alejo said as he stood. “I’m gonna go relieve Stephens of some his money playing pool tonight.”
Sam stood slowly. “Thank you,” she offered simply, unsure of what else she could say for his uncommon act of kindness.
Alejo shrugged casually. “Just get your shit together, all right? We stand a real chance of going to Virginia Beach.”
Sam nodded. “I’ll be ready.”
“Good.”
Chris knocked as Alejandro was leaving. He blinked in surprise as Alejo pushed past him with a brisk nod.
“Wait—what did I miss?” he asked Rita as he stepped inside. “Don’t they hate each other?” he asked, glancing at Alejandro’s departing figure uncertainly.
“Sure, they do.” Rita nodded. “But he’s got her back in the foxhole. That’s what it comes down to.”
Chris took one look at Sam, put down the grocery bag and take-out he was holding and pulled her into a big bear hug. Sam let him hold her, relishing the comfort of his arms. Frankly, she was still too tired to resist. When Chris finally pulled back, he smiled at her gently.
“I got you a burger as big as your head and a chocolate milkshake. The only thing it’s missing is a shot of bourbon.”
“Thanks, Chris,” she smiled tremulously. “I’m sorry I’m a bit of a mess,” she said, tugging at her ROTC sweatshirt.
“Ain’t no shame in that,” he chided. “We’re all friends here.”
“Did, uh…did he tell you what happened?” Sam asked, unable to meet Chris’s eyes. She didn’t want to see the pity there, the unspoken I told you so.
Chris didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he brushed her cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “He’s a fool, Sammy.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, and Chris gathered her close to him again. Sam felt hot, fat tears fall unbidden down her cheeks as Chris just held her, petting a warm, gentle paw down her back.
“I loved him, Chris,” she whispered.
Sam returned his grin with a watery one of her own. “I’d like that.”
“Thought you might.”
Sam sat down with her friends, feeling wrung out, but lighter, and relieved at realizing she was going to be okay, making the camaraderie that much sweeter as they ate their burgers and fries.
“Thank you, guys,” she said after a while. “For taking care of me.”
Rita squeezed her shoulder. “Anytime, jaina. Anytime.”
*
October—Same Night
Dixie’s Bar, College Station, Texas
W E S L E Y
Dixie’s was in full swing for a Wednesday night, packed full of coeds, music blaring. Wes worked the length of the big oak bar like a goalie, fielding orders, taking money, making change, mixing drinks, and pouring beers and chasers, round after round. He welcomed the slam, shifting into full bartender mode, smiling like an old friend at the guys buying rounds and flirting with the girls that were sidling up to the bar for attention. It was a fluid old gambit that ran like clockwork, going through the motions. But that’s exactly what it was—motions. No thought, no heartache, and no missing Sam so bad that it nearly drove him crazy. Just pour, chat, smile, and repeat until the tip jar was overflowing. Only to start all over again.
“Four Buds, two Shiner Bocks, and six shots of Bushmills straight up,” Wes recited as he placed the drinks on the server’s tray.
“Where they going?” the server asked, popping her gum as she picked up the tray.
“Pool table,” Wes answered, gesturing to where Vin Stephens and his crew were playing. A second later, he caught Alejandro de Soto strolling in, making a beeline for the table. He was just about the last person Wes needed to see tonight. Another reminder of Sam, and a guy he’d love to beat down.
In the past few days, Wes’d felt like a raw nerve—short-tempered, irritated, and off-kilter. He’d gone through the paces, going to class, work, the darkroom, working on a half-dozen new fake IDs—only to return to his apartment each night, too wired to sleep but too tired to be useful.
The only common denominator in the last few days had been the longing. Wes thought about Sammy damn near incessantly, half-desperate to go crawling back and half-wishing she’d somehow just show up at his door, take him in her arms and tell him they’d work it out, come hell or high water.
Chris had finally squeezed their demise out of him, concerned when Sam didn’t show up to their psych class two times in a row. Wes had kept it simple, narrowed the story down to the bare bones. They’d tried it, and it hadn’t worked out. They still loved each other, but some things just weren’t meant to be. All the usual shit you hear when a couple tries to make a breakup sound amicable and inevitable at the same time. Like they’d willingly and consciously decided to tear the other’s hearts in half.
“Shot of tequila and one of your coke bottles.”
Wes glanced up. Vin stood in front of him, his grin cocky.
Wes lifted a brow as he poured him a shot. “That’s an unusual combination, man.”
“I know,” Vin shrugged. “But it’s that kind of night. I was sorry to hear your story got canned.”
Wes shrugged. “It’s for the best.” As much as Wes hated to admit it, Robert Wyatt had relieved him of the responsibility of reporting on the Ranger Challenge—and Sam’s disqualification along with it. Yet another reason he wouldn’t have to see or talk to her again. He didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse.
“I’m assuming our deal is off then?” Vin challenged, leaning in. “For the coke bottles, that is?”
Wes shrugged. “A deal’s a deal. You were going to help me, and I respect that.”
“Sweet,” Vin smiled. “I’ll deal you in on any game you want for the rest of the semester. That seem fair?”
“Sure does,” Wes agreed. “I’ll get that bottle you asked for during my next break, okay?”
Wes had kept the weed he’d procured for Vin shrink-wrapped and water-proofed in the gas tank of his Harley. He wasn’t going to smoke it himself, and he definitely didn’t deal, so keeping his end of the bargain with Vin seemed like the best way to spend that particular currency.
Vin bumped fists with him, looking pleased. “That works, man.”
Wes stayed slammed for the next hour, too busy to think—just the way he liked it. When he finally got a ten-minute break, it was close to midnight. Wes stepped outside, took a deep breath, and stretched his neck. He strolled over to his Panhead, unscrewed the knob on the fuselage, and reached a finger into the tank. When he felt the plastic, he pulled out the small plastic baggie, shaking off the excess gasoline.
Wes turned his back when the flash of headlights hit the parking lot. It was just another customer in an already-packed lot. He pulled out the shrink-wrapped portion from the wet baggie, stuffing it into his jeans pocket before he discarded the damp wrapper. Wes heard the open and slam of a truck door just as he was turning back toward the bar. He saw Chris heading for the door in front of him, his stride purposeful.
“Hey, Buddy—what’s doin’?” Wes called out, surprised to see him.
Chris stopped, turned, and looked at him. The parking lot lighting cast shadows across his expression, but the guy looked tense, his big hands clenching.
“You all right?” Wes asked, approaching him.
“You lied to me,” Chris answered in a low voice.
Wes stopped, sensing the danger.
“About what?” he asked cautiously.
“You made it sound mutual,” Chris replied, squaring his shoulders. “You made it sound like she was all right with the way you two left it.”
Samantha. He should have known Chris would find the truth out sooner or later.
Wes sighed, rubbed a tired hand down his face. Now that he wasn’t full-tilt behind the bar, the exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him. God, I miss sleep. Most of all, he missed sleeping beside Sammy.
“It should have been mutual,” Wes confessed after a moment. “What I did was the best for both of us. She’ll see that when she gets some distance from it.”
Chris moved toward him. It was too dark to make out his features, but Wes felt the hostility coming off of Chris like a heat wave.
“You have no idea what’s best for her,” he told Wes. “You have no idea how badly you messed her up.”
Wes closed his eyes. “What do you know about it, Chris?”
“I saw her, you dipshit!” Chris snapped, his voice rising. “I just spent the last few hours cleaning up the mess you made.” Chris shook his head, made a disgusted sound. “She could barely get out of bed, barely eat. She looks goddamn hollow, man. You carved her up good.”
Wes made no reply, the jagged edge of pain he felt at hearing how bad she was rendering him speechless with guilt. He thought about jumping on his bike and going to her. He thought about begging her to take him back.
“What did I tell you?” Chris asked, advancing.
Wes stepped back swiftly. “What the hell are you doing, Chris?”
“I told you I’d hand you your ass if you hurt her, didn’t I?” he replied, swinging.
Chris was huge, but his speed belied his size. He didn’t land the first punch, but he landed the second and the third, stunning Wes with an uppercut to his gut that knocked the wind straight out of him.
“Jesus—” Wes gasped, stumbling backwards.
Chris tackled him hard to the ground, sat up, and punched the shit out of his ribs. Wes felt the sharp agony of a rib crack, distantly registered the people filing out of the bar to watch him get his ass kicked.
Sheer luck and decent timing gave him the opening he needed to bu
ck Chris off. Wes just managed to roll away when Chris came at him again, grabbing for his legs. Wes kicked him away, not trying to hurt him—giving his hits just enough umpf to keep Chris back as he scrambled up.
“Stop it, Chris!” Wes shouted. “Jesus—!”
Chris ignored him, coming at him again. Wes dodged and danced back, one hand cradling his damaged side. He managed to avoid the worst of it, only narrowly, before Chris landed a punch that nearly broke his nose. Blood spurted everywhere. Wes clutched his nose, seeing stars, blood dripping through his fingers in a torrent.
“I oughtta break your arms,” Chris panted heavily.
The vivid flash of red and blue police lights sent the spectators scattering to their cars or back into the relative safety of the bar. The headlights of the patrol car froze Chris and Wes in their place in the suddenly silent parking lot. Two cops stepped out.
“What the hell’s going on here?” one of them asked as they advanced forward.
“I’m the one that called this in, officers.”
Chris, Wes, and the patrolmen swung toward the shadows of the bar. Alejandro de Soto stepped into the dim light of the lot.
“I saw this one start a fight with the football player,” De Soto told the cops, pointing at Wes. “He was trying to deal to him, and when the football player declined, he threw the first punch,” he lied, his expression impassive.
“That’s a goddamn lie,” Wes spat through gritted teeth, still cupping his nose.
“No, it’s not,” De Soto replied calmly. He turned to the cops. “If you don’t believe me, check his pockets,” he said, nodding toward Wes. “I saw everything. It was self-defense.”
Chapter 36
October—Thursday Morning
County Jail, College Station, Texas
W E S L E Y
Wes spent a long, painful night in jail, with Chris staring stonily at the wall across the cell from him after they’d both gotten arrested, the two of them separated by a couple of drunks and a scared-looking kid who’d wrecked his dad’s car on a midnight joyride.
Chris’s coach came to pick him up sometime before six a.m. College Station police were loathe to keep an Aggie football star after an ROTC witness swore up and down that Chris was just trying to protect himself from the low-life drug dealer who’d accosted him in the parking lot. He hadn’t even been booked. It was like Chris had never been there. Except for the damage to Wes’s face and his cracked ribs, that is.
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