The weed they’d found in Wes’s pocket wasn’t enough to nail him with intent to distribute, but it was enough to keep him in hot water for the foreseeable future, especially without the services of a good lawyer.
Wes spent the quiet hours alternately wondering whether he should call Ryke to bail him out or whether he should just use the one phone call he’d eventually get to apologize to Sam. It had to have been bad for Chris to unleash like that. It had to have been beyond bad if his roommate was refusing to speak to him, even after delivering one hell of a good ass-whoopin’.
Wes just sat there, dazed and hurting physically, but numb emotionally. He reminded himself that this breakup was for the best, though he was having a harder and harder time believing it, with a tampon stuck up his nose and his head throbbing something awful.
“Wesley Elliott?”
He glanced up in surprise, wondering if he’d get that phone call.
“That’s me.”
“You’re free to go,” the officer told him grimly, opening the cell door.
Surprised, but not about to argue, Wes stood and walked stiffly past his fellow inmates, grateful when he passed through the membrane separating prisoner from free citizen. He followed the cop slowly to discharge, collecting his wallet, watch, and keys before being allowed to use the restroom. He did what he could to fix his bruised face, but the blood was dried on his dirty, torn shirt. He looked like a damn hooligan, but there was nothing to be done about that. When Wes finally stepped out into the bright morning sunlight, wondering whether he should bother trying to go home, he was shocked to see Professor Purcell leaning against the fender of an old Volvo.
“Man, you look like shit,” Purcell remarked as he drank coffee from a paper cup. “Looks like you got beaten by the wrong end of the stick.”
“How did you know I was here?” Wes asked in surprise.
“Got a call from one of the student reporters who watches the arrest logs for good stories,” Purcell told him. “Couldn’t believe you’d be stupid enough to deal and get your ass whooped by an Aggie linebacker in the same ten minutes. Figured something wasn’t adding up.”
“You bail me out?” Wes asked, running a hand through the mess of his hair.
“Your one get-out-of-jail-free card,” Purcell confirmed with a slight nod as he pushed off his car.
Wes touched his nose before wincing. “I look like a damn mess,” he said sheepishly.
“Yeah, you do,” Purcell nodded. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift back home.”
“Better not.” Wes shook his head, squinting against the sunlight.
“Why?” Purcell cocked his head.
“The guy who kicked my ass is my roommate.”
Purcell let out a startled laugh, then shook his head. “I knew there’d be a story there.”
Wes shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not a good one.”
“Yeah, well, get in anyway,” Purcell told him. “I’d like to hear what the hell you have to say for yourself before I lecture you on how badly you fucked up.”
Purcell took him to a lonely little diner off the frontage road. The waitress who took their orders didn’t bat an eye at the dried blood on Wes’s shirt or the bruises on his face. Wes sipped the hot coffee gratefully, trying to find a way to sit that didn’t jostle his aching ribs.
Purcell waited him out, his gaze astute and assessing.
“I’ll pay you back,” Wes told him. “You know, for the bail.”
“No need,” Purcell waved him off. “Sheriff’s an old buddy of mine. When I told him you were one of my top students, and I’d take responsibility, he got the county to back off. You’re a first-time offender, and Chris isn’t pressing charges. No one’s looking to hang you out on a noose this time.”
“There won’t be another time,” Wes promised him.
“There shouldn’t have been a this time, I reckon.” Purcell put down his coffee cup, eyed Wes as he took off his glasses and wiped the lens with his shirt. “Tell me what’s going on, Wes.”
Wes thought about and discarded a variety of explanations, each designed to smooth over the truth. Push came to shove, he owed Purcell honesty, and frankly, he was heartsick and lonely and beaten up, and Lord knew he could use some decent advice. So Wes told Purcell the whole story, from the beginning, letting his breakfast get cold as he half-heartedly pushed around his eggs and bacon.
He told Purcell about seeing Samantha across the quad, taking the photo that began everything—the whole reason he’d gone after the internship with The Statesman in the first place. He shared his subsequent fascination with Samantha, followed by the pursuit. Then he relayed how it turned dark and twisted and confusing. Wes confessed how he caved when her father threatened him, how he was certain Sasser pulling his access was related though he couldn’t prove it…and as Wes recounted all the hoops he’d jumped through to be with her, all he could think was how each and every one of them seemed worth it—how he’d do it again if he had to, just to have that slice of time with her again, maybe try to do it over—better.
“So how did you get here?” Purcell asked, polishing off his toast.
“I ended it,” Wes admitted. “I figured any way I looked at this, it ends bloody for me. Sam’s going to become this superstar someday. And I’ll just be this moderately talented photographer from Austin who loves her enough to follow her around like a lapdog.” His mouth compressed into a thin line at his own admission.
“That’s bullshit, Elliott,” Purcell countered. “I’ve always said you’ve got the chops, you just don’t push yourself as hard as you need to in order to reach the next level. If you want to be a good journalist, it’ll happen. Now whether or not that means you’re in Sam’s life?” he shrugged. “I think that’s more your choice than fate choosing it for you. In fact, I think you cut ties because you couldn’t handle the idea that a girl like that requires more of a guy like you. And maybe you just don’t have the confidence yet to become the man she sees. So why not end it before you really know what’s possible?”
Purcell’s assessment hit a little too close for comfort. Wes shifted in his seat, his ribs aching.
“I’m not saying she’s blameless,” Purcell pointed out, taking a swig of coffee. “Maybe Sam is using you to get back at daddy. She wouldn’t be the first girl to do that. Not by a million. But I’m saying you’re a natural self-saboteur, Wes. Before you go off pointin’ fingers, maybe you oughtta take a good hard look in the mirror.”
“What are you talking about?” Wes replied, stung. “I’ve been busting my ass to be the kind of guy a girl like Sam deserves.”
“Have you?” Purcell replied with a knowing look. “I’m sitting across from a guy I just bailed out of jail for fighting his best friend and holding dope, and that was after you bailed on writing the article on the Challenge, to pair up with Miranda on a sure thing.”
“Shit, Miranda’s article—” He’d completely forgotten to worry about that in the countless hours he’d spent obsessing about Samantha. He’d put Miranda off for days, using class and work and any other excuse he could think of, and it wasn’t fair. Not right at all.
“No, it’s your article too,” Purcell corrected. “It’s the two of you, remember? A team—the team. You think The Statesman hears about your stint in county lockup last night, and they’ll want to get within ten feet of you?” he asked pointedly.
Wes would kick his own ass if he ruined Miranda’s chance of getting the internship, much less his own. He wiped his hands down his bruised face, unsure of what to say.
“I’ll withdraw my photos,” he finally said. “Or I’ll let her take the credit for them.”
“No, you won’t,” Purcell replied. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Wes. You take the easy way out instead of standing and facing the music. You tell yourself you’re doing it for Miranda or Sam, but the truth is, you just don’t want to see if you’ve got the stuff it takes to make it to the majors—in life and in love.”
Wes didn’t say anything for a long time as he absorbed Purcell’s words.
“The way I see it, the only difference between you and those young women is that they’ve got the guts to see things through, despite the risk that it might not pan out,” Purcell continued. “That’s the difference between all-stars and might-have-beens, Wes. You just have to man up and decide which you are.”
*
October—Friday Morning
Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M
S A M A N T H A
Sam strode into Professor Hammond’s class about ten minutes early. She’d emailed her professor, asking if they could speak the day before, but since Hammond had a full day, her teacher had suggested they meet just before class.
Hammond smiled as she saw Sam enter the lecture hall. “Figured you’d have to be felled by something pretty bad to miss class twice this week.”
“Yeah, sorry about that—been burning the candle at both ends,” Sam hedged, stopping in front of the professor’s desk. She wasn’t quite a hundred percent yet, but she was near to it. A few pounds shy of her usual weight and still a little pale, but a couple days of Rita’s mothering and nagging was probably as useful as it was irritating. Sam was hurting still, no doubt, but she was bound and determined to get back into gear and get the rest of her life on course with or without Wes.
She pulled the copy of The Reid Technique of Interviewing and Interrogation her professor had lent to her from her messenger bag. “I finished the book.”
Hammond nodded, sitting back in her seat, her eyes quizzical. “And?”
“And I’d like to declare a double major in linguistics and behavioral psychology,” Sam added. “I’d also like to take you up on your offer to be my advisor for the psych portion of the major if you’re still offering.”
Hammond smiled briefly. “I am.”
“And your husband emailed me,” Sam continued. “He said he’d be willing to see me next week to discuss his work at the Kennedy Center.”
“Is that what helped you decide about the major?” Hammond asked.
“No.” Sam shook her head. “Truth is, I’m really interested in psychology. More than I’d realized. You just helped me think about it in terms of practical application. But I think I would have been interested in it regardless of whether I was going into the service or not.”
Hammond pushed her seat back and stood, easing the creases out of her pencil skirt. “So you believe you can do both.”
Sam’s brow creased. “Both what?”
Hammond rounded her desk. “You believe you can be both heir to the Wyatt legacy and all that comes with it—and be your own person,” her teacher clarified.
Sam ran her fingers down the book’s spine for a moment before looking Hammond in the eye. “I don’t believe the two will be easy to balance—”
“I never said it would be.”
“But I think maybe I’ve been making them more at odds than they need to be,” Sam finished honestly. “And I’d be disappointed in myself if I didn’t try to make both possible.”
Hammond considered her for a long moment, two women in the quiet of the soon-to-be-filled lecture hall. “I’m happy to hear you’ve come to this conclusion, Samantha.” She extended her hand. “Because if anyone can make it work, it’s likely to be you.”
Samantha shook Professor Hammond’s hand. She felt a mutual respect in the undercurrent of the action. A question asked and answered.
“Fill out all the relevant paperwork with the Registrar and bring it to me to sign,” Professor Hammond told her. Sam nodded just as the earliest students began filtering into the room.
Sam found her seat as the lecture hall began to fill with chatter and the familiar commotion of students shuffling into their seats, getting ready for class. She felt lighter and better than she had in days, relishing the kind of deep satisfaction that came with making a big decision. This was how she was going to do it—with one foot in front of the other, one good move after another. Sam was smiling to herself when Chris slid into the seat beside her.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” he told her, his grin tired and a little relieved. “You back in your seat.”
Sam ran her eyes down the bristles lining his jaw. Chris was usually as clean shaven as the cadets. It wasn’t like him to look scruffy. Then she noticed the cut on his brow, the raw damage to his knuckles. Not his typical football war wounds. This was something else altogether.
“You been brawling?” she asked, taking in his clothes. He was wearing a rumpled Aggie football t-shirt and a pair of shorts that looked like they’d been living in the bottom of his gym bag.
Chris shrugged, chewing on his pen cap as he flipped open his notebook with his bruised hand. “If I have?”
“I’d like to meet the idiot who would take on a lineman worth two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of solid beef,” she drawled, wry. “Or is the poor bastard still unconscious in the ER somewhere?”
“He’s probably still locked up in county,” Chris muttered under his breath.
Sam blinked. “Whoa, what?”
Chris sighed, meeting her eyes. “I got into it with Wes. We both got thrown in the bullpen a couple nights ago.”
“Jesus,” Sam breathed in shock. “What the hell, Chris?”
Chris rubbed a hand down his face. “Can we talk about this after class?”
“You bet your ass we will.”
Sam struggled to stay focused on Professor Hammond’s lecture over the next hour. It was ironic that she’d finally gotten on track after a long week of revolving around her abject misery over Wes, only to get sucked back into the drama. She wanted to thump Chris over the head for fighting a battle she didn’t need his help with.
Somewhere between having Rita and Alejo drag her out of bed and the present moment, Sam had realized and accepted the plain and simple truth that she was just going through a terrible rite of passage that nearly everyone in the world experiences at some point. Getting her heart broken wasn’t the end of the world—it just felt like it. And while she alternated between wanting to cry her heart out and kick Wes’s ass herself, she didn’t want Chris or anyone else getting involved in what was ultimately between her and the guy she wished she didn’t still love.
Class was barely over before Sam was dragging Chris out from his seat. He followed her morosely, clearly not wanting to spill the goods, but she wrangled it out of him anyway. They hadn’t hit the lawn outside the psych building before she rounded on him.
“Tell me what you did,” she demanded.
Chris shifted his backpack on his shoulder. “I set things to right.”
“That’s not your job, Chris.”
His chin came up. “Like hell it isn’t.”
Sam crossed her arms. “Do I look like the kind of girl who needs a guy to solve her problems?”
“On Wednesday, yeah, you kind of did,” Chris retorted, making Sam flinch. She’d had that coming.
“How did you get arrested?” she asked instead.
“We were fighting in the parking lot at Dixie’s.” Chris glanced away. “That prick De Soto called it in.”
Sam reared back in shock. “He did what?”
“Alejandro called the cops.” Chris swallowed, glancing left, then right, looking for eavesdroppers. Sam’s radar went up.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Chris shifted on his feet, squirming under her hard stare. “I don’t know how or why Wes had pot on him, but he did,” Chris said in a low voice. “And De Soto told the cops he’d been trying to deal to me. So we both got locked up.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Holy crap—are you kidding me with this shit?”
Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Coach bailed me out. I don’t know about Wes. I haven’t seen him since. I’ve been staying over with a couple football buddies of mine.”
“You left him there?”
Chris tossed her a defiant look. “Like he left you, Sammy?” he replied.
“Then yeah. I guess I did.”
Sam spun around, pushing her hands through her hair. The brief moment of resolution and calm she’d felt just a scant hour ago after her talk with Professor Hammond had long since dissipated. She wanted to run to the county jail and get on the horn with her father’s best lawyers, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her place. She wanted to see with her own eyes that Wes was okay, but it was over. He didn’t belong to her any more than she belonged to him. Shit. Shit.
Sam rounded on Chris once again. “I know that you were just trying to do right by me,” she told him. “But you need to go take care of this situation right now. For your sake and for mine, you need to make sure he’s okay. You can’t leave him—not like this. You’re his friend, and he needs you—”
Chris’s eyes softened. “I’m your friend too, Sammy.”
“I know you are,” Sam murmured, squeezing his big hands in hers. “But I never meant to get between the two of you—I never wanted that. You need to make sure he’s okay. Will you do that, Chris? For me?”
He looked torn for a moment and then resigned. “We’ve been friends since freshman year.”
“I know.”
“And I beat him pretty good.”
Sam winced, just imagining it. “No doubt.”
“Why do you care so much still, Sammy?” he asked. “Why don’t you want me to go kick his ass again? Most girls would.”
He was right. Most girls would want the retribution and a guy as protective as Chris to deliver it. But somehow, Sam knew Wes was hurting already without adding Chris’s punishment into the mix. Maybe not the same way as she. Maybe not even as much, but Wes hurt too. She knew it. And there was plenty of that to go around without Chris whaling on him.
Sam stepped back. “We may not have worked out, but I still care about him, Chris. And so do you.” She let go of his hand. “And Wes needs you, even if he won’t admit it.”
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