Goddess Rising

by Alexi Lawless

  “I fucked up—royally. All right?” Wes interrupted, setting his shot glass down. “And now I’m in time out until I can figure out how the hell to get Sam back.”

  Ryke scratched his beard. “Tell me how you fucked up.”

  “Jesus.” Wes put a hand on his ribs where he was still aching.

  Ryke just waited him out.

  “I got scared,” Wes admitted after a moment, his tongue feeling a little loose. Maybe mezcal was actually a truth serum. He stared at the empty glass in his hand. “That’s just what it comes down to. I’m not proud about it, but there it is.”

  “This comes back to the conversation we had in the garage, doesn’t it?”

  “I let my own doubt get in the way,” Wes confessed. “I started questioning everything, even though it was going well. I started being afraid of everything I had to lose with her—”

  “So you ditched her while you still thought you could walk away whole,” Ryke guessed.

  “I’m not whole though—not by a long shot.” Wes’s mouth compressed in a hard line. “Goddamn, Ryke, I feel like I’m walking around with a big piece missing.”

  “You are, man,” Ryke replied, shaking his head. “You cut your nose off to spite your face, brother.”

  “I know that.” Wes shot him a look. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Ryke picked up the bottle, flipped his glass over, and poured them both another shot. “So then what are you going to do about it?” he asked. “You know what you did wrong. I’m guessing you want her back. Why are you in a bar with me in Austin, looking for trouble in all the wrong places when you oughtta be tracking this girl down?”

  “She wouldn’t take me back,” Wes responded flatly.

  “How do you know?” Ryke asked.

  “I said some terrible things. I cut her to the quick—”

  “You got a silver tongue, Wes. You talked your way into her good graces the first time—what makes you think you can’t do it again?” Ryke pointed out, semi-accurately.

  “She doesn’t trust me anymore.”

  “You haven’t given her any good reasons to,” Ryke countered. “Not recently, anyway.”

  “She deserves better—”

  “Who says? You?” Ryke replied, knocking back his shot. “I think you ought to let her be the judge of what she does and does not deserve. Women are tricky like that—they don’t like having decisions made for them.”

  The heat and determination in Sam’s face came back to Wes with startling clarity. He recalled her expression as she faced off with De Soto. He remembered the jut of her chin when she went toe to toe with her father. Jesus H., Wes had basically done exactly what she hated—he’d taken the decision out of her hands and made it for her. And it’d been the wrong damn one…

  “Wes, you’re like my brother, so I’ll frame it up as lovingly as I know how,” Ryke began. “You’re a dumb fuck, and you need to pull your head out of your ass.”

  Wes scowled at him. “Your version of brotherly love sucks, man.”

  “I’m being honest with you,” Ryke replied with a shrug. “That’s the best way to love from what I know of it. You want to become a good man, Wes? Well, there it is. You go to Sam and you be honest with her. You lay it all out on the line.”

  “I’m trying to give her time—” Wes argued. “Chris told me I needed to back off for a while.”

  “Now, you’re just coming up with good excuses not to walk the plank and do the hard thing. There’s a difference,” Ryke interrupted, shaking his head. “You’re just afraid Sam won’t take you back even after you make yourself completely vulnerable, and yeah—there’s a chance that will happen. It may even be likely—but there it is. You know exactly what you need to do. Now it’s just up to you to do it.”

  “It’s October break—she could be anywhere.” But he knew she was in Houston. He just hadn’t worked up the courage yet to go hunt her down.

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  Wes shook his head, mute.

  Ryke reached in his pocket and slapped a quarter on the table. “Hop to it then. Payphone’s out the back.”

  Wes stared at him, incredulous. “I’m drunk. You want me to call Sam hammered? You honestly think drunk dialing her will help matters much?”

  “You’re not drunk, Wes—you just wish you were,” Ryke told him. “Besides—this is just a first step. You ought to do this in person, like a man.” He pushed the quarter toward Wes with one blunt fingertip. “You call her and you risk it. You risk her saying no to you, then you begin the task of convincing her.”

  “It won’t work. You don’t know Sam like I do,” he argued.

  “So you say. But I’m a few years ahead of you on this particular curve, Wes. So trust me when I tell you, this is the way it’s done—it’s the way it’s always been done.” Ryke smiled briefly. “Men screw up. Then we admit it. Then we apologize. Then we grovel. Works like a charm—most of the time.”

  That’s exactly what Miranda had suggested. But it had been a couple weeks since everything had gone sideways, and Wes was certain Sam had built her walls so high, he’d never be able to breach them. But what did he have to lose at this point that he hadn’t already lost?

  “I’m going to take that quarter just to prove you wrong,” Wes said, swiping it off the table.

  “Don’t really care why you take it, as long as you do.” Ryke gave him a little shove. “Now stop talking shit and go on and get ’er done.”

  A couple of dingy payphones waited in the back of the bar by the restrooms. Wes passed the girls he’d been eyeing earlier on his way over. The brunette smiled at him over her shoulder. A kind of “come hither.” But all Wes could think about were all the ways he’d tell Sam he loved her if she just let him. He fit the quarter in the slot and dialed Sam’s apartment at A&M—the only number of hers he knew by heart.

  Please be there. Please don’t be there. God, I can’t decide which would be worse—

  “’llo?” Rita answered, like she was in the middle of something.

  Wes glanced at the phone in surprise, wondering if he’d somehow gotten the wrong number. But he didn’t know Rita’s number, so it had to be Sam’s.

  “Rita, it’s Wes,” he said in a rush. “Can I speak to Sam?”

  A beat of silence, followed by a torrent of Spanish he couldn’t begin to follow. But Wes got the gist. He knew what being cursed out sounded like in any language. Rita must be calling him seven different kinds of asshole.

  “Rita—I get it. I’m a piece of shit,” Wes cut her off mid-flight. “But I just need to talk to her, all right? I need to apologize—”

  “You need to do more than apologize, culero! You need to stay the hell away from her!” Rita shouted into the phone.

  “Why are you even answering her phone?” Wes asked, wobbling a little. He put his hand flat on the wall to steady himself. The mezcal was really starting to work through him. “Where is she—?”

  “Are you drunk?” Rita asked, incredulous. “Are you seriously drunk dialing her, you stupid monkey?”

  “Stupid monkey?” Wes parroted, rubbing his face. “Jesus, Rita—I know you’re pissed. I know Sam’s pissed. And yeah, I may be a little bit lit, but I need to talk to her. I need to tell her what happened—”

  “You need to tell me where you are so I can come and kick your ass,” Rita countered.

  “Go right ahead. Then you can give me a ride to go see her after you’re done. I’m down in Austin.”

  Rita paused a beat. He could hear her breathing angrily on the line.

  “I’m trying to do the right thing, Rita,” Wes admitted honestly, though he could hear himself slurring a little. Damn agave. “I need Sammy to know she’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me and that walking away was the worst thing I could have done.”

  “I could kill you for hurting her like that,” Rita hissed.

  “You and Chris both,” Wes answered, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against
the wall by his hand. “I need her, Rita,” he whispered. “I never needed anyone before Sammy.”

  It seemed a long silence followed his confession. Wes listened. He could almost hear Rita weighing the options.

  “Please, Rita—just put her on the phone. I’d drive out myself, but I’ve had too much to drink. I can be there tomorrow. If she wants to see me—I’ll be there as soon as I sober up enough to get back on my bike.”

  “Vales verga.”31

  “I don’t know what that means, Rita.”

  “She’s not even here, Wes,” Rita told him with a huff. “I’m staying at her place while she’s gone.”

  Wes thumped his head against the wall. “Just tell me where she is—I’ll drive there.”

  “No.”

  “Where is she, Rita?” he pleaded.

  More silence.

  “Goddamn it, Rita—what the hell do I have to do to prove I’m serious here?”

  “Why did you wait so long to call her?”

  “Chris told me to give her space. And like a jackass, I listened to him.”

  “So you didn’t just wait to call until after you got good and lubed up?”

  “I may have needed to work up some courage,” Wes answered honestly. “Look, can you blame me? Most of the people she’s surrounded by are training up on a hundred different ways to murder a man.”

  “I will cut your dick off if you hurt her again,” Rita told him hotly.

  “Well, that’s one step down from killing me dead, so I’ll take it,” Wes told her. The payphone beeped and Wes dug around in his pocket for another quarter. His hands felt heavy and slow to respond, but he managed to fumble another coin into the slot.

  “Please, Rita,” Wes breathed, resting his swirling head against the wall, trying to keep his thoughts straight. His tongue felt thick. He probably shouldn’t have had the last four or five shots… He was sort of amazed he was still standing. “Is she in Houston?”

  Rita heaved an irritated sigh.

  “Tell me, Rita.”

  “You’re the hot-shot-wannabe journalist—you figure it out,” Rita snapped. “I probably shouldn’t have even confirmed that, but I figure if it’s not now, it’s next week when she gets back. At least you two can get through your drama before classes restart.”

  “Thank you, Rita,” Wes told her sincerely. “I mean it—thank you.”

  “I’m serious about cutting your dick off, chingado.32 Don’t test me.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  As Wes hung up, the room moved from swaying to full-on Tilt-A-Whirl. He groped for the wall, saw the men’s room and managed to stumble his way in just before he hurled half of the bottle back up. He was sitting on the floor by the sink when Ryke walked in a few minutes later.

  “You do what needed to be done?” he asked, handing Wes a cold bottle of water, completely unsurprised by Wes’s state of ridiculousness.

  “I need to sober up,” Wes told him between gulps. “I’ve got to get to Houston.”

  Ryke patted his shoulder. “Come on—I’ll get you home first. You can sleep this shit off and get to her after you stop reeking of liquor and desperation.”

  “I just need to figure out where she is in Houston,” Wes mumbled as Ryke helped him up off the floor.

  “Well, her dad’s got a big ole’ skyscraper named after him,” Ryke pointed out. “Why don’t you start there?”

  Chapter 40

  October—Friday Night

  Teotihuacan Mexican Cafe, Houston, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  She probably shouldn’t have said yes to Travis when he’d asked her to dinner, hindsight twenty-twenty. But she liked spending time with him, and the ugly truth was, Sam needed a little pick-me-up after the debacle with Wes had leveled her self-esteem like a fallen pine. Besides, he’d been raving about his favorite Tex-Mex joint the last time she’d seen him, and Sam was never one to turn down a good meal.

  Travis picked her up at Wyatt Towers and took her to Teotihuacan, just about the pinkest building she’d ever seen, housing what felt like a friendly neighborhood restaurant—not at all the kind of chic eatery she’d imagined a guy like Travis gravitating toward, with his typically razor-sharp office duds and classy timepiece. But Travis simply rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he ordered a pitcher of margaritas.

  “I won’t drink much, so if you need me to be your designated driver, I’m all over it,” Sam told him, impressed by the size of the margarita pitcher.

  “I keep forgetting we’re not the same age.” Travis grinned sheepishly. “You’re nothing like the college girls I remember,” he admitted.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sam replied, brow raised as she perused the menu.

  “Absolutely as it was intended,” Travis responded.

  “So besides your obvious fondness for outrageous pink buildings, tell me why you love this place,” Sam asked, trying to decide on what she wanted.

  “Simple,” Travis replied with a grin. “Because this place serves the best trifecta of fajitas, enchiladas, and margaritas in Houston.”

  “All the major food groups,” Sam said with a laugh.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve got to admit, I was surprised when we walked in,” she confessed, glancing around. “I figured you’d try to impress me with a trendy new restaurant that serves an artfully presented piece of meat the size of a domino.”

  Travis looked at her a moment, his azure gaze amused. “You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who’s impressed by chichi show-offs. And besides, I lost all hope trying to impress you the moment I opened my big mouth the day we flew to the rig.”

  “True,” Sam drawled. “But you’re not the first guy who tried to take me to school—doubt you’ll be the last.”

  Travis caught and held her gaze with an easy smile, and Sam felt herself doing all right for the first time in weeks. Things were finally on better footing with her dad, and the painful constriction around her heart since Wes had left her started to feel like it was easing up a bit. Sam found herself telling Travis about her day at the Kennedy Center. Professor Hammond’s husband had come through with flying colors, introducing her to a cadre of military and civilian experts who worked closely with the Naval Intelligence Office. Their work was a fascinating combination of psychological and behavioral profiling, analysis, and targeted operational planning in military theaters all over the world.

  “Sounds like you had one hell of a day,” Travis remarked as he dipped a tortilla chip into the homemade guacamole.

  “Sure was.” Sam smiled ruefully. “I’ve been monopolizing the conversation since we got here. Tell me about the best thing that’s happened to you all week.”

  “Getting to have dinner with you,” Travis replied smoothly. “That makes it just about the best day I’ve had in ages.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re sort of shameless?” she teased.

  Travis’s pale blue eyes glinted with humor. “I’m really only shameless with you, Samantha.”

  “And why is that?” she asked, considering him. Travis was smart, handsome, and clearly accustomed to getting what he wanted. She doubted he needed to lay it on as thick with any woman as he did with her. “You know I’m not the keys to the Wyatt kingdom, right?” she pointed out, wanting to state the obvious just to get it out of the way. “My father’s firmly in that seat for the duration, so chumming up to me isn’t nearly the political capital you might think it’d be.”

  “So you keep telling me.” Travis returned her steady gaze. “You’re not really aware of your appeal, are you?”

  Samantha shrugged. “You mean besides the boss’s daughter?”

  “To be clear, I’m definitely not thinking about your father when I look at you,” Travis answered with a grimace. “In fact, I think we should put a moratorium on discussing anything related to your dad and petroleum for the rest of the evening.”

  Sam smiled. “I like the sound of that.”<
br />
  Travis took the liberty of ordering all his favorites at her urging, including a spectacular snapper al cilantro, shrimp enchiladas, and the classic carnitas the local restaurant was also known for.

  “I have to admit, I was surprised you agreed to have dinner with me,” Travis told her at one point. “I’m guessing Wesley is either in the doghouse or out of the picture for you to finally take me up on my offer.”

  A sharp pang hit her hard, but Sam hid it behind a casual sip of her margarita. “He’s free to do as he likes. As am I.”

  “That’s very adult of you two,” Travis observed. “If you were my girlfriend, I’d beat the living hell out of anyone who tried to kiss you.”

  Sam blinked, confused. “Who’s trying to kiss me—?”

  Travis caught her chin gently before Sam fully registered what was happening. Had she not been surprised by the bold move, she probably wouldn’t have allowed it. Travis’s mouth brushed slowly over hers before he pressed in, coaxing her mouth open so he could taste her. It felt startlingly good, and he was clearly an adroit kisser, but Sam drew back anyway, a strange, almost ticklish aversion making her cheeks flush.

  “You’re pretty ballsy,” she commented, breathless.

  “No guy gets what he wants standing on the sidelines,” Travis replied with a little smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, like Wes used to do, and Sam suddenly realized that no matter how good-looking, funny, and smart Travis was, she still wanted Wes, like an addict who gets a taste of the good stuff, only to be teased later by an ersatz substitute.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day we met,” Travis confessed, his mouth curved. “You turned me sideways from the start, Samantha, and I think I’ve been a little bit obsessed with kissing you ever since.”

  And I’m obsessed with a photographer who’s stuck in my head like a sad song on repeat…