Devil in Texas (Rugged and Risque 1)

“Yes, but,” George countered with a mischievous glint in his dark brown eyes. “Making waves is up your alley.”

“For a good cause,” Jack would allow. Manhattan certainly fell into that category—and he’d gotten one hell of a ribbing from his poker mates when he’d returned from “dropping her off”.

“You think we don’t have a good cause on our hands now?” George interrupted Jack’s thoughts before they went the way of long, naked limbs and slow, hot kisses. It was all he could do to keep the sound of her sexy moans and the feel of her tight, wet pussy from running through his mind. He’d wanted to give her a hell of a lot more than one orgasm—he wanted to do a lot of more than just finger-fuck her cunt.

“For God’s sake, Jack!” George continued his rant. “Your head’s not buried in the sand. Things are getting weird around here.”

He couldn’t argue that point even if he wanted to. But the situation was more delicate than George seemed to understand. “Grant and I may be of like minds,” Jack contended. “But the saints and I aren’t so tight.”

“Lydia

Bain adores you.”

“And her husband, Reverend Bain, who’ll have a seat on the City Council ‘til hell freezes over, wants to put me out of business. Like he’s done to every other bar owner in town. Tips the scales a bit. And not in my favor, you can clearly see.”

“This is absurd,” George said. He was a sturdy sort both by way of stature and conscience. At six-feet tall, he was a few inches shorter than Jack and much thicker from head to toe. They were the same age, thirty-one, but George already had strands of gray woven through his dark brown hair. Though the distinguished look lent to his respectable image, George was always the first one to cut loose with Jack. Partners in crime to the end.

All in the name of good, harmless fun, of course.

But there’d been few rowdy times of late. In fact, it felt as though a dark cloud hovered over the town, putting everyone on edge. The exact reason George was pestering him about running for office.

“This town has some serious issues to reconcile,” George continued as he packed away the poker chips while Jack finished tidying the small room. “The mayor needs a strong advocate on his side before he loses all control. One of us needs to step up to the plate and help him.”

“Be my guest,” Jack offered. Though his blood boiled at the downward spiral they were all collectively taking.

Some of the church-going folk were riding a morality sanction like a runaway train. And people were suffering because of it. Yes, when it came to taking a stand, Jack had precious chips stacked in his corner, in one respect. But he had his fair share of opponents that had been gunning for him since he was a rebellious teenager—and because of his last name. Conversely, the odds were against him.

An impasse of his own making, really.

“I’d consider running,” George said. “But we both know how people feel about electing someone who’s ‘new’ to the community. I’ve been here for nearly ten years, but because I wasn’t born and raised in Wilder, I’m still considered an outsider.”

“Another mistake. Fresh ideas and diverse perspectives would do wonders for this town.” But people had to embrace innovation in order to move forward. Something few seemed inclined to do these days.

“Seriously, Jack. There’s no convincing you?” George prodded.

Jack gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not totally discounting the idea. But you have to consider…it might make matters worse, not better.”

“You’ve got some stiff competition—and opposition—with the old guard, I’ll admit.”

“Let’s call a spade a spade,” Jack said as they left the back room. He stalked down the narrow hallway and entered the bar area. This was his pride and joy. His personal haven. The one remaining landmark in Wilder that was a thorn in the saints’ sides.

“I don’t have the cleanest reputation in town, and I’m not about to laud myself as a reformed sinner just so I can make a stand,” he said as he dumped the peanut shells into the trash. “I wouldn’t intentionally be self-serving if I was on the Council, but I also wouldn’t let the congregation bulldoze me.”

“You realize you’re making my point for me,” George said in a dry tone.

Jack scowled. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t put serious thought into running, even before George had brought it up after the poker game. Unlike his friend, Jack had been born and raised in Wilder. He’d suffered through waves of small-town narrow-mindedness interspersed with big-city brilliance—such as what his own father had once contributed to the community before he’d left town. Or been run out. All depended on who you asked.

For as long as he could remember, Jack had been in the thick of the push-and-pull that resulted in this town taking one step forward to progressive thinking and two steps back to the Dark Ages.

“Something’s got to give,” George continued on. Not saying anything new. “You’re a man who makes things happen, Jack. Be a damn shame if you didn’t do something to set things right.”

“Now, George,” Jack said in the most civil tone he could muster. In truth, the mere thought of how sterile their environment had become sparked his anger in a heartbeat. But he’d learned long ago not to go off half-cocked. This was a delicate matter to be handled with care.

He of all people knew the influence some of the more embedded residents held over this small, lakeside community. Lydia and Reverend Bain. Stan Parsons, the high school principal. Myra Brighton, a distant descendant of the founder of Wilder. Even the mayor had to battle them on major decisions.

Granted, not everyone in this Bible Belt community kowtowed to someone else’s interpretation of religion and the Lord’s gospel. Clearly, there was a balance to be struck, and that wasn’t easy to do when some felt threatened by what they perceived to be big-city ideas and a decline in values by today’s youth. The God-fearing men and women of Wilder held fast to their beliefs and prayed for the sinners’ souls every Sunday morning and Wednesday night at church.

Oh hell. They likely prayed all damn week.