Of course, you’re only here to see who the first winner was, right? Well…you have to read to the end to see. I know, I’m just mean that way!
I don’t need to repeat the introduction now, do I? You all know I’ve been giving you plenty of compelling reasons to pick up your own copy of Down in Texas when it releases on October 28th. I left off yesterday with Reason #3, or Hero #3 more accurately.
Meet Mac McDonough, whose absence has been felt throughout the story to this point. Mac’s been in Iraq, serving with his reserve unit. But he’s back early, and you know that’s not good. Here’s the first time you meet him in the story “Straight Up Soldier.”
Mac McDonough’s body ached with the need to sink into soft, wet woman.
An escape, no matter how brief, from the constant, throbbing in his shattered leg.
Like an answer to his prayer, a familiar SUV crawled up the rough gravel road. His body tightened. Tara Toomey had offered the last time she paid him a visit, for old time’s sake, but he’d turned her down because he’d still had just enough pride and just enough affection for his old friend not to want to use her like that.
Today, she wouldn’t make it past the door. The thought of her blond flyaway curls wrapped around his dick made him throb with anticipation.
As she slowly made her way up the winding, rutted road, Mac McDonough closed his eyes and turned his face into the gusting, humid air and inhaled the fresh scent of the coming rain—a fierce reminder of just how far he’d come.
Over seven thousand miles and another lifetime.
The cabin nestled high on a ridge overlooking hills covered with live oak and cedar seemed as far removed from his version of reality as the face of Mars.
Sure the ground was a bed of sand and rock, but the sand was grittier, the grains larger than the wheat flour a Hummer could kick up into the air, leaving a trail that could be tracked for miles across the desert floor.
The air was almost as hot, but filled with so much moisture it felt thick as he dragged it deep into his lungs.
Mac curled his fingers around the porch rail and leaned into it, savoring the solitude he’d needed to heal his soul that no amount of therapy or medicine could compare with.
Only thing missing from the picture was another case of whiskey to help him sink into a stupor to ease the pain-filled tension in his body and shut out the memories that haunted his dreams.
And a woman. Not that he was willing to leave the cabin to go on the prowl for one, but the longer he remained in his self-imposed isolation, the more urgent became the need. Any woman would do—so long as she didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be wooed. He hadn’t the time or the heart left for either.
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