Wild Child by Molly O'Keefe Page B

his grueling workouts, there was no telling what would happen at these budget meetings.
    He imagined turning into The Hulk and smashing desks.
    With a sigh, Brian put his glasses back on. Gray was smattered through his dark black curls, and wrinkles creased his ebony skin—this job had aged him.
    “Without a change in the tax base, next year we eitherclose the library or we pay the fire chief’s salary,” he said.
    “We can’t not have a fire chief.”
    “Then we close the library.”
    “We can’t close the library! What about volunteers? If we just have volunteers run it?”
    “And how do we pay the utilities? Taxes? It’s one of the biggest buildings in the city—”
    “Okay. Okay.” Jackson looked out the window and wondered, just briefly, what was happening in Rio de Janeiro at this moment. Dancing, probably. That hipswervy Latin stuff. He wasn’t much of a dancer but if he moved to Rio, he’d learn. He was probably great at it and just didn’t know it.
    “The contest—”
    “We can’t bank on the contest, Jackson. We can’t.”
    Jackson knew that, he did, but he wanted to bank on it. He wanted to put aside all this anxiety over the town and start looking forward to the next part of his life. He wanted to move on.
    “Two more months,” he said. “Two more months before we make these big decisions.”
    “Jackson.” Brian’s sigh reeked of disappointment and censure, and Jackson bristled. “What happens if we don’t win? This town needs to restructure. It’s not the town it was before the recession, which doesn’t have to be a tragedy. But I think if we really looked at reality—”
    “You can restructure when you’re mayor.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Brian didn’t deserve that, but Jackson had started down this road and he couldn’t change direction now. He was swinging for the fences here, damn it! “How are the Okra Festival plans going?”
    “Great. We’ve made a little money on the parade permits. The street-fair vendor licenses are all sold—people seem to be excited.”
    “Good. That’s … good.” Good, but not enough. Not nearly enough and they both knew it.
    Brian closed his books, which was the universal signal that the meeting was over. He stood and collected his stuff, and Jackson had to admire the guy. Considering they were the only two people with all their fingers in the dam, Brian kept his cool. Brian could quit, as he’d no doubt been tempted to do once he realized the mess they were in—Lord knows Jackson had been—yet he’d stayed.
    They might not always agree, but he showed up at these meetings every week with ideas, ready to try.
    “You’ll be a good mayor,” Jackson said.
    “The election isn’t for another three months,” Brian said, smiling over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
    “No one is running against you, Brian. Everyone knows you’ll be good for Bishop.”
    Brian stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. “I won’t have a magic contest to help this town out.”
    That felt like hard censure, and Jackson’s back rose. “Should I have sat back and not tried?”
    “No, but … not everything needs to be fixed. Some things just … are.”
    Jackson shrugged, angry and at a loss, because he didn’t understand what Brian was talking about. Some things just are? What things? Everything was changeable; he knew that better than anyone. One minute a guy could have a life, a girlfriend, plans for the future, and the next that could all be gone. People could change—he had big plans in that department. And everything … everything could be fixed.
    Brian shook his head and left, closing the door behind him with a definitive click.
    Jackson stared at the intricately carved door of his office. Honestly , he thought, apropos of nothing, who carves a door like that? What is the point of a door like that?
    Something restless roared through him and he wanted, ferociously, to see Monica. To bury his discontent