Brant sat on his bike on a patch of grass at the southern end of the airport and watched the Germane jet take off. The sleek plane was beautiful and Arctic white, but looked miniscule sandwiched between a 747 and an Airbus on the runway. He watched it climb until it was out of sight.
Some guys would have crawled into a hole with a bottle. But Brant rode to Chuy’s, took a seat on the patio, and ordered a frozen Margarita with fish tacos.
His life would be forever divided into before and after that summer. Before Garland, he’d been a simple man with simple needs. After she left, he was a man on a mission called money.
When the table server came to check on him, he put cash in her hand and stepped out the patio gate. Fifteen minutes later he was walking past the bar in the Sons of Sanctuary club house.
“Where’s the old man?”
“Office,” said Digger, looking up from his beer.
Brant knocked twice. When he heard his father say, “Open,” he stepped in.
“Make me a prospect.”
F.J. Fornight looked his son over. “What brought this on?”
“I got my reasons.”
After staring Brant down for a full minute, he said, “Okay. I’ll sponsor you. You know the rules. No favors.”
“Got it.”
“Church day after tomorrow. Seven o’clock. I’ll put it to vote, but everybody has to agree.”
“I know. I’ll be here.”
Brant had his hand on the door, when his father said, “This have anything to do with that beauty you brought by?”
It had always been impossible to get anything past his old man.
“Reasons are my own.”
F.J. nodded and went back to what he was doing.