Page 10 of Feel It in the Air

“He’s just grumpy because he’s not gettin’ any,” Hux offers.

“Not all of us can sleep our way through Tifton and the other surrounding towns,” I remark, not bothering to crack a smile.

Hux’s playboy ways aren’t a secret. If anything, his reputation precedes him a little bit at this point. We’re all just waiting for the woman who makes him change his ways. My brothers and I have a theory on exactly who that is, but every time it comes up, Hux’s response is like clockwork.

“Tsk, it’s sundown somewhere, and there’s a pretty little thing just waiting on me, you know this,” Hux says, as if on cue. “Beside, August…”

My full name makes my skin crawl, the grumpiness that was hovering at surface level fully settling in now.

“Don’t be jealous. Just because I know the difference between a three and an eight…”

That’s it. The proverbial line in the sand.

Usually it’s Anton who’s the instigator. The one pushing all the buttons. That said, if he were to have a second-in-command, it would be Hux.

“I know the fucking difference!”

“We know you do, son,” our father’s slow, deep Southern drawl greets. He saunters into the conference room, his confident, lopsided grin secure in place as he nods at each one of us. “What you don’t remember is not to pick up your beer with the hand that has a fresh phone number on it. Ah, ziti. Thank you, Miss Harriett.”

For fuck’s sake…

Willa reaches over, squeezing my arm. I’ve taken enough shit from my family over the smudged phone number this past year that you’d think I’d be used to it by now. Except not a day goes by that I don’t kick myself over it. Because picking up the beer was quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

Except for maybe not trying to call all the potential versions of the number, like Milo suggested at the time. It felt weird—and borderline creepy—to randomly call up a number and ask if they were the woman at JFK airport, but now there’s a part of me that wishes I’d gotten over that. Because then I would have had a chance at finding her. Another part of me is surprised that this lot didn’t take it upon themselves to do it. Then again, if they had, they’d have nothing to taunt me about.

But we’re not going to dwell on that now. I have things I need to do today.

“Not to rush you, Auggie, but can we get started? I have to get those tax reports to Ernie and then go over payroll stuff with Patrick Rawlins for all the summer temp workers, plus see if I can squeeze in some time with HR about finding someone to take over guns and ammo and⁠—”

“We get it, Gus; you’re busy,” Anton cuts me off.

I flip him the single-finger salute, keeping my gaze trained on Auggie. Snickers surround us from the rest of the table, undoubtedly because Anton returned the gesture. We may be the executive team at a Fortune 500 company that employs the majority of our small, rural Georgia town, but no one ever accused us of being professional. At least not at Munch. We save that for out there.

“He has a point. We all need to get on with our day,” Auggie says. “And yes, we need to find someone for Guns and Ammo, but it has to be the right person. That might not be our only market segment anymore, but it’s still our largest and our legacy. I want to make sure that whoever comes in knows that they do so understanding the Hayes way of doing things.”

I nod, understanding exactly what he means. After all, it’s my division this person would be taking over. Almost twenty years’ worth of my work that they’d be carrying on with. That's something I care very deeply about. Especially when it’s the foundation our company was started on.

My siblings can call me grumpy or tease me about being too serious all they want, but I take a lot of pride in this company. I take nothing for granted. Being handed a company that has been around since before the Civil War means something.

Hayes Industries has come a long way since the two-man shop founded by Augustus and Llewelyn, a pair of brothers who somehow found favor with the Confederates. Their rifles started it all, and while we choose not to focus on the family history of the mid-1800s, they are still the reason Hickory Hills didn’t fade into oblivion like many other small rural towns. They’re the reason I get to sit at this table with Milo, Anton, Hux, Jace, Ewan, Willa, and our father, talking about things like beer brewing, a paper mill, personal safety, a bait and tackle shop, our charitable giving, and of course, the ever important three Ps—peaches, pecans, and peanuts.

“The new beer seemed to go over well at Rhythm and Brews,” Auggie says, steering the conversation to Southern Brothers Brewing, Milo’s operation.

Milo nods, updating the group on how the latest beer was received at the town’s massive beer and bluegrass festival over Labor Day weekend. I make a note that Bronwyn Ainsworth, our director of marketing, is working on a full launch for the spring, so we’ll need to coordinate that with…something. I can’t remember what though. She’ll know. She always does.

“Have you started the trademarking stuff?” I ask. Milo took all summer to settle on the name for the beer, coming in just under the wire, days before the festival. He was cutting it way too close for all our liking, but in the end he got it done, so I suppose that’s all that matters.

“Bronwyn said she was working with Percy down in legal. But if there’s something else I need to do, just let me know.”

I nod. I’ll add it to my list to make sure the paperwork is in order. Yes, that should be Milo’s responsibility, but that kind of thing has never been his focus. The beer brewing part, yes. The basic business part, sure. The grittier details? That's me.

We switch gears, letting Willa take over, excitedly reviewing the final fundraising numbers from Rhythm and Brews. Somewhere along the way she mentioned which extracurricular from the high school was to benefit this year—I think—but I missed it. I also know better than to ask. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter to me, as long as the event was a success.

My phone lights up next to me, an email notification from HR popping up on the screen. I peek at it as slyly as I can, my anxiety blipping like the heart rate monitors on a medical show—blip blip blip—my to-do list seeming to grow by the second.

“You’re not listening,” Willa calls me out. I know it’s me her comment is directed at simply by the sound of her voice. Busted.

“I am too,” I lie. “Record number for the mathletes. Everyone’s very excited.”