The security guard, diligent and vigilant, asked with a firm tone, "Who are you here to see? Do you have an appointment?"
Billy was taken aback. Since when did you need a booking to drop by someone's place?
With confusion written all over his face, Billy listened as the guard went on, "We operate on a strict appointment system here. The residents let us know who's coming, what time, and we verify it. Seems like you don't have one, I'm sorry, but I can't let your car in."
Without Brandon's cell number, Billy had no choice but to reverse out of the driveway. He parked the car off to the side and approached the guard to negotiate.
First, he took out a cigarette to offer, but the guard declined. Then he promised a tip, but the guard refused once again, even scolding him.
"Sir, what are you implying? Trying to bribe me? You want me to break the law? I'm calling the cops."
Billy was fuming. The gates of the upscale neighborhood held an authority that barred him from entry.
The three of them sat in the car, strategizing on how to get in. The final plan? Billy spent some cash to get ahold of Brandon's number.
He dialed the number, and Brandon's deep voice answered, "Who's this?"
"Mr. Brandon, it's me, the son of Bailey. My dad often mentioned you, said if he were in better health, he'd challenge you to a round of golf."
A chuckle came through the line as Brandon realized, "Ah, Bailey's boy! What do you need?"
Billy's pride took a hit at Brandon's blunt greeting. He pressed on, "The thing is, my dad always talked about an engagement between your grandson and my daughter. She's a real catch—smart, graduated from a good school, and well-behaved, just a gem."
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