“I feel like a w***e,” Beau announced to the inside of his pickup truck. He cranked the window down, letting the cool evening air suck away the smell of Tiffany’s cloying perfume. Before she’d gotten into her fancy car and driven away, Tiffany had slid a three-way-fold of papers into his interior jacket pocket and deposited a moist and unsettling kiss on the side of his throat.
The papers were scattered across the front seat of his pick-up. Two checks, one for an obscene amount that would be deposited and sent off to the college as soon as humanly possible. The other, somewhat smaller, but still ridiculous, was for his travel expenses, appropriate business attire—Tiffany had explained this last with a pointed look and fondling of his jacket lapel—and “incidentals.” Whatever that meant.
B
