The office reeked of aged leather, top-shelf bourbon that had probably outlived several presidencies, and the unmistakable musk of a seventy-three-year-old man who'd just printed more money in one night than most tenured professors would see in their entire sad, grant-chasing careers.
Vice Principal Ashworth had commandeered her chair—the one usually reserved for trembling freshmen and groveling adjuncts—and was now counting his winnings with the unhinged glee of a toddler who'd found Mommy's secret chocolate stash and decided the diet could wait until tomorrow.
Bundle. After bundle.
After glorious, crinkling bundle.
His gnarled fingers danced across the bills with surprising speed, thumbing edges, sniffing them like fine cigars, stacking them into tidy green skyscrapers on the mahogany desk.
White hair haloed in lamplight.
