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The pickup basketball game at the dorm ran late and I had to get out to the polo field lickety-split or I'd miss the start of practice. So, I stripped off my T and used it to dry off my chest and pits, tossed it in the backseat of the trusty vintage T-Bird convertible, and roared off toward the mountains, toward the practice field at the Moss Grove winery in the foothills of the Smokies. My gym bag with my jodhpurs, practice jersey, and riding boots was in the front seat beside me; I'd have to change when I got out to the winery. That would mean letting the winery owner, Chet, get an eyeful. But as I'd fucked him the previous weekend, we were beyond modesty in that realm.

The old T-Bird didn't prove to be that trusty that afternoon, though. Miles out of the university town, where Prussian Road had narrowed down to barely two lanes of broken asphalt, the convertible's engine sputtered and died just as I managed to get it far enough to the right for a car to pass me. I'd been too smart for my own good. I hadn't taken the most-frequented road between town and the winery; I'd taken a little-used road I thought would be a shortcut. The ruts in this old road might have been what the T-Bird couldn't handle. I'd probably knocked something important loose.

Great. I was out here, half naked—in just my jock strap and gym shorts—and with barely enough money in the wallet to pay for dinner, let alone a tow. But I did have my cell phone, and, rummaging through my wallet, I was reminded that Dear Old Dad had signed me up for AAA ...

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