The girl blinked at him like she was trying to understand English through water.
She was young, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, with glossy brown hair falling out of a fancy updo, a silver dress that probably cost more than Ryan’s monthly rent, and heels lying on the floor mat like dead birds. She smelled like champagne, perfume, and bad decisions.
Outside the car, downtown Charleston was still half-asleep. Bars had gone dark. Street cleaners hummed along the curb. A police cruiser rolled slowly past the corner, its lights off but its presence enough to make Ryan sit straighter.
He had one rule as a rideshare driver.
No drama.
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