The cherry red BMW coupe she was pushing was clean as hell, as if someone had washed it while they were eating. At eighteen, Synovi’s thoughts were nowhere near driving a car that nice. He was too worried about where he was going to lay his head at. Not how fast he could reach one hundred on the dash of a damn BMW. Nor did he have worries about getting assaulted outside of a nightclub. He and Racquel were living two separate lives; hers of privilege, and his of poverty. Synovi didn’t see why the fuck she wanted to be his friend. What was he bringing to the friendship?
