The Soapy Tourist

Ryan plops onto the sofa like he owns the joint. Suzanne pops in and jumps. "Sorry, didn't mean to give you a heart attack," he grins, thumbing his chest. "Name's Ryan." Turns out the guy and his wife were road-tripping until she ditched him for shopping. He got bored, stretched his legs, spotted Soapy Massage and figured what the hell—he'd been marinating in car seat sweat all day. Suzanne runs the menu down; Ryan shells out cash before the words are cold.