The Rideshare Affair

The grind is real.

Fifty-one years old, saving every penny to open my Caribbean restaurant. By day I'm prepping jerk recipes. By night I'm driving for Lyft.

"Gloria, you work too hard," my sister says.

"Gloria works smart," I tell her.

Tonight, smart means the late shift in Buckhead.

The first ping comes at 11 PM.

Pickup: W Hotel. Destination: Ansley Park.

I pull up, and the back door opens.

"Gloria?" His voice is smooth, professional. "I'm Marcus."

He's maybe forty-five, suit expensive, smile easy. Slides into my backseat like he owns it.

"Long night?" I ask.

"Getting longer." His eyes meet mine in the rearview. "But I have a feeling it's about to get better."

The ride takes eighteen minutes.

Normally I drive quiet, let passengers be. But Marcus talks—about his work (corporate law), his divorce (finalized last month), his new condo (empty and depressing).

"Why am I telling you all this?" he laughs.

"People tell their Lyft drivers everything. We're like therapists."

"Do therapists usually smell like jerk seasoning?"

I laugh despite myself. "I cook. It's my passion."

"What's your specialty?"

"Jamaican food. Opening a restaurant soon."

"Where?"

I give him the address, the opening date, the whole dream. He listens like it matters.

"This is me." He doesn't get out. "Can I ask you something forward?"

"You can ask."

"Are you driving tomorrow night?"

"Every night until my lease is signed."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." He tips me fifty dollars on a twenty-dollar ride. "Same time, same pickup."

Night two.

He's waiting outside the W when I arrive.

"Gloria." That smile again. "I was hoping it would be you."

"You requested me specifically."

"Guilty." He slides in, closer to the middle this time. "Tell me more about this restaurant."

I drive slow.

Tell him about growing up in Montego Bay, about my grandmother's recipes, about the divorce that left me starting over at fifty.

"Starting over isn't failure," he says. "It's courage."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Twenty years of marriage, gone." He shrugs. "But some things need to end for better things to begin."

"What better things?"

His eyes meet mine in the mirror.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

Night three.

I pull up and he's in the front seat before I can object.

"Easier to talk this way," he says.

"That's not how—"

"I tipped you a hundred dollars in advance." He holds up his phone. "I think you can bend the rules."

I laugh. "Fine. But if you try anything—"

"I would never." He's quiet for a moment. "Unless you wanted me to."

The tension in the car is thick.

We drive in silence for five minutes before he says:

"I haven't stopped thinking about you."

"Marcus..."

"I know this is crazy. You're my Lyft driver. We met three days ago. But you're the first person who's made me feel something since my divorce."

"What do I make you feel?"

"Hungry."

"For jerk chicken?"

"For you, Gloria." He reaches over, touches my hand on the gear shift. "I'm hungry for you."

I should keep driving. Should drop him off and never accept another request.

Instead, I pull into an empty parking lot and kill the engine.

"What are we doing?" I whisper.

"Whatever you want." He unbuckles his seatbelt, turns to face me. "I'll follow your lead."

"I'm fifty-one—"

"I'm forty-five."

"I'm not skinny—"

"I have eyes." His hand finds my cheek. "Beautiful eyes can see beauty."

"Marcus..."

"Tell me no and I'll get out. Tip you for your time. Never bother you again."

I don't tell him no.

I lean across the console and kiss him.

Awkward angle, gear shift in the way, but it doesn't matter. He kisses like a man who's been waiting for exactly this.

"Backseat," he murmurs.

"You're crazy."

"Crazy about you." He's already climbing over. "Come on."

The backseat is not designed for this.

Too cramped, too awkward, too ridiculous. But Marcus makes it work—pulling me onto his lap, hands finding the hem of my dress.

"You're shaking," he notices.

"It's been a while."

"Then let me make it worth the wait."

His fingers find me ready.

Three days of tension, three nights of wondering—I'm soaked through my panties before he even touches them.

"There we go," he murmurs against my neck. "That's what I wanted to feel."

"Marcus—"

"Shh. I've got you."

He works me with his fingers until I'm gasping.

Pulls my dress down to access my breasts, sucks each nipple until I'm writhing. In the cramped backseat of my Lyft car, I come harder than I have in years.

"Beautiful," he breathes. "So beautiful."

"Your turn."

I free him from his expensive slacks.

He's hard, thick, leaking. I stroke him while he groans, then position myself above him.

"Wait—condom—"

"Wallet. Left pocket."

I find it, roll it on, and sink down onto him.

Riding him in my Lyft is surreal.

The leather seats creak. The windows fog. Someone could walk by any second.

I don't care.

"So good," he groans, gripping my hips. "So damn good—"

"Harder—"

He plants his feet and drives up into me, and I see stars.

We come together.

Gasping, clutching, making sounds that definitely carry through the windows. I collapse against his chest, both of us breathing hard.

"That was..." he starts.

"Insane."

"I was going to say perfect."

I laugh, kiss him, feel him softening inside me.

"I should take you home."

"Or." He tilts my face up. "You could take me to your place."

"My place is a mess."

"I don't care about mess." He kisses me softly. "I care about you. I want more time with you."

I take him home.

He stays the night.

Then the next night.

By the end of the week, his toothbrush is next to mine.

My restaurant opens six months later.

Marcus is there for the ribbon cutting—my partner in every sense. He handled the lease negotiations, the business paperwork, the thousand details I didn't have time for.

"To Gloria's Jerk Kitchen," he toasts at the soft opening.

"To the passenger who changed my destination," I counter.

He laughs, kisses me, tastes like the jerk chicken he helped me season.

I still drive Lyft sometimes.

Not for the money—for the memories.

Every time I pass that parking lot in Buckhead, I smile.

Some destinations aren't on the map.

Some journeys start when you least expect them.

And sometimes the best tip is a love that lasts.