The Glamorous Passenger

Author’s note: All my previous submissions have been stand-alone stories, with no sequels intended. But I have always admired compelling multi-part stories like “Adrienne’s Duet” by BirdnFlight and “New Horizons” by FemmeyFemmeFemme. When I started fleshing out this story in my head, I realized I couldn’t write it as a stand-alone story and needed to break it down into component chapters. Although I admit this probably won’t be as good as something by JCMcNeilly or Shaima32, I hope you’ll give it a read. (And–to paraphrase the late, great Stan Lee–a special no-prize goes to whoever catches my tribute to JCMcNeilly in the story).

There is explicit sexual content in this story, but it’s fairly short compared to my other work and it’s really mostly to set up the next chapter.

Like Kay (the narrator of this story), I need two jobs to make ends meet, so don’t be surprised if the chapters are months apart.

Chapter 1 contains content concerning domestic abuse. If you are in an abusive relationship, please visit thehotline.org and make a strategy to get out. You are not doing yourself or your children any favors by staying with a toxic partner.

Standard disclaimer: All sexual activity described in this story is between consenting adults 18 and older.

Enjoy.

PROLOGUE:

I was born in the 1970’s, and like many women who came of age during the Riot Grrrl and Lilith Fair eras, I refused to put a label on my sexuality when I was younger. I didn’t want my individuality stolen by a conservative, patriarchal, boomer-dominated society determined to box me into a neat little category, and I made it a point to date both men and women. To anyone who assumed I was straight because I dated men, or a lesbian because I dated women, or bisexual because I dated both, I would angrily shoot back “I’m not straight, I’m not gay, I’m not bi, I’m just me! Deal with it!”

But as much as I protested otherwise, something inside kept trying to tell me that I was only faking it with men, and that I was exclusively attracted to women. I kept on ignoring that inner voice and I thought I silenced it forever when I met Dave. He and I just clicked. We had the same sense of humor, the same philosophy about life, we liked the same kind of music. We were compatible in every way except sexually, but I kept telling myself that he didn’t have to know that. Besides, given enough time, I was sure I would learn to enjoy making love to him.

We got married and moved into a modest two-bedroom apartment. Soon afterward, I gave birth to our first son, William. Six years later, his brother Justin came into the world. After Justin’s birth, I just stopped pretending to enjoy sex with Dave and he didn’t understand why. And on a conscious level, neither did I since I had spent my entire life denying my true sexuality to everyone including myself. We went into couples counseling to see if we could resolve our issues, hoping to fix our marriage. Instead, it would make our split inevitable. Although Dave knew I had dated women before I met him, it took years of therapy before I was ready to admit to myself and to my husband that I was a lesbian.

Ever since I was eighteen, I had assumed that if I named my sexuality, it would be confining. Instead, I found it liberating. For years, I insisted that by not defining my sexuality I was proving that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. The truth was that I was desperate for the respect of the third-wave feminists that I admired (and still admire). But I came to realize that by coming out as exclusively gay and living as my genuine self, I was shedding the need for approval by these women. After all, I had never met Ani DiFranco or Rebecca Walker, so I didn’t have to worry about their reaction. The week that I came out, I got a tattoo on my shoulder of two interlinked rainbow-striped female symbols. It’s a permanent reminder to myself and a signal to anyone who might see me with a sleeveless top that I am 100% lesbian, and it prevents me from denying this any longer.

But what was good for me personally wreaked havoc on our marriage. After I came out, neither Dave nor I were comfortable sharing a bed together. I still loved him as my best friend and the father of my boys, so we tried alternating sleeping on the couch for a while, but it didn’t work. Eventually, Dave moved out. He was generous enough with child support, but he couldn’t afford to pay for his half of the rent in our two-bedroom apartment and a place on his own as well. And my teacher’s salary by itself wasn’t enough to make up the difference, so I started spending my evenings and weekends as a ride-share driver.

Although I’m out to my family, friends and most of my co-workers, I’ve never felt the need to scream about my sexuality from the rooftops. My tattoo is small enough and high up enough on my shoulder that most short-sleeved tops completely cover it, which helps me not make waves at work. I remember the scandal in my conservative suburban high school when my algebra teacher was fired in the middle of the year because a student had seen her holding hands with her partner. The rationale given by the school district was “children don’t need to be exposed to that kind of lifestyle.” Things are better now, but there are still parents who would have an issue with a lesbian teaching their kids. Also, I like looking somewhat feminine. Although I only occasionally wear make-up or jewelry and I typically only wear skirts or dresses to formal occasions, I still grow my hair long and regularly shave my armpits and legs. Plus, being a breadwinner, a mom and a teacher were all more dominant in my life than was being a lesbian, right up until the life-changing events of this story that involves the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.

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CHAPTER 1

Monday nights are the slowest nights for ridesharing, and I had been sitting at home grading papers for nearly an hour before the alert on my app went off. I told William–who was now fourteen–to look after his brother and put him to bed if I didn’t make it back by 8:30 tonight. I was wearing a sleeveless green t-shirt, so to cover up my ink, I threw on a white short-sleeved blouse that I had worn to school earlier in the day but didn’t bother to button it. I have found that even this far into the 21^st Century, my pride tattoo still makes some straights uncomfortable. Some will go on and on about how their kid/sibling/nephew/niece/cousin/aunt/uncle/coworker/friend is gay and how supportive they are. Others start quoting the Bible at me and tell me that God loves me and doesn’t want me to go to Hell. Both these types of conversations make me feel awkward. When I’m stuck in a car with a stranger for however long, I don’t need that kind of distraction, so I cover up the tat when I’m on call.

The profile picture of the passenger looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. The pickup location turned out to be a fancy wine bar downtown, and when I got there, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life was waving me down. She had a Beverly Hills tan and wavy dirty-blonde hair that had obviously been very expensively styled so that it rolled in golden feathered waves down to just past her shoulders. She wore a sultry eye-shadow and dark mascara around eyes that were a pure aquamarine blue, and her wide smile was framed by a pair of ruby-red-glossed lips. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and short hem that showed off her C-cup cleavage and perfect thighs, strappy black three-inch heels, a black ribbon choker with a diamond pendant, a pearl necklace that came down to just past her cleavage, and gold hoop earrings.

I rolled down the window of my four-year-old Honda Odyssey and asked “Melissa?”

“Yes, that’s me. Are you Kay?”

“Yes I am. Get in!”

Melissa gave goodbye hugs and air-kisses to all the girlfriends she had with her, climbed into the middle row and asked, “Do you have my home address in your system?”

“Yes, I do.” I entered the address into my GPS and as we started off, I asked her about it. “Um…, pardon me, but I couldn’t help but notice that we’re going to a fairly expensive neighborhood. I hope you’re aware that we offer a luxury version of our service, where drivers pick you up in something like a Lexus or a BMW.”

“I do, but I couldn’t find a driver with an Acura, and I don’t want to be seen in a car I don’t sell.”

“Oh! I knew I’d seen you somewhere before! You’re the spokesmodel for the Honda dealership.” In the TV ads, she only wore light make-up and no jewelry and was dressed in a pair of khakis and a red polo shirt with the company logo. That’s why I didn’t recognize her at first. She looked so wholesome and all-American in the ads, but in my rear-view mirror, she was the epitome of sophisticated glamor and sexual confidence.

At my “spokesmodel” comment, she laughed and said, “I’m not a model. I’m the COO, minority-shareowner and vice-president of Carroll Honda-Acura. When my father retires at 70, I’ll be majority-owner and CEO.”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! It’s just that… well… you’re so pretty and so young.”

“It’s OK. My mother used to be the spokesmodel for the company when she was in her twenties and thirties. That’s how she met my dad. I absolutely respect modeling as a career, but it’s not something I want to do outside of TV ads for the company I run.

“Anyhow, like I said, I don’t want to be seen in a car I don’t sell. Plus, I really like my driver so far.” She gave me a flirtatious wink. Was she coming onto me? No, that had to be my imagination. I hadn’t had much time for dating since the divorce, so it had been a long time since I’d had sex. It must be wishful thinking. Besides, what would a beautiful young woman like her see in someone like me?

I checked my own reflection in the rear-view mirror. I was visibly on the wrong side of forty. I wore glasses with narrow, black rectangular frames that were a few years out of fashion now that bigger, rounder lenses were making a comeback. From my Anglo-Irish family, I inherited pale skin that freckled in the sun instead of getting tan. And from my Jewish maternal grandfather, I inherited tightly curled light brown hair with gray streaks that turned frizzy when it was humid, and a nose that was a bit large in proportion to the rest of my face. All in all, I looked like a cross between Barbra Streisand in the 1970’s and Laura Dern in the 2010’s, but without the expensive hair, makeup or wardrobe. I figured even if the woman in the back was flirting, she was just being playful.

Still, I figured she was up for some small talk. “So what’s a serious businesswoman like yourself doing all dressed to the nines at a bar on a Monday night?”

She gave a wide grin and said, “Well, first of all, I have the week off and I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow. But mostly I’m celebrating my divorce being finalized today. He’s out of my life for good!”

He. Of course, she was straight.

Her eager grin told me she wanted to talk some more about this, so I started, “Wow! This guy must’ve been something else for you to be so happy. My divorce was amicable, and I still cried for months after we split.”

She gave a little sigh. “Yeah. I should have seen the first red flag when I told him I was bisexual and the first thing he asked is ‘Can we have a threesome?’ I don’t do that kind of stuff! When I’m with someone, I’m only with that person!”

I guess I must have shown my surprise somehow because she almost immediately said, “Oh! I’m sorry. Was that too much information? I mean I’m out to everyone I know, but if you’re not comfortable then… ”

“It’s all right. I don’t have any problem with it.” She responded to my answer by cocking her eyebrow and giving me a lopsided grin. Now that she had told me she likes women, I wondered again if she was flirting with me. But no. She was too young and way out of my league.

“Anyway, I probably would’ve broken up with him sooner, but I found out I was pregnant.” She got out her phone and aimed it at my rear-view mirror so I could see a picture of the most adorable little girl imaginable, with the same wavy blond hair and aquamarine eyes as her mother. “This is Angelina, my angel. She’s three-and-a-half. She’s the only good thing that came out of my relationship with Craig. Even then, I probably wouldn’t have married him if my mom hadn’t been so insistent. I don’t know which she was more upset about, that I gave birth before I was married, or that I waited until after I was thirty to give her a grandbaby.”

I gave her another look. “I think I must have misheard. Did you say you didn’t have her until after you were thirty? Not to be rude, but you don’t look that old.”

“How old do you think I am? Don’t worry. I won’t be offended even if you say I look like a grandma!”

“Just the opposite, actually. You look like you’re in your early-to-mid-twenties.”

She laughed. “I’m thirty-seven.” Oh wow. She’s less than ten years younger than me. “Everyone says I look younger.”

“What’s your secret?”

“Oh, a combination of good genes, morning yoga, the Mediterranean diet, I’ve never smoked anything–legal or otherwise–and the only recreational substance I use is fine wine.

“Anyhow, where were we? Oh, yeah. Why am I so happy I divorced him? Short answer: He’s an asshole who never really loved me. I’m never letting any guy control my life like that again.”

She looked at me again with that lopsided grin and arched eyebrow. I noticed that she put a particular emphasis on the word “guy”. My God! She really is flirting with me! But she can’t be serious. OK, so maybe she’s not as young as I thought but she’s still way richer and glitzier than any woman I would have had a remote chance with.

As we approached her house, noticed the playfulness had dropped from her face, replaced by a look of worry. I wondered what she was looking at that made her change so suddenly, when I saw a black Audi sedan in her driveway. Hadn’t she told me earlier that she only drives the cars she sells? That should have been an Acura or a Honda, not an Audi.

“Turn around!” she urgently whispered. “Turn this fucking car around and take me out of here!”

“Where do you want me to go?”

“I don’t fucking care! Just turn around before he sees us!”

Who was she so worried about? The neighborhood was on the outskirts of town, so I turned around to head for the countryside. She picked up her cell phone and made a call. “Hello, my name is Melissa Carroll and I’d like to report that my ex-husband Craig Rawls is in violation of his restraining order. I just saw his car in the driveway of my house… Yes, that’s the correct address. If you could please have someone come over and get him, I’ve already left the house. Thank you.” She hung up and called another number. “Dad, Craig broke the restraining order…No, I’m not going back to the house tonight. But when he sees I’m not there and Angie’s not there either, he may come for you, so be prepared… Yes, I’ve already called the police. I don’t know if he’s tracking me or not, so after I pay for my ride, I’m ditching this phone. I’ll contact you again with a new number as soon as I have a replacement phone. But no matter what, don’t let him get anywhere near Angie!”

About a half-mile from her house, I turned into an empty lot off a little country road. She paid me and gave me a hefty tip, then asked me to roll down her window. I did so and she threw the phone out and started sobbing into her hands that had short but perfectly manicured nails. I checked my driver’s app to make sure there weren’t any new incoming hails, and then logged off and cut the engine. I didn’t know this woman, but she clearly needed a sympathetic ear and maybe a shoulder, so I got out of the van, and re-entered through the driver’s side passenger door to sit next to her on the middle row.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She took a few seconds to compose herself, and then told me the story of how she got here.

“Everything I told you before about my ex-husband was true. But I left out the worst parts. When I found out I was pregnant, Craig became really controlling and possessive. When he wasn’t at work, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight for a minute. At first, I thought it was because he was concerned about the baby, and maybe that was part of it. But as soon as I was starting to show, he and my mom were both pressuring me to get married, even though I really didn’t feel like he was the right person. I held my ground for a little while, though. I refused to let him move in until after we were married, and I refused to marry him until he could prove he was ready for the responsibilities of fatherhood. And to his credit, he seemed to really love Angie and care for her a lot, so I mostly got married to him for her sake.

“That’s when I saw his true self. Any time I wanted to hang out with friends or if I was on the phone to someone, he would accuse me of cheating. And since I had already told him I was bi, he accused me of sleeping with any man I said ‘hi’ to and literally every woman I know except my mother. Which is bullshit since all my women friends are straight! And when I said ‘no’ to him for any reason, whether it was a request for sex, or did I want to watch the next episode of whatever we were streaming, he would beat me. But he was smart about it. He made sure to never break a bone and that the bruises wouldn’t be visible under a business suit. Did you know tonight is the first time in years I’ve been able to wear a cocktail dress? Just last week, I still had welts on my chest, back, thighs and upper arms.

“Still, even after the beatings started, I didn’t think it was right to leave because of Angie. Every time I saw them together, he was always a tender, loving father who I was sure would never hurt her. But then last month, I raised my voice at her because she was watching cartoons on her tablet instead of picking up her toys, and she cowered in the corner, started crying, and said, ‘Don’t hit me!’ That’s when I called the lawyers and filed a restraining order.

“Now, I don’t know what I’m gonna do! If I check into a hotel, I’m sure he’ll get an alert when they run my card. And no reputable hotel takes cash anymore. He knows where my parents and all my friends live, so I can’t go to one of their houses either.”

She started crying again. At this point, I was very glad that I had installed a center seat in the middle row when I started ridesharing. I opened up the center seat, slid over to her and asked, “Do you need a hug?”

“Yes.” *sob* “Please hold me a little while.”

I wrapped my arms around her, and she cried into my shirt for a few minutes. I felt so guilty that her motion against my breast and the arms around my neck were starting to arouse me. I hoped she didn’t feel my nipples begin to stiffen. Then she looked up and said to me, “You know… uh… Kay, right?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“Kay, I know we only met a few minutes ago,… and… um… I don’t even know if you like women or not, but… uh… right now I just feel so connected to you and I really don’t want to be alone right now. If I make you uncomfortable, or if I cross a line, please let me know.” And then she started kissing me. Not a friendly little peck, but long and slow on the lips. I was so full of lust and warmth for this beautiful woman that I couldn’t help but return the favor.

We kissed like this for a few minutes before I said, “It’s getting hot in here. Do you mind if I make myself a little more comfortable?”

“Go ahead.”

And so, I stripped off my outer blouse leaving just my green sleeveless t-shirt as my top. Part of why I did this was for the reasons I had said. Since I cut the engine, the AC hadn’t been running, and with the open window, it was getting warm and humid in the van. But I’d be lying if I didn’t also say that I wanted her to see my tattoo of two interlinked rainbow-striped female symbols. If the fact that I kissed her back wasn’t enough to convince her that I was into women and that I wanted this, the tat should have erased all doubt.