23. My Lyft in Shining Armor
23
MY LYFT IN SHINING ARMOR
Leighton
The Rubenesque woman lounges on the soft white cover on the bed, propped on her side in a zebra-print teddy, her red lips curving into a come-hither smile, her gaze dark with desire. A story of seduction unfolds before my lens, and I capture it frame by frame.
“Beautiful,” I say to Cora, lowering the camera briefly. Then, I turn to her partner, Aliza, a lithe woman in a leopard bodysuit, who’s standing just out of frame. “Why don’t you move over to the bed and watch her as she poses?”
Aliza grins. “Sounds perfect.”
She perches on the edge of the mattress, her expression softening into something tender with a touch of fire, too, as she gazes at her girlfriend. I lift the camera again, snapping away. These voyeuristic shots—the ones that tell the tale of desire from another’s perspective—have become some of my favorites. I’ve been adding them to my repertoire more often lately, ever since that shoot with Miles. There’s something intimate and raw about them, something that resonates deeply with clients.
It’s not just about looking sexy; it’s about being wanted. About knowing someone is captivated by the sight of you, unable to look away.
And isn’t that what we all crave? To feel adored, like we’re someone’s entire world?
I take a few more frames, capturing them together but apart. When I’m finished, I say, “Do you want to come back this afternoon? I can do a soft edit and show them to you.”
It’s morning, and I have one more shoot, but I can squeeze in some work on their pics after that.
They say yes in tandem, then take off. A few hours later, they return to the studio with eager, hopeful eyes. We sit down at the table where I edit on my laptop and I hold my breath as I show them their pics. This is one of my favorite moments—the payoff.
It’s a moment—most of the time—when clients see themselves in a whole new way. Cora gasps. Aliza covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes glassy. They turn to each other, and I watch them. “You look incredible,” Aliza says to her love.
“So do you,” Cora says.
“You both do,” I add.
With obvious emotion, they say together, “We do.”
This reaction makes it all worthwhile. I give them a quick rundown of when their final photos will be ready, as Cora heads to the door, then asks, “Want to join us for a glass of wine? Our treat.”
I shake my head with a rueful smile. “I’d love to, but I have to move tonight. ”
Aliza gasps, her jaw dropping in mock horror. “You worked and you’re moving in one day?”
I wave off her concern with a laugh. “It’s easy. Everything fits in two suitcases.”
“I still think you need wine,” Cora says.
“You’re probably not wrong,” I say.
They leave, and once I’ve straightened up too, I exit Hush Hush, locking up, then blinking when I spot a bottle of chardonnay by the door. I reach for it, grabbing the tiny pink card next to it. I flip it open, smiling as I read: I always get my way. Love, Cora
I tuck the bottle into my canvas bag. It’ll go to good use; I’ll pour a glass as I unpack. Hopefully, my once-and-again roomies won’t be there.
Maybe Indigo and Ezra will be busy at the bike shop they manage together—the one near the apartment where they make bespoke bamboo bikes. A woman can hope.
As I walk home, the city hums around me and I listen to it, soaking in all the sounds—the honks of horns, the buzz of traffic, and the chatter of pedestrians. I replay the session in my mind, the way Cora’s face lit up when she saw herself through Aliza’s eyes. The way that reminded me of the impromptu session with Miles once upon a time. I sigh, letting my mind wander back to that day, when I felt the same sort of adoration. What would it be like to feel that again? To feel it freely, and regularly? But then, I let the idea go. Now isn’t the time to get caught up in romantic fantasies. I have work to do, money to save. A future to prepare for.
I’m better off behind the camera anyway. I prefer being the storyteller. It gives me more control, and that’s what I need most in this wild, unpredictable, noisy world— a world that someday might become a whole lot quieter for me.
And I lied.
So much for “two suitcases.” Not only have I stuffed two massive pieces of luggage to their breaking points, but I’ve also filled a collection of reusable grocery bags with kitchen supplies. Who knew tea paraphernalia could take up so much space? Actually, someone probably knew. I just ignored it.
Don’t even get me started on toiletries. That stuff multiplies. And the nightstand drawer? Let’s just say I had no idea how many “friends” were crammed in there. I definitely need another suitcase.
I could call Maeve, Everly, Fable, or Josie to borrow one. But no. I’ve got this. More grocery bags will work fine.
I stand in the middle of the apartment, which now looks less like a home and more like a battlefield of boxed-up chaos. The couch with the broken spring is scheduled for donation—it’ll probably end up in a college rental, right next to a Ping-Pong-slash-beer-pong table. The bed will be history tomorrow, too, since Maeve didn’t need any furniture after moving in with Asher.
This apartment was only ever supposed to be temporary. A stepping stone. Still, as I stand here, taking it all in, a strange ache pierces my chest. This was my space. The place where I rebuilt myself after life fell apart.
I glance at my camera bag and decide to memorialize it. One last picture.
I snap photos of the couch Josie called “The Kid” after the villain from The Giving Tree, the window where Big Bird and Ms. Peck curl up together (post-coitally, I’m sure), and even the bathroom with its annoyingly short shower and its toilet that faces the wall. This apartment isn’t much, but it’s mine. It gave me space to grow, to hustle, to prove to myself that I could make it on my own without my father’s support.
My phone buzzes in my hand just as I lower the camera. When I glance at the screen, my stomach does a weird little flip.
Miles: How’s the move going?
It’s thoughtful of him to check in, so I write back.
Leighton: It’s going great. Or it will be once I call a Lyft in a few minutes.
Miles: Glad to hear that. Do you need anything? A pizza at your new place? Artichoke pasta? Housewarming gifts come in many forms, you know.
I smile, a warm flush spreading through me. Both sound amazing, and I’m about to say so—and politely decline—when my phone trills in my hand.
He’s calling.
I stare at the screen, his name glowing there. My thumb hovers over the answer button for a second too long. Something tells me that picking up this call will change the rhythm of my carefully choreographed evening.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m not as annoyed by that idea as I should be.
I swipe to answer.
“Hey. Ready for your Lyft?”
I furrow my brow. “I haven’t requested it yet. I’m about to.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What?”
“I’m your Lyft. I’m outside.”
I’m speechless for a long beat. My first instinct is to say thanks but no thanks. But I tamp that down.
Because he showed up for me.
Instead, I say, “I’ll be right there.”
“You’re joking,” Miles says as he cruises across the city toward the Mission District, still stuck on the names of my roomies.
“Not even a little bit,” I say.
He takes a beat, shaking his head. “They can’t actually be named Indigo and Ezra.”
“Believe it,” I say, smiling at his disbelief.
“How is that even possible? Those names scream, I spend all day tending sourdough starters. No, wait—with names like that, I bet they run a sourdough-starter daycare.”
“Where they babysit sourdough starters when their owners go out of town?” I ask, getting into it.
“You know that’s their side hustle, Leighton. ”
I laugh as the city lights streak by. “Honestly, I could see that. Maybe I should suggest it to them? But that would mean they’re around more often, and my hope is that they stay busy at the bike shop.”
“How about this? Suggest they run the sourdough daycare from the bike shop. These two-in-one shops are all the rage. I went to one in New York that was both a flower shop and a bike shop. They called it Bikes and Blooms. ”
“Nice,” I say, momentarily picturing Miles on a bike. The image is unexpectedly hot—maybe because of his glasses. He’s such a hot nerd with them on, like right now. But a hot athletic nerd? That’s ten million times hotter. Which is Miles, with his two degrees, and his I was kind of into school understatement in a nutshell.
“So Indigo and Ezra make bamboo bikes,” Miles says, “and they’re also loud as hell in bed?”
“So loud,” I say, groaning. “And so…specific.”
He makes a rolling gesture for me to continue. “Do tell.”
I flash back to the last time I lived with them and shudder. “They had this thing about using all the proper terms for body parts. No slang. She’d give him instructions like, Squeeze my nipple really hard, then bite it, then lick the areola. And he’d say, Communication is so hot. Tell me exactly how to administer oral sex. Then she’d lay it out in excruciating detail, step by step, from the vulva to the clitoris.”
Miles shoots me a quick side-eye before returning his attention to the road. “I mean, communication is nice and all, but…”
“I prefer cock and clit,” I say, laughing so hard my stomach hurts .
“I prefer my—” He stops himself, but I think we both know where he was going.
I relax into the seat, surprised at how easy this is after all—accepting his help. I’d planned to do it all myself, mostly to prove that I could. But maybe I don’t always have to. Sometimes it’s nice to let someone else step in. Then again, the answer might be a whole lot simpler: I like being with Miles.
It’s not just the sandalwood scent of his cologne, or the way his wild hair flops over his eyes, or even the way his eyes are so expressive and thoughtful. It’s all of it— him.
“Thanks again,” I say, glancing at him once more, my chest a little fizzy with gratitude, “for showing up as my Lyft in shining armor.”
“Happy to do it,” he says with a casual shrug.
“I didn’t expect it.”
“I know,” he says, seeming a little amused.
“I wasn’t sure what to say at first when you arrived,” I admit.
“The correct response is— Miles, you’re fucking amazing and I’ve found a portal to a parallel universe where I can ride your cock tonight .”
A laugh bursts from me. “Yes, take me to that portal right now.”
He taps the GPS on the car’s console, then says in an authoritative tone: “GPS—take me to the secret sex portal where there are no consequences.”
The GPS doesn’t answer, of course, but I do, speaking in a cool, robotic tone, “Take the first left at the light.”
With the panache of a man who wants a woman, he flicks on the turn signal for a hot second, before turning it off with a resigned sigh.
Not bothering to hide my appreciation for his effort, I add, “You were kind of determined to give me a ride, it turns out.”
“I was,” he says, owning it.
“I thought I could do it all myself,” I say, an admission.
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he says, and I believe him—that his anytime means he’ll show up. I like that feeling—the belief that he’ll do what he says. On the one hand, I’m used to it from my dad and my sister; on the other hand, I certainly never felt it with my mom, or any of the guys I’ve dated.
The GPS guides him onto my block, past a Mexican restaurant and a mural painted on the side of a building. It’s of a high heel kicking the word Patriarchy . I point to it. “That’s one of Maeve’s murals and one of my favorite things about this neighborhood. That, and the nachos.”
“You had me at nachos,” Miles says, his tone teasing, before he adds, “but that’s a cool mural too, and so’s the sentiment. Maeve’s got skills.”
“She truly does.”
He shoots me a more serious look as he pulls over outside my building. Spanish music filters out from a nearby corner store. “And yeah, I was determined,” he says. “Because when I asked if you needed a ride, you said you’d be okay.”
I flash back to last night and the words I’d brushed off. “That’s true.”
“But you didn’t say that you didn’t need one,” he says with a knowing grin.
“Another technicality,” I tease.
“I’m excellent at loopholes.” His voice is low and raspy, and the sound weaves through me. But it’s those dark brown eyes that catch my attention most—they’re deep and soulful, and he looks at me like this— here —is the only place he wants to be.
Well, besides that portal.
And maybe I like his persistence because it’s familiar. I understand it. It’s what drives me too. Showing up the way he did seems to say that he understands me—that I won’t always ask for help, but I might actually— gasp —enjoy it. And perhaps need it too.
“Plus, it’s what a friend would do,” he adds.
“And we’re friends.”
“We are,” he says.
I toss him back a smile. “Then, let’s put those muscles to use carrying my suitcases.”
“With so much pleasure,” he says with a wink that makes my damn stomach flutter.
Again.