Chapter 2: The Cayenne Hustle

I stared at him, stunned, wondering if I’d heard him right. Wasn’t this the customer’s car?

My cousin just grinned wider. “You heard me. Take it home. My wife’s waiting for you. She’ll fill you in.”

But my cousin wouldn’t take no for an answer. He just waved me off, like it was nothing. “Trust me, kid. This is where the real money’s at.”

Nervous as hell, I drove the car away. The customer had only asked us to park it at the mall next door, but I drove it over a hundred miles and parked it right in front of my house.

My hands were slick with sweat the whole way. Every time I saw a cop car, I thought about pulling over and confessing. The Cayenne’s engine purred beneath me, but it felt like I was behind the wheel of a stolen tank.

When I got back, my cousin’s wife was already waiting at the door—clipboard in hand, hair pulled into a tight bun, all business. She immediately told me I had a new gig: rent the car out for people to shoot TikTok videos and web skits—two hundred bucks for twenty-four hours.

She was brisk and to the point, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other. “Just keep an eye on the car. Nobody drives it but you. They just want it for the backdrop.” She rattled off the day’s schedule—six shoots, all at different spots, all paid in cash or Venmo.

I remembered our parking contract: five bucks an hour, double compensation if we didn’t return the car on time. Basically, my cousin had rented the Cayenne for about a hundred bucks a day and was now renting it out for two hundred.

The numbers started to click in my head. My stomach twisted with a mix of hope and dread as I realized I was smack in the middle of a legal gray zone—my cousin’s favorite playground.

My cousin’s wife pressed me to hurry to the filming site. I blurted out, “Isn’t this a breach of contract?”

She didn’t even flinch. “Yeah, it’s a breach, but so what? We pay the penalty, and we still come out ahead. Now get moving and keep the car safe. Oh, and—”

She shot me a look that said, Listen up. “No one but you drives it. No rides, no shortcuts, no funny business. If the cops show, it’s just civil. But if you take cash for a ride, that’s a whole other ballgame.”

She got serious fast. The car couldn’t be driven by the customers, and I couldn’t give anyone a lift. If I did and took money, that was illegal business. The authorities could seize the earnings, slap us with fines, and I could end up arrested.

She leaned in, voice low. “Look, breach of contract just costs money. But crossing the line into illegal transport? That’s jail time. You copy?”

Breaking a contract wasn’t scary; breaking the law was a whole different story.

That stuck with me. I kept repeating it to myself, like a mantra, as I took off with the Cayenne.

My mind was spinning, nerves frayed.

My hands shook as I adjusted the rearview mirror. I kept picturing the owner storming the set, screaming about his car. My gut churned with anxiety.

My cousin’s wife tried to reassure me. As long as it wasn’t illegal business, even if the cops showed up, it’d just be a civil thing.

She patted my shoulder and gave me a half-smile. “Worst case, we pay up. No one’s going to jail today.”

I trusted my cousin’s hustle, so I did what I was told.

He’d never led me wrong—at least, not in a way that didn’t make bank.

On the way, I wondered: if the film crews needed a car so badly, why not just buy a used one?

I pictured a bunch of influencers pooling their cash for a beat-up sports car, sharing it for their fifteen seconds of fame. But then I remembered—everyone wants the real deal, even if it’s just for a minute.

But when I got there, a crowd had already gathered. It wasn’t a film crew, but a swarm of internet influencers pooling cash to rent the car.

They clustered around the Cayenne, setting up ring lights and phone stands. Some practiced lines, others fussed with their outfits.

Everyone was decked out—some in sharp business suits, others in goofy milk carton costumes. Men, women, young, old.

One guy wore a fake gold chain thick as a jump rope. Another strutted around in a pink wig and high heels, looking like he could bench-press a truck. It was like TikTok’s “Rich Kid Check” and “Milk Crate Challenge” collided in a mall parking lot.

Buying a used Cayenne would cost a fortune, but each person only needed to chip in a hundred bucks or so for a turn with the car.

It made sense—nobody wanted the headache of ownership, just the look. Social media was all about flexing, not responsibility.

The influencers lined up, each with their own script. Most would hop out of the driver’s seat, push up their shades, and deliver, “Just keep grinding—leave the rest to fate,” like they were dropping life-changing wisdom.

I heard a dozen versions, each with its own spin—some went for philosophical, others for pure swagger. A few practiced their poses in the Cayenne’s tinted windows, checking themselves out before filming.

Some would strut away, leaving a cool silhouette. Some would break out into TikTok dances—think “Renegade” or “Savage Love”—waving their hands and sliding across the pavement. Others shyly asked if they could climb onto the hood for their dance challenge.