Chapter 3: Loopholes and Lines Crossed

One girl pulled off a backflip, nearly taking out a side mirror. Another tried to moonwalk and tripped over his own feet. The Cayenne became the centerpiece for a dozen viral dreams, all sped up to fifteen seconds.

I put my foot down—if they broke the car, they’d have to pay.

I crossed my arms, shaking my head. “No way. You break it, you buy it.” Most grumbled, but nobody wanted to risk their TikTok cash on a busted luxury SUV.

Just like my cousin’s wife warned, I didn’t dare let anyone drive or ride in the car. All I could do was start it, roll it a dozen yards, park, and let the next “success story” film their bit.

It turned into a routine: start, roll, park, reset. I felt like an operator at Disney World, except my ride was a six-figure car and the stakes were sky-high.

Everyone clung to their hundred bucks, shooting take after take before finally giving up their turn.

They’d huddle over their phones, arguing about which angle made them look richest. Some tried to sneak in extra takes, until I had to usher them aside for the next in line.

I stood by, nerves fried, always watching for the owner or the cops to show up.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting flashing lights or a furious dad-to-be. Every time someone’s phone rang, my heart skipped a beat.

And then my fear came true.

I was packing up ring lights when a shadow fell across the lot. I turned—and there he was, the Cayenne owner, storming toward me with two guys in tow.

The day after the influencers finished filming, the Cayenne owner—whose wife had probably given birth safely—came after me, furious, with backup.

He looked exhausted, hospital wristbands still on his arm. His friends looked like they’d just lost big at a Vegas poker table—eyes bloodshot, fists clenched.

His car had a tracker, so finding me was a breeze.

He waved his phone, GPS app open. “Thought you could hide from me?”

The angry owner grabbed me and shouted, “My wife’s in there giving birth and you’re screwing around with my car? I oughta wring your neck!”

His voice boomed across the lot. I tried to stammer out an explanation, but he shoved me up against the Cayenne, spit flying, his aftershave and stress sweat mixing in the air.

I was shaking, knees weak. Their faces were all rage, and I didn’t dare fight back as they dragged me to the police station.

I felt like a criminal, head down, hands trembling. All the way there, I kept replaying my cousin’s words—"it’s just a civil thing"—but it sure didn’t feel that way now.

There, I learned that when the owner discovered his car was missing, he called us, and my cousin calmly told him I’d had an emergency, driven the car home, and would return it when I was done.

Apparently, my cousin had played it cool, spinning some story about family emergencies and promising it would all work out. The owner wasn’t buying it for a second.

We’d breached the contract, but my cousin was unbothered.

He strolled into the station in his favorite windbreaker, coffee from Dunkin’ in hand, looking like he was waiting for jury duty, not a showdown.

The Porsche owner, though, was fuming. He’d left his wife and newborn to come after me in the middle of the night.

He kept pacing, muttering about lawsuits and broken trust. You could tell he was used to getting his way.

At the station, my cousin laid out the contract for the officers, explaining everything in detail.

He even brought extra copies, handing them out like flyers. The desk sergeant, bored and sipping burnt coffee, barely glanced up as he skimmed the pages.

Our contract had three main points:

1. The owner gave us the car for safekeeping, five bucks an hour.

2. When the owner needed the car, we had to return it within thirty minutes. If we were late, we’d pay double the hourly rate—no limit.

3. The owner had to make sure the car was insured; otherwise, as long as we didn’t break the law, any accident losses were on him.

My cousin read each clause aloud, pointing them out. The officers nodded, clearly used to small-time hustles like this.

On the surface, it was a fair deal. If it had been a Toyota Corolla or a beat-up Chevy, we’d look like saints.