“Come on, kid. Fess up. We both know I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re… working?”
I glanced around, wondering if he was a barista or some shit.
“Working doing what?”
Leaning back, he kicked out the chair across from him. I knew an invitation to sit when I saw one. Even if it was a little smoother than I expected from him.
I sat and waited.
“Last month, Moira Madeline came to this coffee shop every day and posted about it on her socials.”
“Moira Madeline?”
He rolled his eyes.
“She’s an influencer.”
“Alright. So, what does Moira have to do with you?”
“Nothing really. Except she made this place a hotspot for wannabe influencers.”
“Kid, I’m aging here.”
“Most of these wannabe influencers live in the middle of nowhere. And they don’t have the money to fly to the city. So they pay someone who lives here to take pictures like they’re here. Had sixty of them so far this week.”
“Sixty? Sixty people will pay you to buy coffee and take a picture?”
“Well, they pay for the coffee too.”
“This is really a thing? People pay for this?”
“Ten bucks per picture, plus the coffee.”
Ten bucks per picture.
And he had sixty clients this week?
“You’ve madesix hundredbucks this week?”
“No,” he said. Then shrugged. “Twelve hundred.”
“What?”
“It’s not just the coffee shop. Lotta places people wanna pretend to go. I’d be making twice as much if I was a chick, so my hand could be in the pictures. But I get inventive.”
“How are you getting paid?”
“App. Don’t worry, I do it friends and family with a note attached saying ‘coffee’ so there’s no issue with taxes.”
“You’re making enough money to be thinking about fucking taxes.”
“It’s good to have a hustle.”
My eyes narrowed.
