He’s mocking me, but calling him on it might get us deeper into the conversation where I insist that I could do it and he asks me how and I have nothing, and then suddenly, he knows I’m full of shit.

Thankfully, my banking notification lights up on my phone, distracting me, and when I glimpse the amount listed, I almost fall off my seat. “Sh-sh-shit.”

Tommy outright cackles.

“There are four zeros here.”

“Yup.”

“I’m fucking rich.”

His cackle becomes a sudden frown. “Calm down, it’s ten Gs.”

“Is this for all three jobs?”

“My guess it’s for one. And they’ve probably underpaid you because you’re so green.”

“Under … paid?” My jaw drops, and I stare at the screen again, waiting for a little minus sign to appear before the numbers, which would make a whole lot more sense. “Fuck.”

“I suggest you turn those notifications off. You don’t want anyone seeing a large deposit out of the blue and then have them start asking questions. That’s your business.”

“Right. My business.” I stand suddenly, half-drunk Coke forgotten about. “I have to see Elle.”

“Who?”

“My sponsor.”

“Like AA?”

“No, like, a crime sponsor.”

Tommy tilts his head, and I’m surprised the momentum doesn’t throw him sideways off his stool. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“She’s taken anyway.” I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Talk later!”

It really is incredible how quickly all my problems have suddenly disappeared. No more jobs, a fat-as-fuck bank account, and a little breathing room to figure out what the hell is next. And if Tommy is right and I have two more payments coming my way … fuck. My head feels all spinny just thinking about it.

First though, take Margot and Elle out for dinner.

Second, well, whatever the hell I want.

***

I wish someone, at some point in my life, had sat me down and said, “Perry, being a barista is your calling.”

Turns out, much like with shooting a gun, I’m a natural at putting together all the wild coffee orders people come in with.

Unlike with a gun, these shots aren’t going to kill anyone.

I’d applied for this job during my pitiful resume blast and assumed, since I didn’t hear back, that they weren’t interested. Then, the day after botching the St. Clare job, they called me for an interview, and I went straight into training. It’s like it was supposed to be.

Sure, I’m only a street away from the Saint Clare nightclub, so in hindsight, it’s lucky I sent the guy into hiding.

Now, I get to spend my day surrounded by the smell of caffeine, the buzz of customers, and get a real boost from all the talking I’m literally paid to do.

These guys are paying me. To talk to people.