Chapter 2: The Side Hustle

Honestly, it wasn’t just about the extra cash—though Lord knows, it helped cover the endless repairs and late bills. The girl he brought in was a stunner: young, smooth skin, delicate features—looked every bit the coed you'd see studying in the campus quad, not passed out in a roadside motel.

My place, Sunset Pines, squats just a mile or so from the university, but on a stretch of highway nobody walks at night unless they’re desperate. Most nights, business dribbles in slow—a couple on the rocks, a trucker, sometimes a pair of college kids who want somewhere cheap and anonymous. I keep my expectations low, but my side hustle is another story.

Two years back, when I remodeled, I installed a set of top-tier pinhole cameras I picked up off a darknet forum. State-of-the-art stuff—practically invisible, and the footage is sharp enough to pass for a Netflix crime doc. They’re hidden behind light fixtures, tucked in air vents, even one in a fake smoke detector. I was proud of my handiwork. Felt like a low-rent Tony Soprano, except my mob was just me and a bunch of hidden wires.

These days, the room rates barely cover utilities, but selling the footage? That’s where the real money comes in. The creeps online didn’t want velvet headboards or mood lighting. They wanted stains on the carpet, peeling wallpaper, the kind of place your mom warned you about. Never advertise, never offer discounts, and keep the foot traffic low—safer that way. The less people coming in and out, the fewer the questions. No Yelp reviews, no nosy travel bloggers.

I run the whole show myself—front desk, cleaning, the works. It’s easier to keep secrets when you don’t have employees poking around. And the couples who show up usually don’t want their names anywhere anyway. They’re here for privacy, not luxury.

The videos end up on private, members-only forums—pay-per-view, never public. I’ve convinced myself the odds of any guest seeing themselves online are slim to none. Even if they did, good luck proving it’s my place. All cheap motels look the same in the dark. Still, I’m careful.

But high-quality footage is in short supply, and the sites pay more for the good stuff. College girls? They’re the holy grail. One good video could pay a month’s rent. So, when that girl’s face flashed on my screen, I knew I’d struck gold.

She was out cold, but if the creeps online were into drunk girls, some were even sicker. I could already picture the listing: "Real corpse-picking experience." Sick, sure—but it would go viral for sure. I felt a twisted rush, half-shame, half-anticipation. This was going to be my payday.