Page 10 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

“ O h, thank fuck,” I exclaim when I see a prickly jawline (and the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label) instead of a drawn gun and an arrest warrant.

Mr. Lyon’s eyes snap up to mine with surprise, his grin suddenly so big it washes away any other qualities that might give him the solemn air of a work of ancient Greek art. He looks annoyingly happy.

“Thank fuck to see you too,” he answers before he remembers why he’s here in the first place, and reins in his expression. “I mean—it’s good to see you alive and… well?” He shakes his head, already regretting his choice of words. “That’s not?—”

“What are you doing here?” I interrupt, saving him from himself.

“Right,” he says and runs a hand over his dark stubble. “I was—we, Alexei and I, we were worried about you. About how you were doing. So I figured I’d stop by and give you this.” He extends his arm, a bag hanging from his hand. “It’s?—”

“More food.” I nod, accepting the bag because I know it makes people feel better when they feel like they can help. “Thank you.”

“Already got enough to feed a hungry, hungry hippo?” he asks.

“Only a small one,” I answer absent-mindedly, my eyes instinctually scanning the hallway behind him for flashing lights or singing sirens.

“I see. Maybe Alex was right, and I should have brought a bottle of vodka instead.”

“Absolutely not,” I blurt as flashbacks from the other night come haunting me.

Mr. Lyon waits a beat for an explanation. When I don’t offer one, he slides his hands into his pockets. “Right, well, I don’t usually admit this, but hungry hippos are actually my spirit animal. If you’d like some company, I could?—”

“No, thanks,” I cut him off quickly, anxious not to give him the wrong idea. “I’d prefer to be alone right now. I’m sure you understand.”

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding graciously.

I thank him once more and then shut the door. Right away, that dreaded darkness envelops me again while I wait for him to leave. It takes a moment until steps echo down the hall, and he’s heading for the stairs. Then I remember something.

As quickly as I closed it, I open the door again. “Hey,” I rasp before he disappears, “how did you know where to find me?”

Mr. Lyon’s eyes widen, clearly scrambling for an answer. “I… am rich and powerful. I have my means.” It’s a declarative sentence, but it somehow ends on a question mark.

“Elaine?”

He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. He’s not a good liar.

“That’s probably breaking every privacy law there is, isn’t it?”

“It probably would,” he admits, ”but it wasn’t her.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not. Like I said: I’m rich and powerful. But I promise I won’t be creepy or stalk you or anything like that… unless that would make you feel better?”

A single huff escapes my nose. If I’ve counted correctly, this is the third time today that I’ve almost laughed—and I do not approve. “Probably not.”

“Yeah,” he nods understandingly. “That’s one of those things that’s just better as a fantasy, isn’t it? Kind of like dressing up as sexy historical figures or reading each other's internet search history for foreplay.”

Now I’m the one scrambling for the right words—or any words, for that matter. ‘Right’ is the only one I find before I close the door again.

Right. That was weird.

Steps echo down the empty hallway and abandoned stairs. There’s no one outside anymore. And no one coming for me. At least not tonight.

All I manage to do before passing out—on my still unmade bed—is put the food in the fridge, some in the freezer, and to brush my teeth.

When I shoot awake, it’s still dark. Still night. I didn’t have a nightmare—I don’t think I dreamed at all—but for whatever reason, my heart is racing, and not in the good way. I force myself to lie still, to calm my pulse.

There’s no sound. I’m alone.

I think, waking up and realizing you’re on your own is a luxury of an emotion you only truly learn to appreciate once you’ve been to prison.

Like most mornings, I walk over to the window and open it. Open windows are also good; almost as good as being alone. The nasty cold that rushes through them, less so. I wrap myself in a blanket and drop onto the sofa across from the window.

In many ways, looking through it feels like staring at an old masterpiece. In the distance, there’s even a drunk guy probably on his way home, pissing against the facade of a house.

Unfortunately, open windows are also just as expensive as an old masterpiece if I think about the energy bill, so after a minute or two, I get up and close it again.

It’s 4:29 AM. The envelope Sienna brought me last night is still on the table.

I know I need to open it, to look at it, to take care of whatever needs taking care of—but I can’t bring myself to face it just yet.

I know he didn’t want a proper funeral, so it’s probably not much work.

I probably just need to pick up his ashes, but even thinking about it—about having to say goodbye, about him not being there anymore—makes me want to jump right through that window.

“I’ll take care of it tonight, alright?” I say to no one and get ready for work. “Or maybe tomorrow,” I add, quietly.

My lab is still as dark as night when I get there at 5:33 AM. The painting is waiting for me just as I left it yesterday—keeping me company, making me feel a little less… by myself. I’ve made good progress over the past three days, but there’s still a lot to be done.

So I get to doing. And I don’t stop until I hear the door open behind me, a couple of hours later.

Today Elaine’s voice is a little less warm, a little less gentle than the last few days. Today she means business when she asks whether I’m coming to lunch on my own volition or whether she has to make me.

I don’t bother putting up a fight. I just don’t have it in me—not after nights without proper sleep, days without healthy food, and with my grandpa’s face haunting every blink. The knot in my stomach still feels like is growing bigger and bigger.

Silently, I clean my brush in the sink and follow my boss to our usual spot in the atrium. She doesn’t say anything, either—at least until I have eaten almost all of my sub, and she’s satisfied her urge to take care of my well-being.

“There’s more,” she says, clearing the empty wrappers off the table.

“I’m full, but thank you.”

“No, not food. Work. There’s more work. Although, I do have more cookies in my office, if you’d like, but?—”

“Keep the cookies. I’ll take the work instead.”

Elaine shakes her head, clearly disapproving.

“I’m only marginally insulted because I understand for some of us, work might be a way to facilitate personal growth.

I get that now… I think. And as your boss, it’s my obligation to guide you on your path.

” She pauses for a second. “You know, life really is like a blank canvas…”

I take a long sip of water and resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Sometimes it’s best to just let Elaine do the talking and silently nod along.

That’s my plan right now—at least until that plan gets interrupted by someone taking a seat across from me, blocking my line of sight to the painting of Ophelia.

“Oh, and this is me guiding your brushstrokes,” Elaine whispers in my ear before turning to our intruder/guest. “Mr. Lyon, it’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he answers, his eyes focused on me, his crow’s feet framing them perfectly. Then he looks over to Elaine. “I’m glad you were able to accommodate me again so soon. I know I must be interfering with your actual work.”

He’s talking to me—about the conversation we had when we first met.

“Oh, nonsense.” Elaine waves him off. “It’s good to have distractions as pleasant as this from time to time.

In fact, Helena can’t wait to finish your tour, either.

She was just telling me how much she was looking forward to the work .

” She pronounces the last two words ever so slightly more than the rest to let me know I’ve already agreed to do it, and that there are no take-backsies.

And again, I’m too tired to argue, too exhausted to put up a fight.

Not that I feel like I need to. Mr. Lyon, despite his provenance, despite his practiced smile, despite his annoying charm was…

bearable. Maybe even… nice. Kind. And I do feel like I owe him for yesterday, and the day before that.

So I simply say that it’s my pleasure. We’ve already been through most of the museum anyway; the rest of our tour shouldn’t take much longer.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his brows raised. “I really don’t want to keep you from?—”

“Like Ms. Hyde said: nonsense.” I get up from my seat.

“I don’t mind. We can take as much time as we need.

” Probably thirty minutes. Maybe an hour if he has a lot to say about the Fig Leaf Campaign of the 16th century, or about which portrait would be most improved by adding glitter and a face tattoo.

“Marvelous.” Mr. Lyon grins. “Lead the way then.”

And that’s what I do. I lead him over to the Rococo section, where we talk a little about the subtext of Fragonard’s The Swing, and about how much everyone in the 18th century loved a good pastoral orgy.

Then we pass through the Dada section, where he tells me about some long-lost Dadaist manifesto written on a bar tab, which supposedly read ‘IF YOU UNDERSTAND THIS, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.

’ Finally, I even lead him through the contemporary wing and its installations that I had cleverly circumvented the last time.

Maybe not so much to my surprise anymore, Mr. Lyon seems to know a lot more about art than our average visitor. It’s almost like he majored in it.

When Mr. Lyon makes the argument that putting googly eyes on a painting should count as ‘restoration’, for a moment —a tiny moment—I almost forget about the emptiness. About my grandpa. About death and loneliness. About my dad and my mom. I forget about how much being can suck.

Until we stop in front of a Rothko, and it all comes crashing back.

The dark indigo on even darker midnight blue reminds me of how much not-being can suck too.

Mr. Lyon notices the tears streaming down my face before I do.

He pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his, once again, perfectly tailored suit and steps closer.

Then he whispers softly, “This is why I love art. There’s art for every emotion you feel—to mirror it, to evoke it, to soothe it.

” He dabs the soft fabric against my cheek.

“It holds space for the feelings we can’t—or don’t want to—put into words.

It doesn’t judge or demand answers. It just exists, waiting for us to find ourselves in it.

” He gives me the handkerchief, placing a warm hand on my back.

“When words fail, art steps in and reminds us that we’re not alone in what we feel. ”

The two of us remain quiet, unmoving, in front of the painting for a little while. By the end, his pocket square is considerably wetter than I’d like it to be. I take a deep breath to compose myself.

“Well,” I say, letting out a jagged breath, “I mostly like art because it’s nice to look at and doesn’t talk to me.”

And just like that, the silent heaviness is replaced with laughter that fills the hollow room. Loud and thunderous and all-encompassing. Until he notices that I’m staring at him, which causes him to stop.

“Sorry,” he whispers loudly. “It’s impolite to be noisy in here, isn’t it?”

“It’s okay,” I reply, still gathering myself. “My boss is very much a proponent of unconventional museum décor. So as long as you don’t try to steal any of the paintings, you should be fine. Actually… even then you might be fine…”

Mr. Lyon laughs again, trying to stifle it now, to not make a sound. “Why this one?” he asks when he has successfully suppressed his amusement, nodding to the Rothko on the wall before us.

I think about it for a moment and wipe another tear away.

“You know how we always think that the dying is the worst part? That the day you lose a loved one is the worst day in your life?” I pause.

“And it is… certainly… in a way. But then the next day comes around. The one where you’re required to still be a person, to still have your shit together.

To function. To not fall apart. Because you need to be productive, to do your job.

You need to take care of… whatever remains…

of life and everything that comes with it. When?—”

“When all you want to do is to just not exist.”

I nod, then look back to the painting in front of us. “That’s what I’m seeing here. It feels like I could disappear in it.”

Mr. Lyon nods as well. “Yeah.” He nods some more and angles his head a little to the side. “Yeah, I can see that. That—and the giant penis, of course.”

“The—the what now?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Stand right here.” He reaches a hand around my shoulder and pulls me in front of him, then he angles my head just like he did his. “Now squint.”

I do as I am told. And indeed, by closing my eyes slightly, the abstract squares on the canvas shift and blur into a suspiciously phallic form. Or maybe it’s the remnants of tears doing this. Or maybe I’m just imagining things now.

“I think maybe you just want to see a penis here,” I say with blurry eyes as Mr. Lyon’s hands remain on my shoulders.

“Well, I hardly ever say no to seeing male genitalia,” he agrees, his breath making the hair on my neck stand up, causing me to quiver. “Mostly because no one ever asks to show me any, but I actually have this information from someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the artist, so…”

I dry the last tears from my face and step away from the almost-embrace, trying really hard not to think of male genitalia any more than this.

A few moments later, we saunter through the atrium toward the exit, and I am not entirely surprised when I notice that more than three hours have passed since Mr. Lyon arrived.

He somehow has a way of making these tours last longer than they are supposed to—without me noticing, or being able to do anything about it.

“Well, this was lovely,” he says just before I am about to thank him for his visit and to send him on his way, “but when do we get to the good stuff?”