Page 15 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

W hat the fuck was that?

What the fuck were you caught up in, Dada?

Shit.

One month.

I imagine my face looks about as pained as my grandpa’s face did the last time I saw him.

One month.

That’s plenty of time.

In one month, I could be halfway around the globe.

There’s no way they’d find me in… Laos.

How long would I be able to stay there on a tourist visa?

Probably not long enough.

How difficult is it to take on a different identity?

I don’t look particularly like someone from Laos.

It’s not like I have anyone here I’d leave behind.

Well, except for the kids.

Tomorrow is Friday. They’ll be expecting me.

Fuck!

I sit up straight against the door, listening carefully for any noise outside.

When no one seems to return, I mentally go through the things I need to do: clean up the lasagna, sort myself out, put a band-aid on the cut, take some painkillers, go to sleep.

And the next morning, I’ll continue to follow my routine, because that’s what keeps me safe and sane.

Obviously, not from assault, but hopefully from prison.

So, instead of worrying about what will happen in a month if I can’t come up with the money, I do all of those things.

The lasagna goes in the trash, the blood comes right off under the shower, and the cut is a lot smaller than I had feared, considering the amount of blood that came out of it.

The cut on my hand is also doing a lot better already.

The next morning, I wake up two minutes before my alarm can go off.

My headache isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but my eye is dark purple, with lighter shades of red and blue thrown in.

It’s very sensitive to the touch. Luckily, I’m a trained professional when it comes to making old and bruised things look new and shiny again.

It takes a lot more makeup than I usually wear, but thirty minutes later, I look like I am going to a fancy gala instead of coming from a violent boxing brawl.

The band-aid is easily covered by my hair.

Before leaving, I check for my keys, wallet, and phone.

Once I am sure I have everything I need, I stand before the locked door, listening closely to make sure no one is outside.

I take a deep breath.

Of course, no one is outside.

They won’t be back for another month.

Why would they?

Carefully, I open the door and stand to the side in case someone kicks it in or flings it open. When nothing happens, I take another deep breath and close the door again.

Fuck.

I walk back into my kitchen, grab a knife and put it in my purse.

Routines can only keep you so safe.

Then, refusing to give it another thought, I rush outside and straight to the bus.

Nothing happens to me, as expected. I am the first one in the museum, as usual. I make sure I don’t run into Pat or anyone else on the way in, and once I make it to my lab, I lock it twice.

Then I try to get to work, which today is made considerably harder, not by a headache, but by a rather annoying ache somewhere deep inside me.

My belly is twisted into knots, wondering why all of this is happening.

Why my grandpa had to fall back in with not only the wrong crowd but apparently violent gangsters.

It doesn’t make sense. He’d been out of jail for years, and there was no reason for him to come out of retirement…

My thoughts don’t even make it to the part where I worry about how to come up with 100k in a month before that near constant bellyache I’ve been nursing is eventually accompanied by one in my head just as ‘ Ooops, I Arted!’ , the art class for children that I run, comes around.

It’s just two more hours I need to get through before I can go home to really focus on the worrying. Time to put on a brave face and compartmentalize like a grown-up. The kids need me to keep it together.

The name of the class was chosen by the children themselves through an (unfortunate) democratic process.

And—despite my attempts at election fraud—it beat out ‘ Can I Eat The Paint?,’ ‘ Ooops, I Ate The Paint!,’ and ‘ Art for Kids’ (which was my proposal).

Admittedly, all of the names would have been fitting either way.

Class always starts at 3 PM on Fridays. In theory, that is.

As can be expected with a bunch of six- to sixteen-year-olds, the first few minutes are usually spent catching up with friends, arguing seating arrangements with foes, and painting your entire hand blue.

At least that’s what Sketchy Ryan is doing right now.

Over time, I’ve learned not to intervene too much unless someone is actually about to get hurt. Besides, blue is definitely his color.

Today’s topic is Jackson Pollock, which I expect will go over quite well with the kids because, well, who doesn’t love throwing paint at things?

After a short introduction on the artist and his expressionist drip-and-splash technique, I hand out bigger sheets of paper than usual and let them do their thing while hanging out with their friends and hopefully having a good time.

“Miss Beck?” Sketchy Ryan—who got his name on account of a) being great at sketching and b) doing so on a lot of questionable surfaces—asks once his hand seems mostly dry. “Why do you look like a raccoon today?”

For a second, I stare blankly at him, then remember my makeup and the knot in my belly. “I, uh, thought I’d try something new,” I explain, as most of the class is busy pushing their desks to the side so they can paint on the ground. “It’s called avant-garde fashion. Kinda like your hand, I assume.”

Ryan looks at his hand, then at my eyes, then back at his hand again and gives me an approving thumbs-up. “Can I paint you today?”

“Well, sure,” I say, thinking about it for a moment. “I don’t want to stifle your creativity, but like I explained earlier, today what goes on the canvas is less about the subject and more about the event of creating it. Just follow your instincts.”

Ryan makes a face like I’ve said something that’s obviously common knowledge, then gets busy mixing colors, which Dia, who sits in the middle of the classroom, swiftly turns into a philosophical debate over whether you can mix all the colors together to create ‘the ultimate color’.

It takes Ryan, Dia and Iris about ten minutes to figure out that ‘the ultimate color’ is just a muddy brown.

By 4:15 PM, I realize that in the process of throwing paint on a sheet of paper, Dia and Clay may have gone missing.

For a moment, panic sets in—until I discover them under a table, engaged in a silent but serious game of rock-paper-scissors in an attempt to settle who gets to use the newly created color.

When I crawl back up from under the table and turn around, I’m staring directly at the Greek statue that has taken a seat at one of the desks in the back of the room. Of course, it’s not a statue, but Ben Lyon in the flesh. His oversized legs bump into the tabletop when he tries to move.

Fuck.

I really don’t want him to see me like this.

My first instinct is to just bail. My second is to march over and throw him out, but since he’s already in deep conversation with Iris, I decide to make do with continuing my round, checking in on all the kids, their progress and whatever else they want to talk about.

By the time I make it to Iris’s table, Mr. Lyon has been recruited to be her assistant.

“Glitter!” she demands firmly, like a little art surgeon who knows exactly what they’re doing.

Mr. Lyon’s arm shoots straight out to hand her a container filled with pink glitter.

“Pink?” Iris says, as if that color suggestion is a personal affront. “We already have pink!” She points at the very corner of her painting where a tiny speck of pink is sticking to the glue she has liberally dripped all over the sheet.

“Sorry,” Mr. Lyon apologizes, grabs another container and presents it to her. “Green glitter?”

Iris and I both shake our heads. There are few things she hates more than the color green.

“Ben, Ben, Ben…” she sighs. “You know I can’t stand green. It reminds me of that time my puke was all green after I ate too much Jell-O.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I should have known. How foolish of me.” He glances in my direction, shakes his head in mock shame, then slips right back into character. “How about the golden glitter?”

Iris taps her nose with a brush in contemplation and accidentally gives herself a few freckles in what appears to be more of the ultimate color. “Gold starts with a ‘g’,” she muses. “Just like ‘god,’ and ‘good,’ and ‘garbage’—so, yeah, that’ll work. Gimme.”

“Your logic is flawless as usual,” Mr. Lyon comments earnestly and opens the container for her.

“I see you hired your very own assistant,” I whisper, trying not to draw too much attention to myself once they go back to working quietly.

“Yep,” Iris answers without even looking up from her painting. “That’s Ben, my neighbor.”

Mr. Lyon’s eyes grow big before he starts laughing and finally looks at me properly—as if to say, ‘ kids, right?’ His eyes grow even bigger when he spots my makeup, or rather, what’s underneath. A millisecond later, he’s on his feet, the too-tiny chair clattering to the ground behind him.

Iris looks up at him with annoyance. “Ben!” she scolds, irritated by the sudden movement that made her desk wobble.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Lyon,” I say softly. “We wouldn’t want to upset the kids now, would we?”

Mr. Lyon stays frozen, his eyes locked on mine.

“Please,” I mouth, silently pointing at his chair. Then I dab a tear from the corner of my eye, careful not to smudge my makeup.

Reluctantly, he complies and goes back to assisting Iris. I leave them to it and continue my rounds.

At 5:00 PM, we wrap up class. The younger kids are picked up by their guardians, while the older ones head home on their own. By 5:15 PM, the classroom is empty. Paint splatters, abandoned brushes, and a single sock are all that’s left behind.

A single sock—and Mr. Lyon. He’s been silently staring at me the entire time I’ve been saying goodbye to everyone, his expression suggesting he’s either about to kill me, or about to kill for me. All that’s missing is the proverbial smoke coming out of his ears.

I pointedly ignore him and start cleaning up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs. Because what the fuck else am I going to do?

My visitor lets out a sharp exhale. Then, from the corner of my eye, I observe as he starts helping me tidy the room. Unfortunately, it only takes a minute or two before we’re done and find ourselves standing face to face at the front of the class.

He gives me another look. The are-you-really-going-to-make-me-say-it kind of look.

Luckily for him, I’m not. Instead, I channel the raw power of selective obliviousness and masterful distraction.

“It’s avant-garde fashion. You wouldn’t understand.

” I say, brushing him off. “What brings you here anyway?” I add, using the tactic of distraction once again.

Mr. Lyon shakes his head, takes a step closer, and narrows his eyes.

“I’ve told you this before, Helena. And I am going to tell you again: I am very rich and powerful.

” He grabs both my arms, gently holding me in place, like he’s trying to impress upon me just how serious he is.

“I can make problems disappear.” Then he pulls me a little closer, his eyes drilling into mine.

“Tell me. Who did this to you?” he whispers, his fingers sinking into my skin.

My mouth parts slightly at the look on his face. My instinctive attempt to step back is thwarted by his hands tightening. Strangely, I don’t feel scared. If anything… it’s the opposite.

“Tell me who, and I will make him go away.”

“In a can of paint?” I ask. “Or to… like… Laos?”