Page 19 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

“ B ad news,” Ben says with a heavy sigh. “He’s gone.” He points toward the open door of my grandpa’s apartment. “I went back to make sure he wouldn’t be locked in, and he wasn’t there anymore.”

“Right,” I say, give a quick look inside, switch off the light in the apartment, and close the door. “It’s probably for the best. Most likely he has family waiting to be fed regurgitated chips.”

Ben’s usual smile has turned into an actual frown.

“Yeah, probably.” He nods, then walks over to me and, like earlier, puts his hand around my shoulder.

He still smells like scotch and sandalwood, and I get the feeling this isn’t even a perfume—it’s just his natural scent.

It smells intoxicating, and I don’t even like scotch.

“I guess I just didn’t expect him to leave the nest so soon, you know.”

“I know,” I answer, and for whatever reason, decide to indulge his shenanigans as we make our way back to the RV. “They grow up so quickly. One evening you establish your dominance, and that same evening they sneak out on you, like they don’t even care anymore.”

Ben releases another loud sigh as we step out of the elevator. “Yeah, I’m just glad we’re going through this together, Panda.”

My elbow instinctively rams itself into his ribcage, that annoying smirk pulling on the corner of my lips again.

Hours later, after everything is unloaded and stacked into my too-tiny apartment, I’ve finally convinced Ben that I’m in no actual danger so that he can go home to whatever oversized mansion he lives in and get some rest.

Eventually, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, remove my makeup, and stare at my black eye. There’s some yellow in it today. Pretty sure my grandpa would turn in his urn paint can, if he knew what was happening here.

I should go to bed. I should lock the door, crawl under the covers, and get some sleep.

It’s past my bedtime already, but somehow I’m still wide awake, thinking of my dead grandpa, Ben Lyon, my even deader dad, Ben Lyon, the 100k, and every once in a while, some more of Ben Fucking Lyon.

I got lucky that he was there to help. I never could have taken all of those belongings in a cab.

Still, he should not be taking up this much space in my mind.

It’s as if he paid for a VIP suite in my frontal cortex.

I splash some cold water on my face and watch my reflection in the mirror, hoping I can shame myself into better thoughts.

It doesn’t work though, because the second I close my eyes, I see him again—shirt rumpled, sleeves rolled up, muscles shifting under tanned skin, that infuriatingly perfect face, carved like some ancient sculptor got tired of chiseling gods and decided to make something even more perfect, even more sinful.

And his hands. Big, capable hands that lifted box after box tonight like it was nothing. I bet he could lift me like I was nothing, weightless in his arms, if he wanted me to be.

Oh, I bet he’d be good with those hands.

I groan, splashing more water on my face.

Nope. Absolutely not. I cannot be thinking about that.

About him pinning me against a wall, his fingers tracing slow, torturous paths along my skin. About how his voice would drop—husky and teasing—telling me exactly what he’d want me to do, how much he likes seeing me unravel.

None of that.

I should be thinking about how to come up with the 100k.

About what would happen to me if I don’t.

You know, real problems. Not the problem of what Ben Lyon’s mouth might feel like trailing down my stomach.

Not the problem of how easy it would be to let him push me into my mattress, pressing all that solid, infuriating warmth against me, making me forget every damn reason I shouldn’t want this.

I grip the edge of the sink, inhaling sharply.

Fuck me, I need help. Possibly in the form of a good spanking. Or therapy. Or an exorcism.

If Ben was here right now, standing in my doorway with that stupid smirk and those rolled-up sleeves, I’m not entirely sure what I’d do—if I’d go that far. I might push him out and slam the door in his face. Because that’s a good decision.

Or maybe I’d pull him in and press my lips to his, just to see if he tastes as good as he looks and smells. Because I have a knack for bad decisions.

But we’re trying to avoid those.

I shut off the bathroom light and march over to my bed like a woman on a mission.

Sleep. That’s what I need—to catch up on my routine.

Not a raccoon-petting distraction. Not his smile, or his hands, veiny forearms, or the fact that beneath all that annoying charm, there’s something in him that makes me feel… nope.

Shut up, brain.

I pull the covers over my head, resolutely ignoring the heat still lingering where there’s usually just the very persistent knot of worry.

When I wake the next morning, the sun is already up, and I slept right through my alarm. Of course, I did. Maybe the third round with my magic wand was one too many, but it did help me fall asleep eventually.

This is how it starts. How you gradually deviate from your routine and begin to spiral. I need to be careful not to let that happen.

With a drawn-out groan, I roll over and grab the notepad from the drawer of my bedside table, determined not to let that happen.

Instead, I need to solve some problems. First things first: The teensy-tiny 100k problem.

It’s time to solve it like the rational, responsible adult I am.

I click my pen and write at the top of the page:

Ways to Make 100k in One Month ~29 Days

1. Sell a kidney

Pros: Immediate payout.

Cons:- I like having two.

- Don’t know any butchers or surgeons or mafia bosses.

- Death.

More pros: Possibly death.

2. Find a sugar daddy

Pros: Take money from rich man/men.

Cons: Really hard to find asexual men in their late nineties who’d be willing to put me in their will within a week and then die under non-suspicious circumstances two days after.

3. Win the lottery.

Pros: Fast and efficient.

Cons: Crystal ball skills insufficient.

4. Rob a bank (with Robyn?)

Pros: Thrilling.

Cons: Prison. Again. Also, Robyn might die from a heart attack during the heist.

5. OnlyFans.

Pros: Only option that’s even remotely realistic?

My family is dead, so who would even care?

Cons: …

I tap my pen against the page, staring at the list. The last one is probably the only one that might have any potential.

It’s not like I’d have to show my face. I could go full art hoe and make it all aesthetic—tasteful nudes, soft lighting, and thinly veiled masturbation videos…

which probably wouldn’t make enough money.

I’d need a co-star to fuck me seven ways to heaven.

Ben.

NO!

No, no, no. Different approach. Back to being an art hoe. I could call myself Pantone69 or MichelangelHOE or BoobRoss, and every video would be one of me painting boobs in the nude while making sexy little mistakes.

With Ben.

NOPE!

People might watch that—The BoobsRoss thing.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone, strip down to my underwear, then put on different underwear, and attempt a few sultry poses in front of the camera.

When I navigate into my photos folder, I’m greeted by pictures of me that look like I just fell out of bed, pictures of me that look like I might have facial paralysis, and more pictures of me that look like I’m mid-demonic possession.

Ben wouldn’t look this ridiculous on camera.

“Okay,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the bed. “A human can live just fine with one kidney.” There’s no way I could make enough money in one month with nudes anyway.

The knot in my stomach punches upward, making me groan. It physically hurts.

What I need right now is fresh air; to take my mind off things.

That’ll help. It’s 10:42 AM, so I’m still mostly on schedule for my usual Saturday routine.

A little tired from moving all those boxes and trash bags last night, I get into the shower and get ready for the day.

Then I grab my supplies and head downtown, setting up near the tourist hotspots by the museum.

It’s easy money—quick portraits and caricatures of couples, mostly, but I do whatever people will throw a few bucks at (which, one would think, makes me predestined to be great at this OnlyFans thing).

The proceeds fund the art classes I hold for my kids.

It pays for supplies, snacks, a couple picnics or parties each year, and on occasion for a new pair of shoes, jeans, or a jacket if one of them needs it.

I’ll have to find someone to take over the classes once I’m hiding in Laos.

Normally, I paint for two to three hours and then treat myself to a nice early dinner.

But today, the weather—a stark contrast to the last few days—is gorgeous, and the tourists keep coming.

The sun is already setting when I decide I’ve done enough for the day.

I’m about to pack up when a familiar voice interrupts me.

“Think you can do me too?” it asks, judging by the salaciousness, fully aware of the double entendre.

I glance up at Ben. Same rumpled clothes as yesterday, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I charge extra for billionaires and people who force me to accept their much-needed help,” I say deadpan.

He grins. “So that’s double extra?”

“Triple, actually,” I add. “Since my shift is over, I also have to charge overtime.”

“No doubt the painting will be worth it,” he says, and takes a seat on the bench in front of me. “I was thinking something regal. Something I can hang over my fireplace, something that’s a real conversation piece.”

“A regal conversation piece. Say no more. I know exactly what to do.”