Page 42 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

BEN

“ T o Ed!” I raise my glass alongside everyone else, the absinthe burning my throat as I swallow.

Helena’s face scrunches adorably as she downs her shot, and I can't help but smirk at her from across the room.

Our eyes lock, and something in her gaze makes my heart flutter and stutter at the same time.

This could have backfired big time. Fortunately, it seems like Mission ‘Framed One Last Time’ was a total success. Despite the tears, Helena seems happy—or at least as happy as all the sorrow allows.

Guy's voice crackles over the speakers again. “Alright, jailbirds, you've all proven yourselves worthy of parole. Come on out and let us celebrate Ed’s final freedom.”

The prison door swings open, and everyone shuffles out, laughing and talking. Helena rushes to me and grabs onto my arm.

“Is this why you’ve been a little weird all week?” she whispers, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Weird?” I feign insult. “I prefer mysteriously eccentric .”

Helena nods, feigning understanding in turn.

“I figured, after that one evening, it’d be good to have a sort of non-funeral.

And if that makes me weird… then all of these people here are weird too, because I can't take all the credit,” I explain, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her.

“Sienna helped put me in contact with all of his friends, Guy wrote the script for the prison setup, and everyone pitched in with trivia questions about your grandpa.”

“Thank you, Ben. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Before I can respond, Arthur slaps me on the back so hard it echoes through the stairway. “That was something else, young man! Ed would have loved it.”

Helena’s hands around my arm tighten when she hears her grandpa’s name, but she looks genuinely happy—relieved, maybe even.

“So, what’s the plan now?” Sienna asks, linking arms with Robyn and Paige—Guy’s ex-wife, who helped with the setup, the lighting, and handing drinks to everyone at the end.

“There's a limousine outside. It’ll take us to The Drunken Muse just down the road—delicious food and stiff drinks. My treat,” I explain.

Just outside, leaning against a giant limousine, is Alexei, waiting to help the entire motley crew into the car, before he drives us to our destination.

The Drunken Muse is exactly what you'd expect—weathered wood, dim lighting, art plastered everywhere, and a bar stacked to the ceiling.

We push tables together in the back corner, and I make sure to sit across from Helena rather than beside her. Safer that way. Alexei slides into the chair next to her, telling some story about Russian drinking customs that has her laughing.

Once we get there, orders fly around the table—whiskey for Robyn, wine for Sienna, beer for Art, Alexei, Guy, and Earnest. Some order champagne. Elaine has a water. Helena asks for ‘anything that isn’t absinthe’ .

The drinks come quickly, and so does The Last Supper, a massive, shareable feast for the whole table.

I may not have known him, but I think it’s the kind of place Helena’s grandpa would have liked—unpretentious, charming, and real. Kind of like his granddaughter.

While we eat, people share more stories about Ed. Each one more outrageous than the last. I find myself laughing constantly, though I’m mostly busy watching Helena’s face light up as she listens to tales about her grandfather. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and?—

Under the table, something nudges my foot.

Helena’s eyes meet mine over her Dadaquiri glass (which, I believe, she chose mostly because of the name).

I lean back to see if Alexei is trying to secretly signal me something.

When I realize that it's Helena’s foot gently touching mine, an unexpected jolt runs through me and causes my knee to jerk and hit the table, making the drinks on it shake.

When did her touch become electric?

“Sorry,” I say, and pretend to listen to whatever story is being told right now.

Helena doesn't look away, her foot also doesn’t move, she just raises an eyebrow slightly, as if in challenge.

I should move my leg. I should focus on the conversation. I should remember all the reasons I decided that Helena and I can never happen. That we can only ever be friends. If that.

Instead, like the idiot that I am, I return the pressure, nudging her foot back. Her smile shifts almost imperceptibly.

A couple rounds of drinks and countless stories later, the crowd at our table has dwindled.

Sienna helped Robyn, Paige, Guy and Earnest home since they all live together in Haven anyway.

Art left together with some other friends of Ed’s, and Elaine just made me promise to visit her at the museum next week before taking a cab home as well.

Now it's just the three of us—Helena, Alexei, and me. Helena’s cheeks are flushed, her laughter coming easier, her usual stern facade broken down by a drink called Pollock Punch (which she ordered because it reminded her of that one art class from when we had just met).

Alexei is slurring his words, telling us about the time he accidentally joined a cult because he thought it was a book club.

Under the table, our game of footsie has escalated. Helena has travelled a lot farther north than I should allow. But each touch sends a wave of warmth through me that makes me feel more alive than any heist I’ve ever pulled off.

It’s torture. Sweet, exquisite torture.

I should be a better man, I think—only to notice how hard this is making me.

I should pull away . Should remember that my life is built on lies. That I’m basically using her. That every day I walk a tightrope between freedom and being locked away. That bringing her into my world would be selfish beyond measure.

Helena—who's terrified of going back to prison. Helena—who's built her life around a routine designed to keep her safe. Helena—who deserves someone who can give her stability, not danger.

“We should have another drink.” Alexei’s slurred words interrupt my thoughts. “What do you think of the Van Go-Go Juice, Helenka?”

“Well,” I interrupt before Helena can answer, “I think it's time to go-go soon, because you two had more than enough.”

“He’s right,” she agrees to my surprise.

“We should go. It’s late, and you’re drunk, Alexei.

Which is why we’ll just have the Palette Cleansers,” she says, addressing the waiter now who’s clearing the table next to us.

“We will have two Palette Cleanser, please.” Her head swivels over to me. “And then we can go home.”

Home.

The word hits me differently coming from her lips.

Technically, it’s not home for either of us. It’s a makeshift safe house, where we conduct our forgery business. It’s a necessary inconvenience to keep her safe. It’s… not home. Technically.

After the two of them have their last drink, I pull up the limousine and drive us back home . Maybe it’s just a temporary home, but calling it that feels nice. I haven’t had a home in ever, really. Even before my family shipped me off to boarding school, I never had that.

The drive back is filled with Alexei's off-key singing from the backseat and Helena’s occasional giggles. Her head rests against the passenger window, her profile illuminated by the passing streetlights.

“Had a good evening?” I ask Helena when I notice her gaze resting on me.

“Had a great evening,” she answers, wrapping her arms around herself like she’s hugging the memory. “Plus, I drank our Russian friend under the table.”

I glance at the rearview mirror and see that Alex has passed out, lying flat on the floor of the limo, arms crossed over his chest like he’s rehearsing for his own funeral procession.

“I could take you too, you know,” she mumbles. “I could drink you under the table any day, Lyon.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe next time,” Helena says, her voice soft. “Maybe once the spaceship stops spinning.”

When we arrive home, it's obvious neither of them should be walking unassisted. I pull up as close to the entrance of the building as possible, shift into park, and hear Alexei open the door and stumble out of the car.

“Ah, fuck. Let me help him first before he runs off,” I tell Helena, who's fumbling with her own seatbelt. “Stay put, alright? I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

I round the car and catch Alexei as he practically falls into my arms.

“You're a good man, Ben,” he slurs when I haul him upright. “It’s because… hey, that rhymes: man, Ben, man, Ben, man, Ben.”

“Thanks, bud. Now, less poetry, more walking.” I grunt, supporting his weight as we stagger toward the elevator.

“Your woman,” he says suddenly, his voice serious despite the alcohol. “She can drink like me. Very impressive.”

“Very impressive,” I agree, maneuvering him through the doors. “Also very unhealthy. Let’s not do that too often, hm?”

Alexei sighs. “You’re a good man,” he repeats. “Because?—”

“It rhymes. I know, bud, I know.” Holding him up with my shoulder, I dig into his pocket for his keys and open the door to his temporary apartment.

“No, Ben. It’s because you care. You’re a good man because you care… about her.”

“It’s not like that,” I try to deflect, grateful he likely won’t remember any of this in the morning. “I care about you too.”

“Well, duh. I’m very careable.” He hiccups. “And you do care about everyone. You care about me, you care about Dusty, you care about the kids. But this is different, isn’t it?”

He looks at me for a long second before I drop him onto his bed and help him remove his shoes.

“I can make it rhyme for you if that helps,” he adds, curling up under the blanket. “Listen: Ben’s a good man ‘cause he cares; cares about endangered polar bears, cares about stealing from the billionaires, and most of all he cares: about Helena’s cute butt and her pretty hairs. Ha!”