Page 43 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

I stifle a laugh. It almost feels like I’m getting drunk just from inhaling the air around him. “Please never rhyme near me again,” I request and head back. “And sleep well, you bumbling idiot.”

I mean, he isn’t entirely wrong. I do care. In a friendly manner. As partners in crime should.

When I finally make it back outside, the passenger door is open—and Helena is gone. My heart drops instantly. My brain kicks into emergency mode. I scan the darkened surroundings, but only see shadows.

“Helena?” I call out, trying to keep my voice calm.

No answer.

I pace around the car, checking in it, under it, behind it. Nothing.

Did whoever gave her that black eye find her?

Were they waiting until she was alone, vulnerable?

Did I just hand them Helena on a silver platter?

Fuck.

“Helena!” I shout, louder this time.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

If they took her in a car, there’d be no way for me to track her.

Cameras.

The camera in my RV might have ? —

The RV is still in the city.

FUCK.

Then I hear it—a scream from somewhere in the distance. Without thinking, I bolt toward the sound, my feet flying over the damp grass, my mind spiraling with terrible scenarios that could be happening to her.

I'll kill anyone who touches her.

The sound came from somewhere near a tree line, where the nearby cemetery lights barely reach. I run as fast as my legs will allow.

Then, finally, I see her—kneeling by a large oak tree, her back to me. She’s alone.

Relief floods my veins, quickly replaced by anger. Anger born of fear.

“Helena,” I growl, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet. “What the fuck did I tell you?”

She stumbles against me, eyes wide with surprise. “Ben! You're hurting me.”

I instantly loosen my grip but don't let go. “What the fuck did I tell you? Why the hell would you just leave? What if… I thought you were—” I can't even finish the sentence.

A slow, tipsy smile spreads across her face.

“Aww, I’m sorry, Benpa. I didn’t mean to scare you.

I promise I’ll let you know beforehand should I ever get kidnapped, alright?

” She leans in, her breath warm on my face.

“Now, I’m not complaining—I do like it when you're rough—but maybe not in front of the kids, hm?”

“Kids? What the fuck are you on about?” I start, confused, still buzzing with adrenaline. “We need to get you back. Now. And what the fuck is a Benpa?”

Helena pulls my hand from her arm, lacing our fingers together, swaying slightly. “Look!" She points at the tree trunk where she'd been kneeling.

I follow her gaze. There, peeking from a hollow in the trunk, is a raccoon. A little fat raccoon. Our raccoon. He blinks at us, casually nibbling on what looks like a slice of bread. Behind him, tiny gleaming eyes—three, no, four baby raccoons.

“I saw him heading into the woods,” Helena explains, her voice hushed. “So naturally, I followed.”

The tension drains from my shoulders as I watch the raccoon family, all of them focused entirely on their dinner.

“Congratulations,” Helena whispers, bringing our still intertwined hands up to her chest. “It would seem that we're grandparents. You’re a Benpa now.”

I can't help but laugh. “First of all, don’t call me that. But also, quite an achievement, considering we've never even…”

“Fucked like animals?” she finishes, turning to face me with a mischievous grin, followed by a hiccup.

The words hang between us, charged. There’s that electric current again.

“You're drunk,” I remind her—and myself.

“Yep,” she agrees, swaying a little. “Which is why you’re not allowed to remember any of this by tomorrow morning.”

She’s cute when she’s drunk. She’s also cute when she isn’t drunk.

Which is something I shouldn’t think about at all. We have a job to do. Not each other.

“Can you walk or should I put you over my shoulder?” I ask, guiding us toward Haven.

“I usually prefer the knee, to be honest,” Helena teases, that grin of hers turning more mischievous by the minute.

I shake my head, doing my best to ignore her. “Let's just get you home, Helenma.”

She leans her weight into me as we walk slowly back to our secret hideout.

“You're a pretty good friend, Ben Lyon,” she murmurs. “Terrible billionaire”—another hiccup interrupts her—“on account of all those missing billions. But a good friend.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I’m really not.” The words land with more weight than I expect. If only she knew. If she knew about?—

I can’t even bear the thought. I should just come clean. Tell her the truth, why I’m doing all of this.

Except I can’t. That would tank the heist. It would not only ruin my own vendetta, but everything Alex and I have worked for so hard.

And she wouldn't look at me the way she's looking at me now. She would never talk to me again.

“I don’t think you get to decide that,” Helena sighs and squeezes my hand a little tighter.

At the apartment door, she stumbles on the little step. I catch her around the waist before she can fall. For a moment, we're pressed together, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her. I can feel her breathing, feel her warmth through our clothes.

“Time for bed,” I say, for some reason not letting go just yet. “You should get ready first.”

She turns in my arms, tilting her face to mine. “Technically, it’s the weekend. We’re allowed to stay up later. Our routine says so.” She points at the whiteboard next to us.

I should direct her to the bathroom, should tell her to get ready, should order her to bed. I should definitely shut this down, hard.

Instead, I freeze when she lifts a hand to my face, her fingertips brushing over my beard.

“You know, Elaine and I joke about how you look like a Greek statue sometimes.”

Oh. “I’ve always considered myself more of a gargoyle,” I deadpan.

Her eyes flick up to mine, a smile spreading in them.

“You wish you were as cool as a gargoyle.”

I laugh and resist the urge to pull her in even closer than she already is.

“I want to draw you again,” Helena says suddenly, her voice much too sultry. “Like one of my French girls… or Greek statues…”

“Or mysterious gargoyles?” I add, trying to defuse the sexual tension.

Her eyes flutter at me. Her hands are on my chest now.

We’re well into dangerous territory here.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I try to put an end to our flirting for good. “Now it’s time for bed. Come on.”

Helena pulls back and looks down to the ground. Then she kicks off her shoes, wobbling slightly before catching herself. I kneel to pick them up, setting them neatly by the door—just so I have something to do with my hands that isn’t touching her. Then I take my own shoes off as well.

“Help me with my zipper?” She turns her back to me, her hair sensually waving over her shoulder as if she’s re-enacting a shampoo commercial shot by a porn producer.

I swallow hard.

She must have done that on purpose.

I find the small zipper at the back of her dress, the fabric warm from her skin. As I tug it downward, I catch a glimpse of her exposed back. My fingers graze her spine, visibly sending shivers along with them.

This is fine. Perfectly fine. Friends help friends get naked all the time.

Her dress pools at her feet, leaving her in just a lacy black bra and matching panties.

That was on purpose too, I think.

I force myself to look away, grabbing the shirt and shorts she sometimes wears to bed, while she shuffles to the bathroom. Still averting my eyes, I toss her the clothes and wait for her to change. Once done, she sighs, her eyelids looking heavy and heavier.

“Alright, next step: brushing those shark teeth, Panda-Bear. Can you handle that, or do you need me on toothbrush duty?”

She makes an adorable show of dramatically biting the air in my direction, which turns into a drawn-out yawn. “I am a strong, independent… aquatic predator, Benedikt. I can brush my own teeth.”

“Good. Then I’ll just… supervise.”

I lean against the doorframe, watching as she lazily scrubs her teeth. Halfway through, she pauses to squint at me in the mirror. “You’re staring.”

“I’m supervising.”

“There a difference?”

“One is way less creepy.”

A bit of foam bubbles from her grinning lips. She finishes up, rinses her mouth, and wipes her face with a towel, then looks at herself in the mirror.

I push off the door frame and step behind her, meeting her gaze in the reflection.

When she turns around, that buzz sparks again. I ignore it and, instead, reach for a cotton pad and the little bottle she always uses.

“Close your eyes,” I murmur.

Helena complies. I cradle her jaw in one hand, the pad in the other, and wipe it gently across her lids.

Her lashes flutter as I work, her lips parting slightly.

There’s something weirdly intimate about this.

Like I’m unpainting her. Returning her to something softer.

Something only I get to see. In a way, she’s even more beautiful without the makeup.

When I finish, she opens her eyes slowly, blinking up at me. I tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

“Bedtime,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.

Helena nods but doesn’t move; she just stands there, looking up.

I put my hand on the back of her neck and guide her into the bedroom, where I lift the blankets, wait for her to slide under, and tuck her in. She looks like she’s half-asleep already. When I straighten to leave, her fingers catch my wrist.

“Stay,” she whispers. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Every rational part of me knows this is a terrible idea, that I shouldn’t even entertain the thought.

The problem is that I don’t have many rational parts left in me.

Instead, the way she’s looking at me—something soft, something raw and vulnerable—has me sinking onto the edge of the bed without question.

She turns on her side, still holding my hand, pulling me in behind her. And I let her. Because I’m weak. And dumb. And… falling in love.

Desperately falling in love.

We don’t speak. We just sink into each other like brushstrokes on a canvas.

This might be a bad decision. But holding her like this doesn’t feel bad one bit.

I've spent my life pretending. Pretending to be someone I'm not. Wearing masks so convincingly that sometimes I forget who's underneath them all. But with Helena, I find myself wanting to be real. Wanting to be me.

And that’s more terrifying than any con I've ever pulled.

Helena’s breathing slows quickly, her body relaxing into mine. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For today. For everything.”