Page 65 of Trailer Park Billionaire

And nope! Six, seven.

Exhale for eight seconds.

One, two, three—I’d rather inhale, to be honest. Specifically him.

Four, five, six—Have I thought about his hands yet today? They’re thief hands. Quick, capable, nimble, probably great at undoing buttons.

Seven, eight—And. Fuck. Me.

Instead of anxiety, there’s only heat curling in my stomach right now. Which, to be fair, is a nice change for once. Somehow,my traitorous skin remembers exactly where he touched me earlier.

Has my breathing exercise turned into a freaking Ben Lyon Appreciation Ritual?

Ugh.

This is the folly Madame Clair spoke of.

I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into my pillow like I can physically smother the thoughts in my horny head.

No more thinking.

No more Ben.

Just sleep.

I’m just going to have to wait this out. Eventually, exhaustion will win. It always does.

So I close my eyes again, forcing myself to focus on nothing. On darkness. On the gentle hum of the city outside, on the rhythmic rise and fall of my breath.

Slowly, my limbs grow heavy. My thoughts start to drift, becoming less coherent (even less than they already were). Less about Ben’s hands and more about… something with a weird penguin eating Ph??

And then finally, sleep has mercy and takes me.

22

BEN

Iwake up, disappointment washing over me. The last couple of days, I’d slept well. I had nice, vivid dreams. Dreams I couldn’t possibly tell Alex about unless I wanted to hand him hard proof that I’m finally losing it. But tonight, I didn’t dream anything. I must have been too tired. On the bright side, the camera didn’t wake me once, which means I got a solid five hours of sleep.

Quickly, I brush my teeth, get dressed, and step out of my temporary home. I shut the RV door behind me, exhaling as I lean against it. The chirping of birds accompanies the quiet churn of my thoughts.

Prison.

I’d expected secrets, sure. Everyone has them. I’ve got enough to fill a book, and I’ve spent half my life making sure none of them get written down. But I hadn’t expected Helena’s to hit like a gut punch. I obviously knew about her grandpa, but I didn’t know about her. It puts things into perspective.

That reckless, furious kid she described? I know that kid. Because I was that kid, once upon a time. And that kind of anger doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t get neatly packed away with therapyand a few good decisions. It lingers, settles itself into your bones. It becomes a part of you. Forever.

And yet, she built something from it. Something structured, careful. Her routine is her armor. She wears it like a second skin, and I?—

I just barged my way in with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

She’s going to despise me when all of this is over.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost fifteen minutes past the time she usually wakes, and still no light from her apartment window. Slowly, I trek the stairs up to her temporary apartment on the seventh floor, giving her a few more minutes to wake, and for me to come alive.

When I make it to the apartment door, I raise my fist—then stop just before it can make contact with the wood. I think of the way she immediately reached for a knife last time. I think of her black eye. It’s a little less black now, but some wounds don’t disappear that easily. This one definitely doesn’t.

She hates knocking.