Page 85 of Trailer Park Billionaire

Now it's just the three of us—Helena, Alexei, and me. Helena’s cheeks are flushed, her laughter coming easier, her usual stern façade 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 thePalette 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 backhome. 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.”