Page 52 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Another fist on the door. A muffled voice shouting something.
I force air into my lungs, push myself off the mattress, and rush into the kitchen. A knife. I need a knife. I spot one on the counter and grab it. My fingers tighten around the handle as I creep toward the door. My knees are weak, but adrenaline shoves me forward.
I’m not going to be blindsided again.
This time, I’ll go down fighting.
Then I hear it:
“Helena, please open this door before your neighbors call the cops! Also, I was joking about the crime thing.”
Ben.
Son of a bitch.
The tension in my body dissolves so fast my knees almost give out. I exhale shakily and lean my forehead against the door for a second, pressing my eyes shut.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
It’s just Ben. Of course, it’s Ben.
When I open the door, he’s standing there, grinning like an idiot, holding a napkin twisted into the shape of a flower. The sight of him actually makes it easier to breathe. He’s lucky he’s so easy on the eyes, or I might have used that?—
“Big knife,” he says. “Good thinking once again. You can use it to eat the breakfast I made you.”
I pry my eyes away from him and scan the hallway. I guess, now I’m afraid of the‘good’and the bad guys showing up.
He’s only carrying the little flower—no bag of food or anything. I listen for a moment. No sound of sirens. That’s a relief. By now, I’m pretty sure I got away with my little midnight bottle-throwing.
While I’m still busy figuring out what’s going on, Ben gently takes the knife from my hand and replaces it with the napkin rose.
“So,” he begins, way too cheerful for this time of day (or any time really), “funny story. You know how your ex gave you that black eye, and now you’re generally feeling a little uneasy and not super safe?”
Is there drool on my chin?
Oh, boy.
I subtly wipe my mouth with the rose, hoping he hasn’t noticed any of this.
My hair must be a mess too.
Shit.
“Anyway, I thought, as your new friend in crime and assigned bodyguard to the master forger, I’d make sure nothing would happen to our most valuable asset.”
“You slept outside my apartment. I saw.”
“Right, good. So we agree that that isn’t creepy, yes?”
I look down at the flower.
Is he a psychopath? He might be a psychopath.
Or I might be one for not being put off by any of this.
He continues, “Anyway, I came to wake you this morning, but apparently you sleep like a statue. I knocked a bunch of times and you didn’t hear me. So naturally, as your assigned bodyguard, I was afraid something might have happened. So I let myself in to make sure you were alright.”
