Page 67 of Trailer Park Billionaire
She narrows her eyes. “Gently?”
“I was very gentle! Much more than I usually am in bed. But if you’d like me to choke you awake next time, just let me know, Ms. Penguin. I’d be more than happy to oblige.” Before Helena can answer, I shut the bedroom door behind me, a giant grin plastered on my face.
We should probably find a better way for me to wake her though.
By the time she stomps into the RV, looking more put together, but no less murderous, I’ve got breakfast ready.
“I don’t eat in the mornings.” She squints at the smoothie bowls I’ve prepared, then over to me. “I only make exceptions for the hearts of my enemies.” Her eyes wander down to my chest, and for a moment, I think, even a little further south.
“Well, I did prepare it with all my heart,” I say, take her firmly by the waist and guide her down into the booth at the table. “And as your enemy, I happen to care deeply aboutyour nutrition and well-being. Only a strong enemy is a worthy enemy.”
I sit across from her, watching as she hesitates, and, eventually, takes a bite. She tends to eat with urgency (like an adorable little squirrel). I assume it’s something she picked up in foster care or prison. If you didn’t eat fast enough, you probably didn’t eat. Today, she chews a little slower and nods begrudgingly. “I mean, it’s pretty good for a stupid smoothie bowl. Still, what the fuck, Benjamin? How can you be this bad with personal boundaries?”
I sigh. “Okay, first of all, it’s Benedikt. And, yes, I realize how my actions might have been slightly misunderstood. But really, I think the focus here should be on how good I am at taking care of you.”
Helena already has another spoon in her pretty little mouth. And what a pretty little mouth it is. Her eyes are still narrowed at me, like she’s thinking,‘Delicious, but it could be improved if made by someone who doesn’t break into my bedroom all the time.’
I lean back, watching as she unconsciously taps the spoon against her lower lip. Tap. Tap. Tap. And now I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
It’s not just that it’s pretty—though, objectively, it is. It’s the way she uses it. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s thinking. The way she mumbles in her sleep. And the way she swears at me.
Some people curse like punctuation, throwing in a ‘fuck’ every couple of words for emphasis. Helena insults with precision. She picks her words with the care of a seasoned artist, painting entire emotional landscapes with a single, cutting phrase. I wonder if she picked that up in prison too.
Right now, her mouth is full, so she’s just looking at me like she’s considering stabbing me with the spoon… in a lovingfashion, I’m pretty sure. Then, in a voice as sweet as poison, she asks, “Are you planning to eat too, or are you just going to sit there staring?”
I grin. “I enjoy staring at you, Panda.”
She makes a face like she’s debating whether homicide is the correct response to this, but then she just asks, “Why?”
I scoop up a bite of my smoothie bowl and take my time chewing. “Because I enjoy riling you up.”
She scowls, but her spoon is already halfway in her mouth again.
It’s not my fault she’s so fun to rile up. It’s not my fault, fighting with her is like an elaborate way of foreplay without the risk of an STD. And it’s definitely not my fault that she hasn’t killed me yet… which technically means I’m winning, I think.
For a little while, we eat in comfortable silence, the occasional glare and hidden smile thrown in between spoonfuls. This is easy. Too easy. And that’s what scares me. Normally, I play other people. This here, this feels like I’m playing myself.
Sure, I started out being nice to her because she was my mark… but now I’m not so sure anymore if that’s still what I’m doing.
Helena Beck might be a problem. Not because she’s a challenge, not because she’s stubborn, not because she’s attracting dangerous mobsters.
She’s a problem because I like her. Because I’m starting to care. And that never ends well.
After breakfast, I drive her to the museum, watching as she disappears through the back door. She should be safe here for the time she’s working. There are too many people around for anything to happen. I’ll use the day to make some supply runs, and I should probably inform my other partner in crime aboutthe new intel I learned about our accomplice. Then I’ll pick her up after her shift, make sure we’re not being tailed, and get her home safe.
So, funny story. Guess who’s been to prison.
Your mom?
Funny. I wish. Helena. Burned down someone’s house and subsequently trashed their gallery.
Holy shit. She did that?
Yup.
Great, maybe, when we all end up in prison, you two can bunk together.
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