Page 68 of Trailer Park Billionaire
HELENA
The day at work starts like any other—with the somewhat significant and definitely annoying difference that my mind refuses to stay within the borders of the canvas like it usually does. Usually, I have no trouble focusing solely on work and work alone. Today, my mind keeps drifting off. Always to Ben Lyon.
It isn’t fair, really, how effortlessly he occupies space in my thoughts. There’s the Ben the world sees—charming, disarming, a master at crafting the perfect façade. And then there’s the Ben I’ve started to see—the one behind that façade, where he lets the balaclava slip just enough for me to glimpse something raw, something real. Sometimes, like yesterday, it even feels like he doesn’t bother with the mask at all. It’s like I get to see the moments between the performances. Although, that could just be part of his act as well. Which only makes all of this even more unnerving.
Because if he’s a con artist… what does that make me, for wanting to be in on the con?
I shake my head and refocus on the work in front of me, the smell of turpentine grounding me in the present. Almost. I stillcan’t quite silence the nagging thoughts of him—of the way my skin prickles when I think about his hands, the way my pulse jumps at the memory of his teasing voice.
By the time lunch rolls around, the opportunity I’ve been waiting for finally presents itself. The archives. The painting. We need reference photos from all angles, with all the details. The rush that floods my veins as I move swiftly, silently through the cool, dimly lit space reminds me of a different time. It’s almost as exciting as thinking about Greek statues.
Everyone seems to be out for lunch, so I sneak into the archive to snap a few pictures of our target. If I got caught here holding the painting that will be stolen and replaced soon, I might become suspect number one, should the heist ever come to light.
My heart is pounding in my chest when I retrieve it from storage. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of thrill: the illicit sensation of risk setting every nerve on fire. I used to be good at this. After a rocky start (and getting caught a couple of times) I had to become good. And I was. At least until I got reckless.
I take one picture after another. From all angles, with different light, until I hear footsteps fast approaching. My old muscle memory kicks in as I position myself out of sight. My breath catches, body alert in that familiar way. When my colleague walks past, none the wiser, I exhale and can’t help but smile to myself. I shouldn’t enjoy this as much.
But I do.
Quickly, I take a few more pictures just to be sure, return the painting to storage, and make my way back to the lab, where I should be able to work unbothered for the rest of the afternoon. Just me, my brushes, solvents, and some statues watching me like silent judges.
Of course, eventually, my mind betrays me again, pulling me out of my carefully constructed world. Restoring these paintings for the upcoming exhibition should—for lack of a better word—be routine. I know how to do this better than anything. Even better than the sneaking around thing. But today, I can barely muster the necessary focus that prevents careless brushstrokes and accidental mistakes that could ruin centuries-old art.
So instead of risking irreversible damage to culturally significant masterpieces, I allow my mind to slip—just for a moment—into the forbidden daydreams it seems to crave.
Although, to be fair to my traitorous brain, it isn’t just Ben Lyon it craves. It’s the way he makes me feel—on edge, up in the air, and yet somehow safe. The fact that it comes in a packaging so pretty you hesitate to even open it is just a bonus.
All of that is bad, of course. I know what I should want: stability, peace, someone who isn’t a literal criminal. Or even better yet—no one. I should want no one. Because I was doing just fine being alone, celibate. There aren’t many things a man could add to my life that my magic wand and a stepladder can’t provide.
I sigh and set my brushes aside altogether before I end up giving this Renaissance portrait a regretful smirk that wasn't there 500 years ago.
Maybe it’s the danger I crave more than the man himself. Maybe that’s why I fantasize not just about him, but about the way he would ravish me. In mydreamsdelusions, he isn’t gentle. He doesn’t make love to me sweetly. He just takes me. He takes me because he can’t help it. He takes me because he physically can’t help himself, because I undo him. Those thoughts flood me with the same reckless energy that pulses through my veins whenever I toe that line between right and wrong, the line between a good decision and a very, very bad one.
I bite the inside of my cheek, banishing the thought just in time for Elaine to stride into the lab. Her eyes sharpen the moment they land on me.
“What the hell happened to your face, Helena?” she asks, her voice edged with concern.
Right. She hasn’t seen me yet. I’ve been dodging most people since. Plus, she was out for meetings on Friday.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say smoothly, barely glancing up as I clean my station. “Just an accident.”
Elaine crosses her arms, mouth flattening into a thin line. “You know we don’t lie to each other, right?”
I look up. “I did not, in fact, know that. Does that include reviews of your cookies? Because sometimes they’re a little too sweet for my taste.”
“Very funny,” Elaine says with a shake of her head, pulling up a chair beside mine. “Stop trying to defuse the situation with humor and/or lies about my cookies. What happened, Helena? If you’re in trouble, you need to tell me. I can help you. No matter what it is. Even—” she leans in and whispers, “if we have to dispose of a body. Doesn’t matter. I’m in.”
Oddly enough, I get the feeling she actually means it—even though she obviously couldn’t, because that’s ridiculous. Either way, there’s no need for my boss to worry or to get involved in all this.
“Elaine, I promise you: it’s nothing. It was an accident. I don’t have an abusive boyfriend or anything. Don’t you think you’d have figured that out long ago already?”
Elaine levels me with a look so piercing I feel like one of the paintings under restoration. “That’s true,” she says and relaxes a bit. “I am very inquisitive. And you definitely do not have a boyfriend.” She sighs, apparently uncertain whether she can believe me or not. “You sure it’s nothing? Maybe I could have Patkeep an eye on you. He’ll be assigned to patrol the door to the office annex. Just in case.”
I shake my head. “That’s really not necessary. And also a blatant abuse of power and resources.”
“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” Elaine shrugs and leans back in her chair, obviously still not entirely convinced I’m telling the truth. She glances at the clock on the wall. “You’re done for the day?”
“Almost.”
