Page 30 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Mr. Lyon stays frozen, his eyes locked on mine.
“Please,” I mouth, silently pointing at his chair. Then I dab a tear from the corner of my eye, careful not to smudge my makeup.
Reluctantly, he complies and goes back to assisting Iris. I leave them to it and continue my rounds.
At 5:00 PM, we wrap up class. The younger kids are picked up by their guardians, while the older ones head home on their own. By 5:15 PM, the classroom is empty. Paint splatters, abandoned brushes, and a single sock are all that’s left behind.
A single sock—and Mr. Lyon. He’s been silently staring at me the entire time I’ve been saying goodbye to everyone, his expression suggesting he’s either about to kill me, or about to killforme. All that’s missing is the proverbial smoke coming out of his ears.
I pointedly ignore him and start cleaning up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs. Because what the fuck else am I going to do?
My visitor lets out a sharp exhale. Then, from the corner of my eye, I observe as he starts helping me tidy the room. Unfortunately, it only takes a minute or two before we’re done and find ourselves standing face to face at the front of the class.
He gives me another look. The are-you-really-going-to-make-me-say-it kind of look. Luckily for him, I’m not. Instead, I channel the raw power of selective obliviousness and masterful distraction. “It’s avant-garde fashion. You wouldn’t understand.” I say, brushing him off. “What brings you here anyway?” I add, using the tactic of distraction once again.
Mr. Lyon shakes his head, takes a step closer, and narrows his eyes. “I’ve told you this before, Helena. And I am going to tell you again: I am very rich and powerful.” He grabs both my arms, gently holding me in place, like he’s trying to impress upon me just how serious he is. “I can make problems disappear.” Then he pulls me a little closer, his eyes drilling into mine. “Tell me. Who did this to you?” he whispers, his fingers sinking into my skin.
My mouth parts slightly at the look on his face. My instinctive attempt to step back is thwarted by his hands tightening. Strangely, I don’t feel scared. If anything… it’s the opposite.
“Tell me who, and I will make him go away.”
“In a can of paint?” I ask. “Or to… like… Laos?”
11
HELENA
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown either. He just stands there, staring deep into my eyes.
“Look, Mr. Lyon, it’s not what you think it is,” I say eventually, grabbing his hands and sliding them off me. “It’s not like a violent boyfriend who beat me or anything like that.” I sigh, rubbing a hand over my forehead—careful not to smear the remnants of my makeup. That technically wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a boyfriend.
Mr. Lyon continues to search my face, seemingly struggling to process that new piece of information. Then he just says, “Ben.” His fingers carefully tug a strand of hair behind my ear to reveal the band-aid, the scent of scotch and sandalwood lingering in the air. “Call me Ben.”
“Alright… Ben.” I take a step back and start packing up. For a second, the blade of the knife in my bag reflects the fluorescent light from above. “Look, you’ll have to believe me when I tell you that it’s nothing. Because if you don’t, then I’ll just have to make something up.”
The angry expression chiseled onto his face softens a little. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll just say it was… uh… I tripped.”
“Right into someone’s fist?”
I roll my eyes. “More like a door… knob. See… it was just your classic reckless dance move meets gravity sort of situation. Florence and the Machine, eye, doorknob—done. Tale as old as time.” I clap my hands, hoping that can conclude our conversation.
Of course, it doesn’t.
“And that left you with a black eye and a cut to your head,” Ben says, crossing his arms.
I nod and shrug at the same time. “Gravity’s really stepped up its game this year.”
He inhales sharply, as if calling upon some long-lost reservoir of patience. Then he also nods, slowly. “Look, Helena. I know this is none of my business. And if you want to keep it to yourself, I’ll respect that. We barely know each other. But my offer stands. Tell me who did this to you, and I will make them pay. Like I said: I am very angry and dangerous.”
“I thought you said you were rich and powerful.”
“Yeah, well, right now I’m feeling mostly angry and dangerous,” he says, and I believe him. His voice sounds strained. As if, for whatever reason, he actually cares.
I watch as the veins on his arms bulge, the blood pumping visibly as he clenches his fists.
“Luckily for you, women love being stuck in an empty room with angry and dangerous men,” I mutter, as my heartbeat slams like a drum in my chest. At least that’s what it feels like. Like it just woke up and is now audibly echoing through the whole damn room. It’s beating so fast, I immediately feel light-headed. As if on autopilot, I stagger to the sink and run cold water over my head. I hold my breath and wait for my heartbeat to calm down. It takes a moment for my body to comply, but eventually,it does. When I come back up, I inhale deeply and let it out in one quick gust.
