Page 38 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Cons: Crystal ball skills insufficient.
4. Rob a bank (with Robyn?)
Pros: Thrilling.
Cons: Prison. Again. Also, Robyn might die from a heart attack during the heist.
5. OnlyFans.
Pros: Only option that’s even remotely realistic?
My family is dead, so who would even care?
Cons: …
I tap my pen against the page, staring at the list. The last one is probably the only one that might have any potential. It’s not like I’d have to show my face. I could go full art hoe and make it all aesthetic—tasteful nudes, soft lighting, and thinly veiled masturbation videos… which probably wouldn’t make enough money. I’d need a co-star to fuck me seven ways to heaven.
Ben.
NO!
No, no, no. Different approach. Back to being an art hoe. I could call myself Pantone69 or MichelangelHOE or BoobRoss, and every video would be one of me painting boobs in the nude while making sexy little mistakes.
With Ben.
NOPE!
People might watch that—The BoobsRoss thing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone, strip down to my underwear, then put on different underwear, and attempt a few sultry poses in front of the camera.
When I navigate into my photos folder, I’m greeted by pictures of me that look like I just fell out of bed, pictures of me that look like I might have facial paralysis, and more pictures of me that look like I’m mid-demonic possession.
Ben wouldn’t look this ridiculous on camera.
“Okay,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the bed. “A human can live just fine with one kidney.” There’s no way I could make enough money in one month with nudes anyway.
The knot in my stomach punches upward, making me groan. It physically hurts.
What I need right now is fresh air; to take my mind off things. That’ll help. It’s 10:42 AM, so I’m still mostly on schedule for my usual Saturday routine. A little tired from moving all those boxes and trash bags last night, I get into the shower and get ready for the day. Then I grab my supplies and head downtown, setting up near the tourist hotspots by the museum. It’s easy money—quick portraits and caricatures of couples, mostly, but I do whatever people will throw a few bucks at (which, one would think, makes me predestined to be great at this OnlyFans thing). The proceeds fund the art classes I hold for my kids. It pays for supplies, snacks, a couple picnics or parties each year, and on occasion for a new pair of shoes, jeans, or a jacket if one of them needs it.
I’ll have to find someone to take over the classes once I’m hiding in Laos.
Normally, I paint for two to three hours and then treat myself to a nice early dinner. But today, the weather—a stark contrast to the last few days—is gorgeous, and the tourists keep coming. The sun is already setting when I decide I’ve done enough for the day. I’m about to pack up when a familiar voice interrupts me.
“Think you can do me too?” it asks, judging by the salaciousness, fully aware of the double entendre.
I glance up at Ben. Same rumpled clothes as yesterday, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I charge extra for billionaires and people who force me to accept their much-needed help,” I say deadpan.
He grins. “So that’s double extra?”
“Triple, actually,” I add. “Since my shift is over, I also have to charge overtime.”
“No doubt the painting will be worth it,” he says, and takes a seat on the bench in front of me. “I was thinking something regal. Something I can hang over my fireplace, something that’s a real conversation piece.”
“A regal conversation piece. Say no more. I know exactly what to do.”
