Page 39 of Trailer Park Billionaire
I reach for one of the few framed canvases that people usually avoid because they cost extra, place it in landscape onto my easel, and begin drawing. I take my time, making sure every stroke of my brush captures the essence of Ben Lyon: his charm, his sunshiny demeanour, his kind eyes, his smug smile.
It takes a lot longer than my usual portraits, but I feel like he deserves a proper painting. Plus, I’m not entirely opposed to staring at him for a while. It’s not quite taking my mind off things like I intended, but still.
“So,” I finally say after considering his unexpected appearance, “are you stalking me then?”
Ben’s head jerks over to me—mostly, I think, just to give me some side-eye. “Don’t be ridiculous. Stalking suggests I’ve been doing this for a while now. But I only started, like, yesterday. So at most, I’d say I’m following you.”
“I should probably call the police then,” I comment, absentmindedly, while adding a few trees with lovely red autumn foliage.
Ben nods. “I wish you would. We could tell them all about what happened to your face, Panda.”
Both my eyes shoot up over the painting towards Ben, who’s still sitting on the bench, expression unchanging.
They didn’t say I couldn’t go to the police.
I hadn’t even considered that an option.
Maybe I should.
Then again, it was probably implied. That’s just how criminals work.
Also, it’s not like the police would actually be helpful.
Plus, that would probably make them angry, and they’d hurt me even more.
“We’ll do no such thing,” I say, and let my eyes wander down to the canvas again. “Gravity is very elusive when it comes to the law—both in a legal and in a physics sort of way.”
Ben huffs through his nose. “Yeah, well, Florence and the Machine isn’t. Maybe we should go after them.”
I decide to ignore him and pretend to be fully immersed in the painting. Every once in a while, I glance over and quickly avert my eyes again because he is staring at me, and for some reason, I’m worried he’ll be able to read my mind (which is definitely not G-rated at the moment).
The background is a nature scene that looks rather romantic, with dark red hues and a bunch of lovely flowers—similar to those of Sir John Everett Millais’ in the Ophelia painting—framing the actual focal point. When I finish, half an hour later, I turn the canvas over and let him have a look.
Ben slides to the front of the bench to get a better view, then laughs so loudly people start turning their heads as they walk by.
“Helena… is that me on a guillotine?” he asks, pointing at the wooden contraption.
“You asked for regal,” I explain. “What’s more regal than a royal beheading?”
Ben nods, visibly delighted. “And is that our son, Panda Junior, pulling the rope of the guillotine?”
I sigh. “Yeah, sorry. It would seem you’re not the alpha anymore.”
Ben gets to his feet, grabs the canvas carefully, and turns it so the last few rays of sun can illuminate it. His smile looks different right now—every so often, it seems like that fake smile of his cracks, letting the real one shine through. I like the real smile.
“Beautiful, brutal, romantic, moving…”
“Regal,” I add.
“Regal, indeed. I love it.” He sets the painting down on the bench and reaches into his pocket. “What do I owe you?” he asks, pulling out a stack of bills and—when I don’t accept them right away—tucks them into the collar of my turtleneck. “Eh, doesn’t matter. Here, take it all.”
I retrieve the money and stare at the bills. “This is?—”
“Triple what you usually make, I hope.” He shrugs.
It’s a lot more than that.
“So, what are you up to now?” Ben asks once I’ve packed up all my supplies. “You know, so it’ll be easier to follow you.”
