Page 57 of Trailer Park Billionaire
My stomach twists uncomfortably. Not because I believe in this nonsense. I don’t. It’s just… eerie.
“I guess she’s better at your job than I expected,” I admit once we’re far enough away from the tent. The setting sun outside feels too bright after the dim interior. I blink against it.
Ben clears his throat. “Gives you goosebumps, doesn’t it? Look…” He pulls up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his hair standing up, his blood pumping steadily beneath. “I was a little worried she was about to predict my tragic, but ultimately beautiful, demise. What did you think?”
“That it was a waste of money. I can predict your demise too—not sure I’d call it beautiful though.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. And yet,” he says, tapping his temple, “I can see you thinking about what she said too.”
“Because she said something that fits literally anyone at any time. It’s what they do.” I cross my arms. “Now where do we find our damn canvas?”
A loud bang behind us makes me jump—right into Ben’s arms. For a second, it sounds like someone knocking down a door. Ben just looks at me and protectively drapes his arm around my shoulders. I turn to where the noise came from and see a vendor packing up his stall. Apparently, it was just him knocking on some wood to take a table apart.
“Whose turn is it?” Ben asks to my confusion. “One of your secrets for one of mine.”
“Uhh,” I try to take a step back, but his arm stays locked around me. “Your turn, I think.”
He doesn’t let go. His eyes have gone serious, locked in on me. He smells intoxicating, dangerous, like scotch with just enough ABV to catch fire. Using his pointer finger and thumb, he angles my chin up to him, then asks, “Who did this to you, Helena?”
I sigh and try to shrug out of his arms, but he just holds me in place.
“This morning, when you heard someone knock on your door, your first instinct was to grab a knife. Just now, a loud knock made you jump like a fugitive hearing sirens. That looks like a trauma response to me. Well, and then you’ve got the actual physical trauma to your eye.” He slowly releases me, his voice softening. “I’m sorry I’m not actually rich and powerful. But I do want to help. And, I assure you, I can if you let me.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I turn my focus back to the market, scanning the remaining stalls like I’m searching for the canvas—and not hiding behind the task.
Ben, unfortunately, isn’t so easy to ignore.
“You know,” he says, gently tilting my head back toward him again, “I might be a professional liar, but I’m also pretty good at spotting when someone else is faking it.”
“What am I faking?”
“That you’re okay. That you’ve got this handled on your own.” His hand slowly sinks back to his side. “All I’m saying is, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. The weight of it all—of my grandfather’s death, of his debt, of the past itself, of the uncertain future that may or may not bring destruction—presses against my ribs.
I can handle it on my own.
Because I have to handle it on my own.
There is no one else.
Not anymore.
Ben just watches me with those damned eyes. Right now, they don’t look angry or dangerous. They look like those of a guardian dog that has decided to follow me home and refuses to leave, no matter how many times I try to shoo it away.
“You really want to know?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend, like I’m testing the idea on my tongue first. Instinctively, I touch my eye.
He nods. No jokes, no teasing. Just a simple nod.
I inhale slowly, my eyes drifting to the ravens cawing up in the trees.
“I don’t know who did it,” I say eventually. “Three guys came to my apartment. They didn’t give me their names or anything. Just a black eye. Said my grandpa had a debt that I now have to pay back.” I swallow, the pounding behind my eye suddenly more noticeable. “One hundred grand. One month. Or else.” I glance up at Ben, whose eyes have now shifted to the angry and dangerous ones. “I’m not sure what ‘or else’means exactly, but it’s probably not a spa treatment,” I try to lighten the mood.
We stand there, the din of the market buzzing around us like static. I brace myself for pity, for some empty reassurance that everything will be fine. Instead, he just tells me to come along. “We’ve got some crime to do,” he says.
Then he slides his hand back onto the small of my back and steers me toward the parking lot.
An hour later, we’re at the location for Plan B. We’ve parked on the other side of the street, a few buildings down. The window of the gallery still isn’t repaired—just a big sheet of plastic covering the front. The other glass panels are lined with newspapers, making it impossible to see inside.
