Page 62 of Trailer Park Billionaire
He cares about my safety because he needs me to play my part in his heist.
Besides, there’s a reason no one knows anything about me—why I don’t let people in.
Once our job is done, we’ll probably never see each other again. I mean his backup plan is to literally run away. He’d leave eventually.
At least he won’t leave in a fucking paint can,I think to myself and ruffle my hair.Hopefully.
It’s just that it wouldn’t be smart to entrust someone likehimwith this knowledge—a professional liar, a con artist.
Then again, he may be a criminal, but at least his moral compass seems to be pointing him in the right direction.
Ugh, fuck. This is giving me a headache. Why does it have to be so complicated?
“A juicy secret about myself?” Ben asks as he steps into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “I’ll have to think about that. How do you fancy some fancy ramen for dinner in the meantime?”
I follow him into the open kitchen and push him right out again toward the couch nearby. “Your true calling might be breakfast food, but this is my area of expertise. Now go on, tell.”
Ben leans back on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, watching me with a smirk that’s almost lazy. His eyes are sharp though, calculating. He’s weighing what to give me. I guess he also doesn’t want to make himself too vulnerable.
“Well, I think I should start with the obvious,” he says. “Sometimes… I steal things.”
I glance at him over my shoulder while retrieving the ingredients from the fridge that Alexei stocked a little. “I really hope there’s more to that story, because I asked for juicy, not for the blindingly obvious.”
He tilts his head, leaning forward, inviting me in, like he’s about to tell me one of his darkest secrets. “You know the Art-Crossed Lovers heist a couple of years ago?”
I nearly drop the egg I’m holding in my hand. “No way! You mean to tell me that you’re the reason that painting went missing? How? I heard the St. Clairs went ballistic over it.”
Ben shifts, getting comfortable, like he’s settling in for a story time, a cocky smile on his lips. “Alright, picture this: Paris. Midnight. I’m dressed for the job: black turtleneck, tactical trousers, a balaclava that isn’t neon. The Mission Impossible theme song is play?—”
“The Art-Crossed Lovers were stolen in Berlin.”
Ben stops, the grin on his face growing even bigger. “You know that, hm?”
I cross my arms and turn toward him. “Didn’t think I needed to point this out twice, but: no more lies.” I stress the next part. “No more surprises, no more secrets, and no more lies.”
Ben nods slowly. “You promise the same?”
I just stare at him.
“Fine, alright. No more lies.” He runs his hand through his hair. “The story is true. I did steal the painting. But it wasn’t like it was in the movies. We had a buyer lined up who was willing to pay a pretty penny. Half upfront, half on delivery. We used 100k of the up-front money to bribe the two guards who were watching the museum that night and just walked out with the loot.” Ben chuckles. “We trained them thoroughly on what to say to the police. Then one of them improvised and decided to make it more convincing by knocking out his colleague.” He laughs. “I guess it worked. The police never arrested anybody.”
“And now the painting is forever vanished.”
“I’m afraid so. But it belonged to the St. Clairs anyway. It’s not like they’d miss it.”
This is true. As far as I know, the stolen painting was on temporary loan and would have just disappeared in their giant private collection again.
“What did you do with all the money? Why are you living in a trailer?” I ask, genuinely confused.
Ben thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Spent it all,” he says with a mischievous grin. “Like I said, people are bad at being rich. I’m so good at it, the financial advisor I told you about—the one I take on candlelit dinners, and moonlit strolls—bills me for all the tissues he needs when looking at my account.” He leans forward slightly, his gaze flicking to the pot on the stove. “Now, what the hell are you making there?”
“Chichi,” I say, finish the last preparations, and fill the ramen into two bowls I find in the cupboard. Then I add half a soft-boiled egg, a slice of American cheese, and some sprinkles ofcrushed potato chips on top. “Traditionally, you’d use the ramen packaging as a bowl, but since we’re not in prison, and this is supposed to be fancy. I figured we’d use the good china. You know, like actual billionaires.”
Ben accepts the hot bowl with a laugh and slides over to make room for me on the couch. “Prison, hm? What other dishes did your grandpa teach you?”
I sit down next to Ben and think about it one last time. Telling him will be useful. He needs to understand why I am the way I am. “Actually, my grandpa didn’t teach me. Ashlynn Smoulder did—my cellmate at the time. Remember how I told you that I had been arrested once or twice? Well, those arrests lead to a couple years in prison.”
Ben freezes. He lets out an‘Oh’that I don’t quite know how to interpret.
