Page 82 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Ben doesn’t move, but I can tell he’s listening carefully by the way his fingers glide over his beard.
“The worst part was the waiting. First you wake up, eat, do nothing, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Every day is the same, and you’re just sitting with yourself. With what you’ve done. And then, at some point, you start getting intrusive thoughts, and stupid ideas.” I exhale. “I missed my grandpa the most. He wasthe only thing I had left to hold onto. The only thing waiting for me. My parents were dead. I didn’t have any friends left since the system made me move around, had me change schools. And at first, my grandpa was still in prison himself. We’d write each other letters. He always said he wasn’t disappointed in me, but I guess I was disappointed in myself. In fucking up my life. In becoming such a screw-up. I kept thinking about how he’d get out, and I wouldn’t be there for him. How I’d let him down.”
Ben’s eyes soften, and I clear my throat. “But hey, my grandpa helped me figure out the routine, and a goal to work towards. I got my degree, so at least I can fail at life with a proper education now.”
“What was that like?” he asks. “Studying in prison?”
I stare down at my coffee, swirling the spoon through the salty liquid. “It was something to do. Which is valuable in there. A way to mark the days. But also… I don’t know, I guess I remembered why I loved art in the first place. It made me feel like I was still me. Like I wasn’t just a prisoner, wasn’t just a screw-up.”
Ben shifts a little closer, his knee almost touching mine. “So your studying art was prison-art-therapy in itself?”
“Yeah, in a way. You could say that. It gave me something to hold onto. Something that wasn’t just… resignation. Because that will eat you alive in there.” I look up, meeting his gaze. “Much like I’m about to eat this terrible piece of toast.”
His hand shoots out and grabs me by the wrist, keeping me from swallowing another bite. “You’re not a screw-up, Helena. And you’re much too good for blackened toast… even though itisa delicacy. Come on.” He pulls me off the bed, nearly spilling coffee on the mattress. “I’m buying you a proper breakfast.”
And just like that, the weight on my shoulders eases even more. Because that’s what friends do. They listen to each other and then buy you breakfast to cheer you up.
Over the next few days, we add an unspoken subroutine to our overall routine.
Ben goes back to sleeping on the couch, but our mornings are still spent together, sharing breakfast in bed like the most functional, dysfunctional couple there is. Or maybe like friends. He drives me to work, where I prepare the museum for the upcoming exhibition. Elaine hovers even more than usual, her worry about me not decreasing in the slightest—even when my bruise fades back to mostly normal colors. Ben picks me up at the end of each day, we have dinner, then work on the forgeries together. It’s all perfectly normal. Mostly.
Except for sometimes, when I get this feeling. Like something is off about him. Like there’s something beneath the marble surface that I can’t quite touch. A flicker of hesitation in his expression. A delay in his responses. He’s also gone for a couple of hours here and there, has Alexei stay with me during those times, and is elusive when it comes to explaining his absence.
But maybe I’m just imagining it. He is allowed to have a life outside this strategic partner-in-crimeship between friends. Maybe it’s just me overthinking. Me trying to keep myself from becoming a little happier.
Then, the following Saturday morning, after breakfast, Ben tries to kidnap me.
I figure it out when the blindfold he dons over my eyes doesn't lead to lips colliding, hands getting tied up sexily, or a good spanking. Which isfinefor the best, of course.
He’s doing the‘if you’d please follow me blindly into your demise’thing, rather than the‘throwing me into a van and having his way with me’thing.
“Look, I’m not complaining,” I say as he effortlessly lifts me over a puddle on the way toward the RV. Both those things have their time and place, I suppose. “But I’m not made of glass. You won’t break me by cuffing my hands or gagging my mouth. If anything, I think it would really add to the experience.”
A second later, Ben’s hand travels from the small of my back north. He fists my messy bun and yanks me close, his breath warm against my cheek. I can practically hear the smirk on his lips. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, Panda, there are few things I enjoy more than hearing you run that mouth of yours. So I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly gag you.” He tugs just a little harder, forcing my head to tilt back. “And definitely not here. Not right now. But how’s that for the experience?” His grip tightens in my bun, sending a sharp jolt through me as he pushes ahead.
I really hope no one is watching, or they might feel compelled to call the cops.
Which, admittedly, means it’s pretty good for the experience. Not great for my underwear, though, because by the time I’m being sat down, I can feel just how soaked I am.
When we eventually pull up to wherever we were going, Ben clears his throat as if he’s gearing up for a confession. “So,” he says carefully, “I want you to know that all of this was done with the best intentions in mind and I hope you’ll like it. But if you don’t, we can leave at any time. Just say the word.”
Ominous.
“What word?” I ask.
Ben hums as he unbuckles me. He smells particularly nice today. “How about: folly.”
“Good word. So you think I’ll hate it?”
He hesitates for a second. “I think it might make you sad. But in a good way. I hope.” Then he jumps out, shuts his door, opensmine a moment later, and leads me inside a building and down some stairs.
“A dungeon?” I ask, a little confused as I catch a glimpse of the old rock the building’s made of from under my blindfold. “A dungeon is no place for sadness.”
Then it sounds like a heavy prison door closes behind us, causing me to get a little worried for the first time. Which turns out to be unwarranted a second later, when Ben pulls off my blindfold to reveal all of my grandpa’s friends in one room. Even more surprising is maybe only the room itself, which is rather bare—just a few beds made entirely of steel on which people are sitting, some shackles hanging from the ceiling, and a window with bars instead of glass. Confused, I look into a bunch of smiling eyes. Arthur, my grandpa’s former cellmate, winks at me just as a voice booms over a speaker.
“Silence,” it bellows, and then continues to greet us. The voice is deep, dark, foreboding… until it sneezes mid-bellow and mutters something about’dem goddamn dust allergies’in a heavy—and I’m fairly certain, fake—southern dialect. The room bursts into soft chuckles, and I exhale, feeling some of my tension drain away.
“You might want to shelve the laughter, fools. After all, you are finding yourselves in the most desperate of situations right now,” the voice continues, regaining its dramatic flair. “A prison within a prison. A test of the mind, the heart, and—most importantly—the ability to recall trivial facts about our most beloved Ed ‘The Innocent’ Frame.”
