Page 81 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Eventually, when she yawns, eyes heavy with sadness and exhaustion, I don’t give her a choice. I scoop her into my arms and carry her to bed.
As I lower her down, she clings to my arm and doesn’t let go. Instead, she gently pulls me under the covers with her. I don’t hesitate. I slide in behind her, her back pressed to my chest, her head resting on my arm.
We don’t talk. We just lie there. Our breathing syncs and our heartbeats slow.
The last thing I see before I drift off is Helena’s face softened by sleep. Then her messy bun covers my view of it. My hands are clutched to hers, and her butt is gently pressing against me.
27
HELENA
The first thing I register upon waking is the most comforting warmth. A steady, solid heat radiating behind me, cocooning me in a way that makes it painfully easy to forget where I am. Why I’m here. And why this shouldn’t be happening.
Because… I’m sure there was a very good reason why this shouldn’t be happening, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember.
And this is happening.
My breath catches as I shift slightly, just enough to confirm what I already know: Ben is still here. His body curved behind mine, his arm slack but protectively draped over my waist.
My mental reflex is telling me I should be angry at myself for letting it get this far. Probably. And I should just slip out of bed, pretend it never happened. But instead, I let myself feel it—the safety, the comfort. The frightening fact that for once, I’ve let my guard down to allow someone in. And it felt good. It still feels good this morning. So I decide to lean into it, into the warmth.
A satisfied smirk starts to take shape on my lips—until I feel something else, something hot, something distinctly hard pressing against my ass. It takes a moment longer than it shouldfor my sleepy brain to make the connection, but when it does, that smirk just grows. Then I lean into that too, because what else would I do?
A second later, Ben inhales sharply and withdraws, rolling away from me so carefully you’d think I’d turned into a live grenade. I barely manage to shut my eyes in time, feigning unconsciousness as he painstakingly—without uttering a single sound—slides out of bed. I hear his bare feet whisper across the floor, the hesitant pause as he reaches the door, the soft click as he disappears.
Maybe he doesn’t want this. Maybe he doesn’t want to be close to me. I did sort of make him stay here last night.
Didn’t I?
I replay the moment I pulled him into bed. The way he didn’t resist. The way his grip on me had felt so natural. How we had fallen asleep so peacefully.
I take a deep breath for four seconds, hold it for seven, then kick the blanket away in frustration.
Fuck me.
A little while later, while I’m still busy staring holes into the ceiling, Ben appears in the doorway, holding a tray with what is a surprisingly chaotic attempt at breakfast—at least for his standards. The toast is slightly burned. The scrambled eggs are alarmingly pale. The coffee tastes like he confused the sugar with salt.
We don’t talk about last night. Instead, we sit next to one another and share the food. Everything feels a little more awkward than usual. But to be fair, usually nothing feels awkward with Ben.
I scrape some charred bits off the toast, which makes him laugh.
“Not a lot of people know this,” he says, ”but this isn’t actually burned. It’s just a new recipe I recently developed. Ever heard of blackened chicken?”
I utter a skeptical hum.
“Well, it’s like that, but with toast. And without the spice rub. Blackened toast. A delicacy in some… prisons of this world, I’d assume.”
“Not the one I’ve been to.”
He smiles, and maybe for now, that’s enough. Maybe that’s all I need. A friend. Maybe that’s all we should be. Just friends who makes silly jokes for each other. Friends who can confide in one another. Friends who stare at each others really nice hands.
Ben sets his half-eaten toast down and leans back against the headboard, watching me. Not in an intrusive way, just… waiting. Like he’s happy to hear me talk about the whole prison thing—if I want to.
I sigh and pick at the crumbs on my plate. I guess friends do share stuff like that. “It wasn’t as bad as you see on TV.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against them. “There were barely any gang fights. No guards beating us up—well, not regularly at least. No one ever tried to shank me in the shower. I guess this isn’t my first black eye, though.” I scratch at my cheek. “It was just girls… women. Some were tough, sure. Some had done things way worse than me. But most of them were just… tired. Waiting…”
