✔️ SLANDEROUS INTENTIONS | +18

Chapter 39

HELENA

Roman is a perverted man-child.

And he traumatizes me with his childhood stories, which he calls "memories" or "good old times." But I have to give him that: his stories are overwhelming. And I don't know which one gives me the worst shudders, as each of them has its own chilling point that hits so deep while listening.

Maybe he is messed up because of his childhood trauma? And that's why he is licking and sucking a big lollipop in the backseat of the car. I sigh. The way he is eating his candy is traumatizing for me as well.

I wanted a nice and peaceful family ride to the hospital, not Roman slurping on his big round candy, colored in rainbow. "Can you please, please eat your candy like a decent human being?" I ask him, having had enough of him eating his candy noisily.

"Why? How am I eating my candy?" he asks back, his voice so taunting, and I know he loves getting on my nerves as payback for me sending him to get my cravings in the dead of the night.

"Like a bitch, blowing a dick," I grit out, turning to him to give him the daggers. But he seems so unaffected by my anger. On the contrary, it amuses the bastard to push my buttons.

"I would probably blow better than you," he mutters with a shrug, before taking the candy out of his mouth, his saliva drooling down his hand, making me scrunch my nose in disgust as he pushes the candy toward me. "Here, you want a lick?"

"Keep your nasty candy, drooled with spit, and your bacteria," I tell him with a hiss, and he puts it back in his mouth, muttering "your loss." Wanting to get back at him, I push my palm against the end of the candy stick, making the candy hit deep in his throat.

"Helena, don't kill him; I still need him," Antonio mutters, grabbing me by my bicep and making me stay put in my seat, as I wanted to smack him a few times on top. Huffing, I cross my arms and stay put.

"You all right?" he asks Roman next, who is still coughing, as his spit obviously hit his windpipe. Now, feeling a little bad, I throw a water bottle toward the backseat, and he has the audacity to complain that I hit him on the head with it.

"Yeah," he mutters, opening his window and throwing his candy out, finally. "Here I wanted to reincarnate some childhood memories with my candy, but your wife shit in them."

"You also sucked a candy like a little bitch when you were a child?" I ask him with a taunt, making him huff and roll his eyes. But I already regret asking, because here he starts with his next story.

"When I was a child, my first toy was a gun," he mutters with a reflective smile, which I see in the rear-view mirror, before he taps Antonio on the shoulder. "You remember? My black baby?" My husband nods.

"A water gun?" I ask him.

"No, you moron, not a water gun, a real gun, for a real... boy," he replies, and I know he wanted to say "man" instead of "boy," but he was a child, not an adult — though a gun shouldn't fit in the toy category anyway. "And we played games with real opponents."

"With your gun?" I ask with a sigh, already knowing that I will not like what he will tell me next. None of his childhood stories sit well with me. They make me feel uneasy, making me thank God for giving me an easy childhood.

"Yes, and I wet my playmates with their own blood, draining them in their own crimson, not in pure water, like a water gun," he continues his story.

"And what's up with the candy now?" I ask next.

"Every time he won, I got a candy." He was a simple child — his mind innocent — and he only wanted the candy. So, he only wanted to win. He tells me this story with a chuckle, but listening, my heart breaks. No child in this world should be trained to be a weapon. "Now, I don't get a shit."