He struggled to rest on his elbows, mostly out of surprise. He shook his head, smirk on his face. “Bold move chica.” My eyes narrowed.
“Don’t try anything funny,” I threatened.
“Oh, I don’t have to,” he fired back. “Like I said, I got tons of, how you say, backup, all in and around this square.” He struggled to his feet.
I looked into his dark eyes, looking for a hint. “I hate to rain on your parade, but you haven’t a soul in the world to turn to.” He was shocked I had read his expression so clearly. There’s another wound reopened, I thought.
“Alright bella, you got me. I don’t have, as you said, a soul in the world,” he admitted. I nodded, satisfied. Confession is the salt on pride’s wound, this I knew for a fact.
Then he grinned in that way that makes me shudder. “At least,” he added, “not yet.”
What on earth is he talking about?! I wondered. In those four words, he not only nicked my own pride, but also made me ask for him to pass the salt.