“You were a soldier?” he asks. “Yes.” “But not anymore?” “I will always be a soldier,” I say, “but right now I fight with my tongue rather than my fists.” He gives me a slow smile. “Perhaps we can put that tongue to other uses.” “Then perhaps I will resort to fighting with my fists.” “I welcome the challenge.” In his eyes is a promise that he’ll make good on. Tonight I’m sleeping with my gun.
