xx. TRUTH & SHOT

"The first person that I killed was on a mission when I was eighteen."

Ace's fingers drum against the mahogany table, echoing into the deafening silence.

"Interrogate me; see if you can tell whether or not I'm lying."

The agent sits directly across from me at the grand table. My eyebrow raises at his challenge. Slowly, I gauge his physiological signs; his eyes were slightly dilated and gazing back into mine, his chest was slowly rising, and his arms folded across his chest. Ace gave nothing away.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. Guess I'm going into this blindly.

"How long had you been in the CIA?" I ask.

"It was my first year as a field agent, though I underwent years of training."

"Why did you kill him?"

"Her. And I was assigned to; she was a traitor—I didn't question my orders."

Ace's voice doesn't even waver. Now I understood why he was such a revered agent. There was absolutely nothing indiscrete about any of his pristine responses. Time had tediously worn down this traumatic memory into a casual story.

"How did you kill her?"

"Gunshot. .45 caliber M1911A1 nickel pistol with a suppressor. It was quite elegant, actually."

"Location."

"Hang Seng Bank, Hong Kong."

"What did you do the night before?"

Ace cocks his head. "I got absolutely hammered."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Seriously, there was no way of telling if any of what Ace said was true. His body language had been open, his story consistent, and his physiological signals were stable.

"I... I guess you're telling the truth," I sigh, defeated.

Ace runs a hand through his hair. "It was a deviation of the truth, a lie. I killed him when I was sixteen."

"Christ, Blackwell. That's not healthy for any sixteen year old."

He brushes it off. "Made my name famous in the international community."

"So how could I have known if you were lying? You showed no outward signs."

"That's because I'm a goddamn great agent," Ace winks. "You looked for the right signs; I just controlled what I gave away."

My eyes by now were instinctively rolling back on their own. Narcissism and inflated self-worth didn't seem to be deeming qualities in a secret agent.

"There are a couple of things you need to look for when gauging for the truth," Ace continues. "First is eye contact. Any eye contact longer shorter than two seconds usually means nervousness. Any contact longer than four contacts is overcompensation or attraction."

"You seem to have this down to a science."

"Your brain is like a computer, Cupcake. Use all of its software to compute these small signs."

He goes on to give me a crash course in reading human emotions. We go over the basics; things like body position, breathing rate, and sentence structure. He also teaches me the more specific tactics to catch someone in a lie.

Turns out this pseudo-amazing ability of controlling your own physiological movements was pretty difficult to master.

As the night ticked past midnight, I began to crave, well, alcohol. My fingers run across the smooth bottles of booze stacked in the luxury wine cabinet. Access to free alcohol was seriously making working for the CIA worth it. My eyes finally settle on a Cognac.

Oh hell yes.

The burning liquid slid like oil down my throat as I pushed it down with more alcohol.

"How old is this?" I ask.

Ace takes a seat on the couch next to me. "1876 Remy Martin xo Cognac."

"And the cost?"

"Three thousand a bottle."

"That's the best thing I've heard all day."

I take a large swig of the glass and pass it to Ace. Fires run down my stomach but now, I welcomed the strangely comforting feeling. My supervising officer raises his eyebrow at me.

"Easy there—that's eighty proof." Ace then takes a long shot and hands the bottle back to me.

A scoff escapes my lips. "It's a bit hypocritical for you to say that when you're practically an alcoholic."

"I'm a high functioning alcoholic, unlike you. I've seen you when you're drunk, and you make shitty decisions."

"Please, I don't need alcohol to make bad decisions. I can do that on my own."

My eyes narrow at his golden ones, which are looking at me with amusement. I take another drink from the bottle just to spite him.

"Since you're so hellbent on defying me, let's make a wager," Ace states.

"And what's that?"

"Truth and shot. Pretty self-explanatory."

A smile tugs on my own lips as embarrassing questions flew through my mind—I was gonna finally have some fun tonight.

"Alright smug-face," I smile. "How many women have you slept with?"

Ace deadpans me. "I honestly can't give you a number," he sighs as he runs a hand through his hair.

"You're impossible. And disgusting."

"I can tell you how many women I've slept with in the last month, though."

I chuckle humorlessly. "And how many is that?"

Ace takes a shot without even wincing. "Zero. I've... stopped."

He then lets out a small smirk. "Although, I did want sleep with one."

Red rushes to my face like torrents of water. It was then that I realized how big of a mistake I'd made.

"Now it's my turn," Ace says. "What was your first impression of me?"

A smile escapes my lips as I down more alcohol. "In all honesty, I thought you were an asshole. You kidnapped me, forced me to join the CIA, and I almost died a couple of times. Textbook asshole right there."

Ace gives me a poignant look. "That's not the worse I've been called."

"Alright, my turn. Do you ever wished your life was different?"

Ace runs a hand across the stubble, and he grimaces.

"Sometimes. No one chooses their life. Being born into the CIA gave me training, thrill, and power, but also pressures most people never endure. It doesn't matter what I want."

It goes on like this for hours. We take turns, going back and forth, answering both ridiculous and personal questions until the bottle runs out. By the time we get to the fifth question, I'm barely conscious. Slowly, everything around me became hazy and murky.

"I think I'm going to clock out for the night"—I hiccup—"The booze is really starting to hit me."

"One last question," Ace states. "Have you been in any serious relationships?"

I press my lips together in a muse. "Nothing really serious."

"Why not?" He seems genuinely surprised.

"Just haven't met the right person."

We look at each other; both of us are unsure about how to continue. I glance at the clock to break the eye contact. There was something more I wanted to say—though nothing came up. 

"It's 2 already. I should get to bed if we're going to speak with the ambassador tomorrow."

He nods. "Goodnight Cupcake."

"Wait," I mumble. "Why don't we do something stupid tonight?"

Ace: "Vote because I told you so."