I tell her that I can play the guitar, because it's true.

“I can play the guitar pretty well,” you tell Amara. “Learned it at a fairly young age.”

“Oh,” Amara seems amused by this news but loses interest when she starts playing with her empty glass. “Scarlet played the guitar too. She played it really well.”

A knot forms in your stomach, but you decide not to linger as the main subject for long. “How about you? You play anything?”

“No,” she answers flatly. “I don’t. I never had the luxury of having an upbringing that would allow me to learn something like that.”

Amara’s eyes were a dark side of brown, but in the room, they seemed darker and less forgiving. You knew she hated you and that she was simply tolerating you for some reason. You just wish you knew why.

You drank more, and the subjects lightened. You spoke about backgrounds, contracts, and even family pets. Amara had a dachshund she adored as a child named Mega, and she helped her father repair and restore stocks for rifles all the way through her early teens.

Despite Amara never mentioning where she grew up, you could tell by her leisurely use of slang and references to where she lived; it wasn’t in Montana or even pre-war America. The Japanese Empire, The Russian Rements, or even the Lone Republic.

What surprised you the most was her ability to remain controlled, even after her fifth glass of Old Forester bourbon. The back of your head was buzzing, and sometimes you were smiling without reason. Amara kept her expression flat– her resting bitch face, however, steadily grew more and more attractive.

It became difficult not to talk so freely, but you trained yourself to contain the secrets you thought she was probing for. What were your secrets? What were you doing? Suddenly, you’ve forgotten all the words that just left your mouth. Was it funny? Was it good? Amara is smiling and has her hand on your leg, rubbing it even.

“You’re not too bad, Warren,” Amara giggled. “It’s really too bad I terminated your contract!”

Something bubbled out of your throat– there’s a small burn before a stupid laugh comes out. Your eyes drift to her cleavage and pause. You don’t remember Amara taking off her coat, yet she was now on her stool in a black, form-fitting T. Her boobs weren’t visible, but the outline was complimented by the lighting around you.

Amara pushes a glass towards you after filling it up. You blink and realize you haven’t seen her drink anything out of this second…no, third bottle on the counter. There’s a voice in your head that is trying to tell you something, but you’re too distracted to listen to it. You drink from the glass and close your eyes.

“Stop drinking! Stop drinking! Stop drinking!” The voice is telling you. “You’re being played!!”

You sniff and shake your head slightly. You rub your face with your hands. A small groan comes out stinky from your mouth before you lean into the counter. Amara is retracting her hand from your glass. She smiles innocently, which doesn’t match her at all. “One more shot before I walk you home?”

Your eyes drift from her to the drink. You take and play with it as you blink sleepily at it. “One more drink?”

“Just one more,” she promises. “You look like you’re about to fade out.”

“Fuck off,” you giggle. “I’ve drunk more than you.”

“I know you have,” she giggled too, but it seemed ****. “So what’s one more going to do, right?”

The voice rings out. It familiar, but not yours. You're too drunk to know what's happening in your head. All you know for sure is that it's telling you to stop drinking.