Dylan O'Brien is leaned on the counter, today's newspaper buzz still on the same stool than yesterday. He smiles when he notices me and stands up to give me a hand I shake firmly.

—Hello. So, at the end we'll have that second beer? He says raising one hand to call the barman.

—For sure.

He orders two pints without asking for my opinion. Today's beer is stronger than the one we had last night but it's also slightly spicy. A Christmas beer I guess. We don't talk much. It seems like we are both careful and shy. My nose inside of my glass, I observe him on the sly.

It's funny how fiction is far from reality. He doesn't look like him. I'm next to a quite discreet young man. Without makeup and professional lighting he has a regular and soft face where I can't find the insolence of my leopard. I breathe better when I notice it.

— You were afraid to find him desirable? Says the dragon.

He initiates hostilities after beating around the bush for three or four sips.

— I started your book last night.

— Ah?

— It's funny.

I retain an embarrassed smile but I let him continue.

— In fact, I'm quite surprised. You do well in a man's skin. I felt the masculine tone. How do you do to make sure the reader actually thinks a man wrote this not a woman? I can barely write a cute sms to my girlfriend.

— How do you play a special force agent since you are just a simple guy from the New Jersey? I can barely be myself some days.

He smiles and raises his glass. I do the same.

— Cheers to fiction and protagonists.

— To the lies and those who believe them, I answer.

We share a laugh before drinking. Faster than I'd imagine the pints get empty. Heated by the two glasses of wine I had with Anastasia, I feel my inhibitions fall one after the other and I say yes when he offers a second beer. His company is pleasant and we compare our cinematographic taste, he asks a few more questions about the Leopard, asks why I've imagined him gay when I could write a story with a woman. I tell him I wish I could create a fantasy world or an extraordinary dystopia. Something with Dragons or an incurable disease slowly eating the human race. But I couldn't. If I really had to do something new, a male POV was paranormal enough.

The alcohol is burning the bridge of my nose. We talk and laugh for a yes or a no. He suggests a third beer and I let it go because an elevator will 'drive' me back home tonight.

— The one who drinks is the one who doesn't control me. Resonates the dragon in my head.

But I'm spending a good time and he doesn't mention the "ass from hell" thing. I don't feel like caring about my conscience's voice.

My supporting actor orders two more pints and before I can say anything, two shots of whisky. I don't like this kind of alcohol and especially like this.

— I don't like whisky but I want to honour my character.

— I don't like it either but I'm too tipsy to say no to alcohol.

Our two glasses knocking. Fingers wet because of the overflowing. In the mouth. The bad taste crunched by the alcohol's flame.

— How did you write such a torrid gay sex scene when you don't know how it feels to have a boner?

— How can you play a spy, killer for the CIA when you can't go undercover in a bookstore?

Dylan run his hand over his face and gives me a smirk.

— Do you want to play a game with me?

I can feel the dragon waking up. A game? Tell me more...

— Let's challenge each other for one night. I teach you how to be a secret agent who steals classified files and you teach me how to write a few lines.

— It's interesting and I never miss a chance to have fun.

He continues to drink and a sneaky veil darkens his eyes. I feel trapped by alcohol and my desire to kill boredom but maybe leave Shakespeare for Stanislavski's method is a once in a lifetime experience.

— Are you ready? We play now?

— And you are ready to write your first lines?

— Sure, I won't give up.

— Let's go then, what do I have to do for this "top secret mission"? I ask drunk and hilarious.

— Well, it's very simple you have to look for something compromising and you bring it back to me. I'll buy it from you for...let's say 300£.

— I don't understand. I bring what?

— Something you won't be comfortable with just how you'd feel after stealing a file. For example...you go to the restroom, you get rid of your panties and you come back to slide them in my pocket making sure nobody sees anything.

I almost spit whisky by my nostrils. The alcohol must be interfering with my English.

— I...I think I didn't get it. Could you please explain again?

— I buy your panties for 300£ if you can put it in my pocket. You have eight minutes to do it, after, I'm gone.

— I'm not sure I want to play this game.

— Then you won't teach me how to write. It's up to you. Seven minutes left, he says with a predatory smile that changes his face. The perv and drunk look keeps the teenage actor face at bay; a very confident man is now facing me.

— How I can be sure you'll still be there when I come back? That I won't look like a total idiot with my panties in my hand.

— Nothing. It's part of the game. You have no warranty. It's a high risk mission with personal involvement. It's difficult to get out of it unharmed. Six minutes left. I just started to drink my beer, you can be back before I finish it.

I drink and I decide that I will not do this. The Dragon decides otherwise.

— For once we can do something crazy and fun, let's go!

— Fun? To become my own lingerie's pimp?

— You are wearing cotton panties from Monoprix. With 300£ you'll replace it with something from Agent Provocateur tomorrow. In the worst case, he'll be gone, you'll put it in your pocket and you'll have something funny to tell Aurore. Go ahead. No big deal, we'll have fun too and you'll get your revenge during the second round...

Five minutes.

He winks, runs his tongue over his upper lip before taking a sip of beer. I hold his gaze and without wasting any time I leave my stool, take a gulp to give me a strength I don't need and head to the restroom.

Leaned against the wall once the door is locked, I run a hand through my hair wondering what the hell I am doing. I pee one liter of beer and stare at my panties. Does selling my underwear make me a prostitute? I can't think straight: I'm way too drunk.

— Yes or no? We play or not? We won't spend the night here asking ourselves if your panties are worth 300 pounds or nah. Yah?

A foot. And the other. I take the tiny black cloth and put my pants back. I feel light and heavy. I have the feeling that because I k now it, everybody else will notice it. I refresh my face and the back of my neck before leaving the "ladies" restroom. A weird cocktail is burning my guts: excitement, shame, fear and drunkenness. Once I'm back, the young man turns to face me and show me his watch with a smile. Adrenaline is going up and down my spine.

Let's stay cool, nothing is happening.

Once I'm next to him, I reach his pocket with my fist clenched, he grabs the piece of fabric through his jeans and press my fingers for a few seconds before releasing. When I have my hand back, I laugh nervously.

— Congrats. You completed your mission on time.

I nod and go back to my drink to reward myself. I feel proud and ashamed. The feeling is new and unexpected.

— How do you feel, now?

— About what I've just done?

— Sure. It's the goal. What did you feel?

— I was afraid. I thought I'd never do it. I was ashamed and my moves were hesitant, my fingers almost numb when I removed my panties. My hand was clenched to make sure nobody could see them. I was very scared. But I successfully ignored it.

— This is exactly what a secret agent feels on a mission: fear. Fear of being caught, of not having the guts to complete the task, of numb fingers refusing to pull the trigger...Now that you know, you can use this to play a spy who is stealing precious information. She has only eight minutes to complete the mission and she doesn't know if the contact will be present to take the files...

— And you didn't have another way to teach me this?

— Yes. But it would have been less funny.

He's annoying me but he's right. My revenge will be equally harsh. I'll serve him a kitty from my cat.

— Now, it is your turn, ready for a writing class?

— More than ever!

— So take your phone, you are about to send the first real e-mail of your entire life.