Brad, Lane and Open - Stools
That comment stirred up a few things inside of Lane. His expression flattened a touch. Blood was blood; he loathed the very sight of it and yet it was the source of life. It was also a saying of desperation - something someone who was at the edge of insanity and struggling for any tendril of whatever addiction they could get into their bodies - blood was blood. Not all blood was good, not all blood hit the spot or kept you going. Lane made himself smile and nod. “Here, here,” he murmured, his own mug ascending a bit and clattering ever-so-gently against Brad’s. He could be strong if he wanted to. This was not the time to go impressing a client with his biceps.
Lane only shrugged. His smile was back, hidden momentarily by the mug as he drank carefully. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’m tempted. What are you in the mood for?” His eyebrows wiggled.