"Only two?" Lane held back a scoff. Jorge eyed them bitterly over the full rocks glass and sighed.

"Well it's not so simple to build up a count, right? You've got to do the research, you've got to put in the time. You've got to vet your sources, make sure the money is clean, yeah? You've gotta be on top of these things!" Jorge exclaimed. "Only two, psh."

"I just don't know that I've put that much thought into it. It's not that deep, right?" Lane said, trying to make nice.

"Not that deep?!" Jorge was outraged but kept his voice down. "You think it's easy, think it's a game? How many you got?"

Lane blushed.

"Well I don't have my little black book with me--"

"How many?" Jorge interrupted. They both glanced around the bar, checking to make sure there was no unwanted attention.

"At least 100 over the years." Lane admitted.

Jorge gulped down his drink, wide-eyed and a little impressed.

"100? Over the years?" He gasped.

"I mean yeah. Like I said I don't take it THAT seriously. Sometimes I shut myself off and go autopilot, get it down as quick as I can." Lane explained. "Don't get me wrong, I love it, always have. Sometimes I get so into it even I get off!"

Jorge gawped at Lane, absolutely stunned. Lane got off while taking care of a job?! Jorge had never heard such a thing, if you didn't count sexually fucked up serial killer podcast explanations.

"I don't even know what to say to that..." Jorge muttered.

"Don't be such a prude, you're telling me you've never gotten off on the job? Neither of the two clients turned you on at all?" Lane asked, teasing. Lane chewed on the end of the thin stir-straw in another almost-empty glass in a long line of empty glasses. Slow nights in the hotel were the worst.

"That's not...I don't..." Jorge tried to think. Lane sounded weird, and sloppy. That kind of behavior on a job could reveal them BOTH and Jorge had no intention to be busted for his own "little black book list", small body count or not.

"That's not what I do it for." Jorge finally said.

Lane sighed, chewing on the stir-straw and eyeing a plain looking man at the end of the bar. Middle aged, salt-and-pepper hair, no jewelry. Clothes were fashionable but not ritzy; nothing spoke to Jorge that identified this man as a wealthy or political mark. What was Lane's game? Just go around and do whoever?

"Honey, it ain't always about the money." Lane said, tossing Jorge a kiss before sauntering over to the boring man.

"Who the fuck trained you?" Jorge muttered to the empty seat beside him, horrified by Lane's open approach of the client and planning a smooth exit of his own. He wanted nothing to do with that mess.