Page 49 of Brox Boar

I flip the top box open. Steam curls up. Pepperoni, cheese bubbling, crust blistered at the edges. The second box has a veggie mix, bright peppers, onions and mushrooms in a scatter over more cheese. The bag contains a container of salad, dressing on the side.

“Eat,” I say.

“I will,” she replies, reaching for a slice.

Brox gets there first. He picks up a big triangle, folds it slightly, and holds it out in front of her mouth.

She blinks. “I can feed myself.”

“I know,” he answers.

She leans forward and takes a bite from his hand. Grease glistens briefly on her lip. She swallows and sighs, eyes closing for a second.

“I am hungry,” she murmurs.

I grab a slice too, then lean in from her other side, holding it near her lips.

“Open up,” I say.

She does and takes the bite, chewing and swallowing before taking the slice from my hand and holding it herself.

We eat, the three of us clustered around the counter. I let her feed me for a round too, Lana’s laughing when I nearly get sauce on my jaw. She’s loosens up. She jokes, nudges Brox with her elbow when he tries to steal the bigger slice, complains about the hospital coffee and the way time stretches during the long watches.

We pick at the salad too, Lana stabbing leaves and cherry tomatoes. She eats enough to soften the hollow look around her mouth, drinks water from a tall glass I press into her hand.

When the boxes are half-empty, her shoulders loosen fully.

“I think I need a shower,” she says.

I move around the counter, slide an arm around her waist. Her body folds into mine without resistance. She leans into my chest, head tipping against my shoulder.

“Me too,” Brox decides.

“How are we doing this?” I ask. “All of you in my bath, or are we taking separate showers?”

“Bath.” Brox says and picks up her bag from the other stool, slinging it over his shoulder. We head through the living area, down the hall. The jazz still plays, softer now, is nearly drowned by our footsteps.

Lana’s weight against me is warm and familiar. She mumbles something against my neck.

“What was that?” I ask.

“You smell like whiskey and trouble.” She smirks.

“And you smell like sin,” I reply.

She huffs a lazy half lidded laugh.

We reach my bedroom, and inside, the curtains are drawn, with strips of early light escaping across the bed. The room smells faintly of our cologne and something that is hers now too.

Brox sets her bag down by the wardrobe and works open the buttons on his shirt, his gaze fixed on her.

Lana settles on the edge of the mattress and works at her laces until her sneakers drop to the floor. She lifts her top off in one smooth motion, revealing a white lace bra that fits her too well. Her fingers move to the button of her jeans next. She unbuttons them, stands briefly, and eases them down–her panties peeling off with them in a single, fluid pull. And voila. She’s stark naked.

She walks off to the bathroom as I chuckle at her urgency.

“She’s probably exhausted.” I say to Brox quietly. “As much as I want to fuck her, we gonna have to pass.”

“She came here to be used.” He laughs at me and follows her inside. “You’re getting soft, brother.”