“Your student loans are terrifying. Do you see me laughing? Ooh, check out this sauce.” Stevie held a can of livid red sauce in front of Morgan’s face.

“Why would you ruin pasta sauce for me like that?”

“Because I know how much you love chili peppers.”

“Moderation,” said Morgan. “That’s all I ask.”

“That motherfucker.” Stevie froze with her hand clenched around the can. Morgan followed Stevie’s gaze to where Lana stood with a slender brunette who was definitely not Angie. She waved lazily at them with the hand not buried in the other woman’s back pocket. Morgan’s hackles rose.

“She’s not Angie’s girlfriend,” she reminded Stevie, even as she inventoried the bruises on the brunette’s neck.

“She was with Angie last night,” said Stevie, before raising her voice to Lana. “Who’s your friend?”

“Stevie—” Morgan took her arm.

“You got a problem?” Lana’s eyes glittered. Morgan recognized the look. Dogs got it when they wanted to pick a fight.

Lana’s friend looked nervously between Lana and Stevie. She had a sweet, open face, and Morgan pitied her. Lana would eat her alive. Lana Piranha.

“I do.”

Morgan snapped her attention back to Stevie. Several other shoppers had paused to watch, some of them with looks more dangerous than Lana’s. Maine might be a blue state in theory, but this was Trump’s America, and dyke drama drew deadlier things than heartbreak.

“Let’s get out of here.” She positioned herself between Stevie and Lana. Maneuvering with crutches slowed her down.

“Fuck off,” said Lana.

Morgan dropped her crutches and caught a lunging Stevie across the chest. “She’s not worth it.”

Lana laughed as she walked away.

“She’s a piece of shit,” Stevie spat.

“I know.”

“We could slash her tires.”

“You have probable cause written all over your face. And the store cameras,” Morgan warned.

“I don’t care—”

“I do. I need my tech, and as we established I can’t afford to bail you out.” She released Stevie cautiously. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“We’re not on call tonight, right?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll be fine if you promise to get drunk with me.”

“Deal.” Whiskey did sound like a more pleasant alternative than lying alone in her bed. They finished the shopping and headed for home without another encounter with the piranha.

“Piranha. I love it,” Stevie said later when Morgan shared her lexical revelation over a bottle of whiskey. Light still glowed in the evening sky, and Kraken and Marvin lay in the grass at their feet by the fire pit. The small blaze kept the chill off—as did the whiskey.

“I don’t get it. She deserves so much better. Why that little fuck?” asked Stevie.

“Maybe she doesn’t believe she deserves anything better.” Morgan remembered how Angie had curled up in her lap the day before.