Andra whirled to face the door. Oh God, please don’t let her have caused an argument between him and his friends. Her pulse raced, but she gritted her teeth against a sudden light-headedness. She was safe here. Even if there was a fight, even if people got angry, she could hold her own. She clenched her hands just to feel the strength in them.

“You want to mind your business? Or do you want to tell me mine?” She almost didn’t recognize LJ’s voice. She’d never heard it sound so vicious before.

There was a loud burst of breath, like the air had gotten knocked out of someone.

“LJ, ease up, man. Your woman’s waiting inside, huh?” Ty said.

“What the fuck ever,” the baritone growled, and the porch creaked.

“You listen, and you listen good,” LJ said, and no one interrupted him. “That’s my girl in there, and if any of y’all have a goddamn thought in your head about her, you better think it so quiet I never hear you.”

There was no response.

“Damn, Reggie,” somebody muttered. “Are you fucking crazy, man? You want to start shit with LJ?”

After that, there was nothing for a few minutes. Just the squeak of porch steps, the snap of instrument cases, and the scuff of shoes over concrete.

“I wasn’t saying . . .” Tash’s voice trailed off, and then she tried again. “LJ, I only meant you had stuff in common with her because you like horses and farms and stuff. Not that you were acting like . . .”

“It’s fine.”

It was so quiet she thought they were all gone, then Ty said, “Fuck ’em, man. Some people are gonna think what they’re gonna think. You can’t—”

She fled. Because she knew he was coming in soon, and she didn’t want him to know she’d been listening. And she didn’t want to hear him upset because of her.

It was an old style of house: narrow with no hallway but with each room opening into the next. There were only two doors leading into the kitchen, one closed and one open to show a sink crowded with toiletries. She went through that one, slamming the door behind her and then groping for a light switch. It was lower and farther across the wall than she’d expected, and when the light finally came on, it was with the scrape of a loud fan. A washer and a dryer sat opposite a bathtub, their bases obscured by a heap of sheets and towels. An odd, sharp scent hung in the air, and she was excruciatingly aware she was in someone else’s home—the private space where they ate and slept and washed their clothes. She turned on the tap, splashed water over her overheated face, and cupped some over the sticky back of her neck.