'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind #1)

by Anthology

  She didn’t know if the other men and women wanted to fuck Florence or fight her—you’d never be able to read what comments were made as Florence wove past each table by the forbidding look on her face—but Shelby knew one thing for sure.

  The only people Florence deigned to notice in the crowded room were the two teams in contention with the Cunning Linguists for first place. As she passed each table, her curt nod conveyed respect, if not friendliness.

  Fine. If that was what it took, Shelby was damn well gonna make sure Florence had to pay attention to her.

  Florence liked winning at trivia? Liked rubbing it in the noses of the frat boys and sorority girls that she and her team outclassed them in every category across the board?

  Just. You. Wait.

  The night Florence Truong killed Shelby Summerfield’s sex life was hardly the first time Shelby had vowed revenge on someone for treating her like a dumb blonde because she spoke with a twang and liked wearing her hair long, with big curls like a good Texas girl.

  It was just the first time she meant it.

  Chapter 2

  Like a general assembling her troops for battle, Shelby pulled together her secret weapons with a ruthless efficiency that would have done her momma proud. Assembling a crack trivia team might not be on par, difficulty-wise, with Mrs. Summerfield’s annual battles to take home the blue ribbon for Dallas’s Garden Walk, but Shelby intended her results to be equally legendary.

  By Thursday afternoon, she’d tracked down members of the Cunning Linguists two biggest competitors and managed to swindle out of them the dirty details of which areas of knowledge were crucial for a top-tier pub trivia team through a combination of treacle-coated flattery and big-eyed, little-girl wonder at their genius.

  A few little ol’ me’s and aww, thank you, sugar’s could get a girl far with clever students who really ought to have known better.

  Then she set out to round up her soldiers over the course of a weekend of bribes and lures ranging from cash to free beer to the mention of one of her recruits’ rumored big dick (ew) to another potential teammate.

  By Monday night, she was in the library, studying at her carrel by the zoology, invertebrates, protozoa, and mollusks stacks, she huddled over her spiral notebook, taking notes from an Encyclopedia Britannica volume that included World War II history and world capitals, both. Writing things down had always worked better than reading to lodge them in her brain.

  After two hours, though, her mind was drifting, full of dates and details and she started doodling in the margins of each page. Tiny sketches of horses and flowers and other things that caught her brain’s attention.

  “Myanmar. Myanmar.” She kept wanting to call it Burma.

  She glanced down at her page to remind herself of the next country and capital on the list.

  “Goddamnit.”

  Look at that.

  Shelby stared blearily at the scribbled up notebook page in front of her, pressing a hand to one eye in the hopes that it would help her focus. Lists of World War II battle and presidential death dates blurred into the firmly sketched outlines of a slimly-tailored three-piece suit and shiny loafers. “Hellfire. This better work.”

  Wednesday night would reveal if she’d wasted the entire week obsessing over the woman who’d shot her down, or if she’d just orchestrated to most perfect comeback in the history of dating disasters.

  * * * * *

  Her team’s first trivia night started with a whole lotta bitchin’ and moanin’, as Shelby’s daddy would have said.

  “Hey, how come you’re not buying the rest of us drinks?” were the first words out of her sorority sister Katie’s mouth when Shelby dropped off two Bud Lights in front of Jimbo. Egon’s sports trivia-loaded bartender had finished his first free beer in less than two minutes, and he had only promised to show up on his night off because Shelby was picking up his tab.

  “Because he wouldn’t show up just to win his share of a two hundred dollar pot,” she answered.

  “Who says we’re going to win, anyway? There are, like, two hundred people here.” Katie pretended she was an airhead, but she was never seen without an Entertainment Weekly or US Magazine in her hands and her pop culture knowledge was encyclopedic.

  Jeremy, the massive but shy chem major Shelby had scored, sat silent, staring at Katie. There wasn’t any obscure fact about the periodic table, the history of science or, as a bonus, superheroes and their alter egos that couldn’t be found wedged in the depths of Jeremy’s brain.

  “Two hundred thirty-seven,” Shelby said absently, scanning the room with sharp eyes. She’d seen the bouncer stopping people at the door. The bar was at capacity, and that number was mounted on the red and white sign behind the bar. Ten cent wings and five dollar pitchers of Bud were quite a draw for the college crowd.

  “What are you, like, Rain Man?” Janelle scowled at Shelby as she straddled her bar stool backwards, hooking her cherry red Doc Martens around the legs.

  Janelle was tiny, with dark brown skin and a cap of tight curls close-cropped to her skull. The last time Shelby saw her, the curls had been blond. Tonight, they were hot pink. Janelle had delicate bird bones—tiny wrists and neat ankles and a smile that she reserved for victory. She was hot shit in the theater department, but Shelby knew Janelle from her philosophy of religion class last fall. The woman was a fount of memorized quotes and statistics on nearly any topic, but most especially the Bible.

  Shelby waved a hand at the capacity sign and kept looking for…

  Ahhhh! There you are.

  In the far back corner of the bar, about as far from Shelby and her team as you could get, the Cunning Linguists were standing around their table, hanging on each other’s shoulders as they looked at something laid flat on the table.

  Probably a photo spread of kd lang. Perfect.

  All that Shelby cared about was that they hadn’t decided to skip trivia for the week. She gave her team excellent odds against anyone, but winning wouldn’t be as sweet Florence weren’t there.

  “Hey guys, we need a name,” she announced briskly, pulling the NTN console closer so she could enter whatever her teammates wanted to call themselves. Shelby didn’t particularly care about it, although she could tell other teams really loved their monikers. Some of them were wearing T-shirts with the team name written in Sharpie across their chests or backs.

  “The Dirty Birds.” Katie.

  “The Cunning Linguists.” Janelle.

  “Already taken.” Shelby almost laughed at Janelle’s disappointed moue and Jeremy’s pink cheeks.

  “Anal Retentive.” Katie again, staring pointedly at Shelby.

  “It doesn’t have to be sexual, y’all,” she said dryly as the suggestions flew over the sticky, varnished wood table like darts.

  Blank faces turned her way, slowly.

  “You’ve seen who we’re competing against, right?” Even Jeremy’s deep voice, rumbling out of his chest like an avalanche, was full of skepticism. He pointed to the big screen TV at the front of the bar.

  The list of team names grew as each table who was competing signed into their NTN console.

  Sacajaweiner, My Team is Small But My Boyfriend Isn’t, and Team Push Push in the Bush were already up on the board, with a slew of equally filthy team names popping up as she watched.

  “Fine. Pick one. Make it dirty as you like,” she said, giving in. Sex was driving this revenge bus anyway. Might as well bump it up on the curb and careen into some parked cars with a truly filthy name. “But it can’t be about dicks. I’m not trying to ruin my lesbian cred any more than I already have, y’all.”

  Which was how they ended up naming themselves Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver.

  Jimbo blinked at them all six or seven times before snatching up another longneck and downing it in two long swallows, as Shelby rolled her eyes and registered the ridiculous name.

  Please, Jesus, let him stay conscious until we win.

  “How come there are only five of
us? The rest of these teams have, like, a dozen people.” Katie’s arms were crossed, her mouth in a pout as she glared at the rest of the bar, rowdy high-fives and peals of giggles fighting for volume in the packed joint.

  “They’re hanging out with friends. Half of those people don’t know anything. We’re not friends,” Shelby said. Jeremy ducked his head, and she wished she could suck those words back into her mouth with one swift breath. “Not all of us are friends, I mean. But we all know a helluva a lot more trivia than those yahoos do.”

  She leaned in close over the table and lowered her voice, pulling her team in with the power of her whispered voice. “You guys see that table over by the windows up front? One goddamn gorgeous woman in velvet suit, and a bunch of Jane’s Addiction backup singers?” Although Dave Navarro wore more eyeliner than any of the women at that table. Less plaid flannel though. “That’s the best team in the whole damn bar. And we’re gonna kick their ass.”

  Three questions in the Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver took the lead by a sliver.

  Ten questions in, they were killing it in the pub, and climbing up the national ranks, because NTN tracked every hour-long competition nationwide.

  Shelby limited her gloating to a serene smile she shone in Florence’s direction every time the correct answer lit up out of the four choices and Shelby’s teammates erupted with whoops of triumph.

  Coasting on a wave of sweet victory halfway through the night, she threaded her way to the bar, squeezing between the leather motorcycle jacket of a tiny redhead and the Patagonia fleece jacket of a guy twice her size. By the time she managed to catch the bartender’s attention—a twenty dollar bill raised high worked—the redhead had departed, clutching six beers by their necks. Before Shelby had a chance to step away from the looming hulk of the guy next to her, the space to her left at the rail was filled.

  “He’s not a student.”

  The elbow that banged into hers was covered in crushed burgundy velvet.

  She didn’t lift her head to look. Didn’t need to. That harsh voice, raspy and low like she smoked too many cigarettes—and she did, Shelby had watched her and wanted to replace the cancer sticks with her tongue—and stayed up late drinking whiskey.

  “So?” Shelby let the corners of her mouth turn up. She’d told herself she was out for revenge, or at least a sense of superiority. Had pretended that attracting Florence’s attention wasn’t part of her motivation, pretended it so hard she’d fooled herself.

  Until right now. Until the press of Florence’s arm against her own felt like a battle for dominance and Shelby wanted to win, damn it. Wanted Florence on the floor, looking up at her, surprised and impressed…

  And desperate to get in your panties?

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, how she had been fooling herself.

  “So?” Florence angled her shoulders to face Shelby, which meant their arms weren’t touching anymore. A damn shame. “This is a Carlisle competition.”

  No general went into battle without knowing the lay of the land.

  If Shelby were in the army, she’d be wearing four stars.

  She passed the bartender with her credit card and asked to open a tab. The way Jimbo was sucking down longnecks, keeping him supplied was going to blow through her cash in an hour. “Generally. But there isn’t a rule about who can form a team.”

  “But he works here. That’s got to be illegal.” Florence was bringing out the big guns.

  “NTN doesn’t have any rules about that,” she said, on firm ground here. “Neither does Egon’s. I asked.”

  When Florence narrowed her eyes, her short lashes disappeared. The edges of her broad nostrils flared, her plump lips pressing together.

  “The sorority girls were all full up, so I started my own team,” Shelby said, and the callback couldn’t have been clearer in her mind if Florence’s words from that humiliating night had been etched on glass over the bar. “And we’re here to win.”

  She wondered if Florence even remembered it. The way Florence scrunched up her nose and ran a hand through her black hair radiated confusion. Shelby grabbed her drinks, hands slipping on the condensation that was already dripping on the bottles. Egon’s AC never could keep up with the crowd on Wednesday nights. A Texas bar would have been like a meat locker, industrial AC cranked up high.

  She turned and stepped away from the rail. Whether or not Florence remembered humiliating her wasn’t the point. All Shelby wanted was to dish it out in return.

  A hard hand on her elbow yanked her back.

  “This is supposed to be fun.” Florence was right in her face, and Shelby could smell her, woodsy and musky, like a forest. Or a wild animal in a forest. “Not some kind of do-or-die competition.”

  “You’re kiddin’, right?” Shelby arched a brow. If there was any person on campus as competitive as she was, it was Florence, and the only difference between them was that everyone knew how cutthroat and out-to-win Florence was. Shelby’s ruthlessness was still a secret.

  Not for much longer. She could try to keep it on the down-low for a while though.

  Tactical advantages were to be preserved, if possible.

  “It’s just pub trivia, sugar,” she said, patting Florence on the shoulder, fingers lingering on the ruffled nap of the velvet. She wanted to smooth it flat, but dropped her hand when Florence glared at her. “Don’t know why you’re getting all worked up about it.”

  As Florence stalked away from the bar, fist clenched around her pint, she muttered to herself, and Shelby wasn’t sure if she was supposed to overhear or not.

  “God save me from straight girls with no sense of honor.”

  And that was the absolute end.

  “Gah! I’m not straight,” she hollered after that ramrod stiff back in the Shakespearean velvet coat. Her twang rocketed across the bar, drawing out not and straight into multiple syllables as tables fell into a hush at her shout.

  Pausing in the center of the jam-packed room, Florence spun around slowly on her polished loafers to eye Shelby from her ballet flats and long, floral skirt to the sandwashed silk tank cut low over her breasts.

  “Sure you’re not. Sugar.”

  How come Shelby could never tell if Florence was flirting or making fun of her?

  And why did she care?

  Shelby narrowed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and headed back to her team’s table.

  They wiped the floor with the Cunning Linguists and a tradition of weekly triumphs was born.

  By the time October rolled around with its glorious sunset fire of changing colors on the trees, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting an apple cider donut or a pumpkin farm in western Massachusetts, and Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver was killing it. Even Jimbo was showing up eagerly on Wednesday nights, cracking his knuckles, ready to throw down and master their challengers.

  Who were coming out of the woodwork.

  Apparently someone had leaked the gossip that there was bad blood of some kind between Shelby and the team of lesbians who’d been the long-running champions of Egon’s big trivia night. And by someone, Shelby meant Katie. Damn girl couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

  The pub had always been busy on Wednesday nights. Cheap beer and wings and a cash prize made sure of that. But as many people were showing up these days to spectate as they were to compete seriously. The cheers that broke out now when the team ranks flashed onscreen after each question were pushed to new heights by the entire pub picking sides between the Cunning Linguists and Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver.

  And Eat a Beaver was winning

  “Hearts and minds, darlin’. Hearts and minds,” Shelby murmured and nodded her head graciously at a furious Florence on the Wednesday before Halloween.

  Shelby was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, because Kansas might not be Texas, but ruby slippers were the best. Florence, who sported a suspenders and white-collared blue buttondown businessman’s look that could only be a Gordon Gekko reference, glared at her as Shelby lifted her glass.

&
nbsp; Shelby just grinned her ass off and took to sitting with her back to Florence’s table, because it was too hard to keep the shit-eating grin off her face and her momma had raised her better than to rub it in when you were winning.

  Relentlessly.

  Even a relentless winner had to pee sooner or later, especially with that cheap beer washing through her like water, but Shelby waited until her team had a comfortable lead before sneaking off to the rest room. The line for the women’s room got out of hand sometimes and she didn’t want to risk missing too many questions. Jeremy and Janelle had formed a twosome of surprisingly confident guessers and they occasionally needed to be talked off the ledge when they started overruling Katie. Shelby’s sorority sister might let her voice go up at the end of every sentence and say “like” too much, but Katie knew her shit when it came to movie stars and supermodels.

  Tipsy girls needing to pee filled the rest room, jamming the door open, so Shelby leaned against the wall outside, smiling when she remembered being in this exact same spot a month earlier with Davis hoping she’d grope him. That night might have ended up ranking on Shelby’s personal list of disasters from hell, but it sure had kicked off a fun hobby. She wondered idly if she could manage to turn this entire quest to kick ass into some kind of independent study for her politics department advisor.

  Sun Tzu’s Art of War goes collegiate in the twentieth century, maybe.

  She snorted at herself, although it was true she’d conducted herself with the strategic planning of a battlefield general in this mildly entertaining campaign to frustrate Florence Truong.

  “This used to be a fun night. People played, had a good time. It wasn’t some kind of weird vendetta.”

  Speak of the devil.

  She didn’t need to turn around to know whose body heat was warming the back of her neck until the hairs there stood up on end. She didn’t need to turn around, but she did, because looking at Florence was always a sharp-edged pleasure, even when the woman was standing there with a look of outraged innocence plastered all over her face.