'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind #1)

by Anthology

  As if Florence didn’t know exactly why Shelby was out for blood.

  “I’m sure it was a fun time indeed when you guys won every week and paraded those bragging rights around campus,” Shelby said with a smile so bright it knocked Florence back a half-step. The urge to grab Florence’s burgundy tie and tug her close again made Shelby’s fingers clench into fists. “Well, let me tell you, we are having just as much fun as you were, now that we’re grinding your teeth into the dirt every Wednesday.”

  Florence, tall and lean and smelling deliciously musky and good, like her hair radiated some kind of lesbian sex pheromones or something, smacked a hand against the wall next to Shelby’s head and pressed in close.

  And all of a sudden, Shelby remember why she was doing this.

  Catching Florence’s attention was like setting a match to a line of rifle powder, a slow, intense burn that crept up on you until you were consumed by it.

  “How long are you going to keep this up?” Florence’s breath against her face was sweet and almondy, as if she were drinking amaretto neat.

  Shelby wanted to know if her mouth tasted as sweet. She pushed her hands behind her to grab hold of her own wrists so she didn’t accidentally reach out and rip Florence’s pin-striped waistcoat off her, a move which pushed her breasts forward until the space between them was microscopic.

  Florence’s eyes dipped, before jerking back to Shelby’s face.

  Gotcha.

  Not so oblivious now, are you?

  “I can keep it up longer than you can, sugar,” Shelby breathed, swallowing one of the giggles that always threatened to erupt from her throat when she was nervous. Sweet baby Jesus, this was hotter’n hell, and they weren’t even touching.

  Somewhere in the front of the bar, a team shouted in triumph. Shelby was almost positive she could pick out the low notes of Jimbo’s bass bellow.

  “You’ve got a bunch of ringers on your team,” Florence accused, the stiff rise of her dark straight hair not budging as she jerked her head toward Shelby’s table.

  Shelby shrugged. “We’re just friends.”

  “Yeah, right.” The hand on the wall next to Shelby’s head slid down, almost touching her shoulder. Shelby inhaled on the wanting it to touch her shoulder. “You think you’re so tough, huh?”

  “What is this, junior high?” She bit her bottom lip to keep from giggling again and the sharp sting of her teeth made her flush. “You wanna meet me at the bike racks after school for a fight?”

  Every time Florence spoke, Shelby’s gaze got caught on the violin-bow of her upper lip, one shade pinker than the skin of her face. “I’m just saying. If you’re all about winning, let’s make it real. Assassin starts next week.”

  Florence dropped the word assassin like she expected Shelby to know what she meant and hoo boy, Shelby did. The surge of excitement that lit her up was matched by the Florence’s fierce grin at her recognition.

  That’s what I can’t get enough of. It’s not just the clothes. It’s the never-say-die attitude. So damn sexy I can’t stand it.

  Although the campus-wide paintball assassination game was theoretically underground—the college administration threatened every year to ban it—you could hardly miss the dozens of students running around campus with neon pink paintball guns, jumping out from behind hedges or exploding out of empty classrooms as their targets walked by. For the two weeks it took the competition to run its course, savvy students wore their oldest and crappiest clothes when heading out of their dorms. Incidents of bystander paint splatter were common and never came with apologies.

  She licked her lips. “Let me guess. You were last year’s winner.”

  Florence leaned back and grinned, for real this time, not as a threat, her white teeth shining behind her lips. “Not even close. But I bet I can last longer than you.”

  Hunting down your target and taking them out with a hot pink paintball gun?

  It was as if the Lord truly, truly loved her, even though Shelby hadn’t been to church since getting on the plane back in Dallas at the end of the summer.

  “Oh, you’re on.”

  Chapter 3

  Because she’d fallen into the habit of keeping an eye on Florence—and no, keeping an eye on someone was not the same as stalking them, especially not when you planned on killing them dead, metaphorically speaking—Shelby just happened to be lingering outside of Chapin Auditorium when Florence’s assassin slinked across the Green and concealed himself in the bushes outside the broad front doors of the building.

  She’d have to pick up the tab for another one of Katie’s late-night study session’s pizza deliveries. If Katie hadn’t delivered the gossip goods about which student was on the hunt for Florence, Shelby might not have spotted the short black guy with the flat top and one earring. He was doing a good job of keeping his hot pink pistol hidden along his leg as he sidled up to the auditorium’s building.

  A good job, unless someone was standing guard on the front steps, on the lookout for an assassin.

  In her first forty-eight hours in the game, Shelby had gleefully tracked down and taken out her first couple of targets. She’d gotten lucky twice over with those two. Her first victim was a guy she knew from by sight from one of her classes last year. Her second was a well-known environmental activist, who’d had to show up at the campus rally to demand the school administration set up recycling bins on each dorm floor.

  Taking out her first two competitors made Shelby want to stand on the campus green with a boom box over her head like John Cusack in Say Anything. Except Shelby’s would be blasting “We Are the Champions”, not that mushy Peter Gabriel stuff.

  Not until she made it back to her room that first night, having ducked and covered the entire day—because it sure would suck to get taken out herself before she managed to nail Florence—had it occurred to Shelby that her entire strategy depended on that woman staying “alive” long enough for Shelby to work her way through enough students to become Florence’s assassin herself.

  A total crapshoot, really, but the idea had been irresistible in Egon’s. Now that they were actually playing, Shelby realized how ridiculous a challenge they’d signed up for. But Hank Summerfield’s daughter was no quitter.

  When the going got tough, Summerfields got going.

  Even if getting going meant hiring herself some support troops. Thank goodness Shelby’s daddy had increased her allowance for the year and college students were broke as hell. Even those who managed to get campus jobs were only pulling in $4.25 an hour, and were happy to pick up some extra cash by playing guardian angel to a woman they knew only from Shelby’s description of her.

  “Looks taller than she is. Vietnamese-American. Exquisite suits. Pompadour. Stunningly gorgeous.”

  Her hired hands had managed to disrupt two assassination attempts, reporting back that Florence had been utterly unaware of what was going down around her.

  One of the women had called Shelby from her dorm room late on the second night to report that Florence had made it back home safely and was tucked in for the night.

  “It’s like she didn’t even notice when I tackled that guy right behind her, you know? I mean, she had her headphones on and, hey, I know how it is when your boyfriend gives you a new mix tape, but still. Pay attention, right?”

  Shelby didn’t bother to correct the boyfriend thing. Just promised to drop an envelope with cash in the campus mail, and prepared herself to take on guard duty the next day. Even her flashiest cash offers had left her unable to fill every slot on her “guard Florence” schedule.

  Guarding Florence herself was easier said than done when you needed to keep an eye out for your own assassin though. Shelby was running on fumes by the time she made it to Florence’s late afternoon poli sci class. She could relax a little during the lecture, but as the end of class neared and Shelby took up her watchdog position outside of Chapin, it was clear that her afternoon was about to get significantly more challenging.

  As
soon as she spotted Florence’s assassin setting up shop to ambush anyone leaving Chapin by the front door, Shelby decided it was the better part of valor to continue her guard duties from inside the building. Conveniently enough, a bow window reading nook was tucked to each side of the main doors.

  Observation posts. Perfect.

  When she peered out the window, though, it was just in time to catch another assassin jogging up to the building, weapon pressed discreetly against his thigh. But this boy would never manage to slide in and out of scene unnoticed. She was pretty sure the guy was a pre-law major and anchored the offensive line of the Carlisle football team. Six foot six, about three hundred pounds, his jog was more of a lumbering, ground-shaking shuffle.

  Shelby recognized him because she’d spotted his enormous carcass trailing her around campus all yesterday afternoon. She’d thought he was Jeremy at first, and had turned to wave hi, but the boy had ducked behind a bush, as if she couldn’t still see him through the half-bare branches spiked with cherry red leaves.

  Playing Assassin required a highly developed sense of paranoia about strangers whose eyes tracked you as you moved around campus, or who edged too close in crowds. The paintball guns were notoriously impossible to aim, and the game’s organizers were ruthless about kicking people out of the competition who broke the rules and nailed their target anywhere other than the approved areas: torso, legs, arms. One shot to the torso for a kill, two to legs or arms to count for the same. The terrible accuracy of the pistols generally meant assassins needed to get extremely close to their targets before firing. Surprise attacks as people entered and exited the buildings were the most commonplace methods.

  Campus rumors made it clear that, although there were one or two professors who found a rousing bout of paintball fire in the classroom entertaining, the vast majority did not. Academic buildings were generally considered off limits, so Florence was safe enough inside Chapin. But as soon as she set one foot outside…

  The doors to the main auditorium burst open as students spilled out by the dozen. The crowd milled and chatted, the noise and commotion almost causing her to miss Florence as the students surged for the exit.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  Shelby could spot one of those spectacular suits anywhere, especially when the heathered peach jacket and burnt orange slacks leapt out at her from the crowd of plaid flannel and primary color fleece. The nautical tie almost distracted her long enough—silk, that’s a silk tie, isn’t it? damn—that she missed getting Florence’s attention.

  She jumped up off the window seat and snagged that finely-tailored elbow, yanking Florence into the nook.

  “Hey!” The word burst out of Florence’s open mouth as she turned to yell. Her brows drew together. “You…?”

  “Yes, me.” Shelby thrust a hand at Florence’s chest, which made the woman take a step back, thank goodness. “Get back, damn it, before he sees you.”

  “Who?”

  Shelby didn’t have time to answer, as she watched both their assassins inch closer to the building, eyes locked on the front door like they weren’t worried they could be missing their targets heading out the back.

  Of course. She wasn’t the only one who could assemble a platoon, although she was maybe the only one who had to pay people to help her.

  “Dang it.”

  “Dang it? Who says dang it?”

  Shelby could hear Florence’s crossed arms and forbidding stare in her voice without even turning her head.

  “There’s two of them out there.” She leaned forward just enough to peer through the glass, but not enough to be spotted by her own pursuer. “Pretty sure one’s here for me, too, and I know the other guy is definitely your assassin.”

  “Shit.” Florence backed up, as if the guns the boys held were real and she shouldn’t stand near a window. “How do you know that?”

  “I heard a rumor.” Oh, hell no, she wasn’t confessing the degree of her own stalking. And yes, maybe it was a sign that Shelby might have slid a foot over the line from rational competition to deranged obsession but a girl was allowed to keep her deranged obsessions to herself, thank you.

  Florence glanced over her shoulder, body already turning toward the back of the building and the exit that faced the campus greenhouse. There was a tiny courtyard outside those doors. Way too tiny to allow for an escape if either of their assassins were savvy enough to have friends on point to block the way.

  “Where you going?” Shelby snagged Florence’s hand—warm, Florence’s slim fingers were so warm in Shelby’s own, as if she ran at a higher temperature than other women—and kept her from dashing off. “He’s sure to have backup. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of support troops, one even, to cover that exit.”

  Florence’s eyes grew big, her fingers spasming in Shelby’s. “Backup? Support troops? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Jesus, darlin’. How did you manage to stay alive this long?” Seriously. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel when she finally managed to work her way through the other game players and get Florence as her target. The poor girl didn’t have the slightest grasp of tactics.

  “The first girl I tagged was an ex,” Florence admitted, eyeing Shelby like she wondered if Shelby was going to be shocked to hear that her ex was a girl.

  Lord save me from blind lesbians.

  Prayer was always a good idea.

  “She thought I was there to bitch about her hang-up phone calls, which have been driving me fucking nuts all semester. I know it’s her, damn it. No one else has that little hitch in their breath.” Florence pulled her hand free to cross her arms, a vertical line deepening between the sparse lines of her brows. “She was pissed as hell when I nailed her.”

  You know who wouldn’t be pissed at all if you nailed her, Florence?

  Shelby wrestled her mind back to the salient details and off the subject of Florence nailing anyone anywhere.

  “Mmmhmm. How about you worry about your psycho exes on your own time and we make sure you don’t get dead here, ‘kay?” The less Shelby had to listen to stories about girls who apparently qualified as the “right” kind of lesbian, the better.

  She grabbed Florence by the wrist again and pulled her into the nearest empty classroom. Tall black music stands filled the room, and dust motes hung in the bright afternoon light. Sweat broke out immediately along Shelby’s hairline.

  “What kind of a bra are you wearing?” Shelby demanded with a lift of her chin at Florence’s flat chest as she stripped off her silk tank top and draped it over the nearest music stand.

  “Why?” Florence jerked back a step, eyes bouncing between Shelby’s bra-clad chest and the door, as if considering escape.

  “They’re going to know it’s me in a heartbeat if I can’t strap these suckers down some.” Shelby pressed her hands to the spill of flesh over her pink, candy-striped bra.

  “What?” Florence’s voice jumped high, although her eyes didn’t move an inch.

  Shelby kept her triumphant grin on the inside. When she slid her hands behind her back and popped the clasp on her bra, the cups fell away slightly from her breasts. She let the friction of her skin against the lace that edged each cup hold the bra in place for a second—like a drop of water that almost-but-not-quite dripped from a tap—before twitching her shoulders just enough to let the straps fall loose.

  She caught one strap in her right hand and let the bra dangle from her fingers, breasts proudly bare in the warm room. Her nipples tightened like the room was cold, though, and Shelby blamed Florence’s laser-locked gaze for that.

  Blamed. Credited. Six one, half dozen the other. Shelby grinned.

  That’s right. My girls are the finest you’re ever gonna see. Take a good look at what you missed out on, Ms. Truong.

  “Yeah, you’re, um. What are you doing, exactly?” The words tangled like broken branches in Florence’s mouth as she stuttered.

  Not a multitasker then, our
Florence. Shelby felt a reluctant fondness bloom at the sweet sight of Florence’s distraction and told herself to stomp that nonsense flat, damn it.

  No time for fondness. Now was the time for hustling Florence out of this building without getting either of them killed.

  Tagging Florence was Shelby’s job and she was goddamned if she was gonna let someone else steal her prize.

  “You can’t go out the back way. If he’s smart, he’s got friends there. One shout and he’ll come running, while they slow you down. Wouldn’t even be hard.” She thrust her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her ankle-length floral skirt and shoved it to the ground. “We have to go out the front and get away fast and far. I’ll make a run for the library in your clothes, draw off your assassin. If he tags me, it doesn’t matter. You wait a minute and then head toward Lower Lake. Walk slow, like me. Swing your hips a little, if you can manage that. And if a guy who looks like Paul Bunyan takes you out, tell him better luck next time.”

  “What?”

  Florence needed to catch up.

  Shelby waved at the windows at the front of the classroom. “Pretty sure my assassin followed me here. He’s waiting outside too.”

  “Shit.”

  “Just hustle your butt over to the lake. I’ll meet you by the dock, okay?” The thrill that crept up Shelby’s spine at standing in the deserted classroom in just her panties was electrifying. Damn, I should have tried this approach long before that trivia drama. Note to self: naked wins.

  Whether or not Florence believed Shelby was a total lunatic, she’d begun stripped down to her own underwear.

  “This is crazy. Why are you even helping me?” Florence asked as she kicked off her shoes.

  “If anyone’s going to take you down in this game,” Shelby muttered as she held out her hand for Florence’s jacket, “it’s going to be me.”

  Watching Florence undress had been Shelby’s biggest fantasy for the entire hot, sweaty Texas summer. Even better would have been helping her strip off these layers of tight tailoring and crisp fashion. But watching…