The Belle vs the BDOC

By Amy Jo Cousins

Love is a battlefield.

Shelby Summerfield is a Southern belle at a northern college in 1993, which is a challenge to begin with. And yes, Florence Truong, the object of Shelby's lust and the only other woman on campus not wearing flannel, does catch her in what looks like a compromising position with a straight boy at pub trivia night.

But Shelby is a gold star lesbian and Florence's dapper fashion sense makes her weak in the knees, so her rejection stings hard. To exact her revenge, Shelby cheats a little when putting together her own trivia dream team, because nobody strategizes to win like a Southern girl on a mission. And if trivia can't settle their rivalry, then maybe the annual campus-wide game of assassin will do the trick.

Shelby's gonna come out on top of Florence—in bed or out, one way or another. Bless her heart. And her silk pocket squares.

Warning: Contains obscene pub trivia team names, paint guns, a Southern belle with an exquisite grasp of battlefield tactics, and one dapper dyke who's misjudged her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Jo Cousins
• Release date: Mar 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370827633

Amy Jo Cousins

A.J. Cousins knows one thing for sure: the people who read and write romance novels are the smartest, funniest, kindest, and most optimistic souls on the planet and finding a place in this community has been like coming home. She lives in Chicago, where she writes contemporary romance, tweets more than she ought, and sometimes runs way too far. She loves her boy and the Cubs, who taught her that being awesome doesn't necessarily have anything to do with winning. Please visit her online!

Book preview

1

Getting busted in the back of a bar with your hand on a penis was not the way to go about picking up the hottest lesbian on campus.

Oh my gravy, Shelby Summerfield muttered into the ear of the boy who was panting into her breasts and tugging her hand toward the bulge behind his belt. Davis was full as a tick, if the tick had been downing shots of Wild Turkey all night, and Shelby was trying to break it to him gently that she was a pussy-only sort of girl. Of course, if she hadn’t known he’d just been publicly dumped by his girlfriend in humiliating fashion, she’d have applied her knee to Davis’s private parts. But allowances could be made for heartbreak between study buddies.

"

Excuse

me

."

Oh, fudge.

Um, hey, Shelby managed to squeeze out over Davis’s shoulder.

Don’t let me interrupt, Florence Truong drawled over the Gin Blossoms singing about jealousy. Someone in the bar—Shelby suspected Davis—had pumped a truckload of quarters into the jukebox and put the song on repeat.

No, he’s not— But the woman Shelby had come here to find just shook her head and rolled her eyes, striding off toward the front of the bar with a swing of her hips that called attention to her pipecleaner-skinny grey trousers and forest green velvet blazer with cuffed sleeves.

Damn. Shelby let herself curse, because really, if ever a situation called for it, this one did. "Double damn. Oh, get

off

me

."

She pushed Davis’s dead weight off her shoulder, where he seemed to have passed out sometime after begging for his first hand job and before the spectacular exit of Ms. Florence Truong. Halfway through his slow slide down the wall to the floor, Shelby gave in and hauled him upright again.

Good thing you don’t weigh much more than a sack of wet mice, Davis Crawley she ground out as she wedged a shoulder under his armpit and hauled him toward the front of the bar. If she were lucky, she could prop him up on one of the bar stools with a high wooden back long enough for him to sober up. No sense trying to send him home when the boy probably couldn’t remember his own name, much less where he lived. Pouring him into one of the few town taxicabs was a waste of the money she’d no doubt have to pay the driver in advance.

Besides, one drunk poli sci study partner—who was almost certainly going to remember none of this in the morning—was not about to put Shelby Summerfield off her game plan. She’d come to this stupid bar tonight, trivia night, because she’d heard Florence showed up every Wednesday.

Shelby was tired of drooling over the woman

from

afar

.

She was going to track Florence down like a bloodhound if she had to, because Shelby didn’t believe in settling for anything less than exactly what she wanted.

And if that meant slipping the bartender ten bucks to let Davis sleep it off at far end of the bar, she certainly wouldn’t consider that a waste of the allowance her parents mailed her every two weeks from Dallas.

The bartender, a cranky man whose belly, nose, and enunciation made it clear he was used to drinking as much behind the bar as Davis had poured down his throat in front of it, barked at her when she deposited Davis on a vacant chair.

"He pukes, you clean

it

up

."

If he pukes, I’ll kill him myself, she said, as worried about the state of her campaign to seduce Florence Truong as she was about the state of the floors at Egon’s.

The impression that she’d been giving Davis a handjob in the back of the bar could surely be overcome. Mopping up puke on her hands and knees in front of the coolest dykes on campus? Not even Scarlett O’Hara could have come back from that kind

of

blow

.

Just let him sober up a little. I’ll check on him. I promise, she swore, and then grabbed her longneck and wriggled through the crowd toward the table where Florence sat with a half dozen girls, all of whom howling the words to a 4 Non Blondes hit. Throwing her shoulders back and pasting a big smile on her face, she waited, strategically, until the song trailed off and then made her approach.

Someone at the table was wearing too much patchouli—although Shelby really thought that any patchouli was too much, and stuck to her Clinique Happy, because even the name had a good attitude—and no one even looked at her, which was how she knew they were ignoring her on purpose because her boobs were spilling out of her sundress like nobody’s business.

Her cup runneth’d the

heck

over

.

A friendly greeting would’ve been nice, but she’d learned Northerners were way stingier with their howdys and hellos.

Do y’all have room for one more? Shelby asked. But before she could deliver her line about being a ringer on U.S. history and absolutely anything involving the presidents, Florence set her beer down on the table and leaned back in her seat, one leg crossed elegantly across the other, foot resting on

her

knee

.

Sorry, honey. You’re cute but we’re the Cunning Linguists, Shelby’s walking wet dream said, imitating her with a terrible southern drawl like Darryl Hannah in Steel Magnolias. Shelby wanted to be insulted, but wasn’t sure if she was being flirted with or not. Florence pointed at the paper table tent with the team’s name on it and then waved across the room at the table of Tri Delts who had set up shop next to the Chi Si guys. You want the sorority girls over there. Or you can hook up with the boys, I guess. They’ll like your idea of privacy.

So, that was a not on the flirting question.

Do tell, the girl sitting next to Florence said, chin in her hand. She had a pretty shaved head—because no, Shelby was not prejudiced against women with short hair and this girl had a lovely skull for it—and a ring in her nose. The way she leaned lightly against Florence’s shoulder told Shelby all she needed to know about why that girl was giving her the

stink

eye

.

Shelby knew competition when she saw it. And she would normally be up for it in a heartbeat. No one could do a polite battle of wits like a Texas woman on a mission.

But with Florence throwing that stupid, misunderstood moment in the hallway in her face in front of a table of the most popular dykes on campus, polite had flown out the window

long

ago

.

For future reference? Florence added, not at all helpfully, with a smile tugging back one corner of her full, nude lips. If you go all the way back, past the cigarette machine, the rest of us can’t tell you’ve got your hand in the guy’s pants.

Shelby refused to wonder how Florence knew that. Refused to wonder, but was very much afraid she’d be imagining it later that night in the privacy of her own single room in Safford.

My hand wasn’t down his pants, thank you very much, she protested, her cheeks hot as the table of women stared at her. "Which maybe you’d have noticed if your eyes had made it past

my

bust

."

Which wasn’t even true, and the sting of regret poked her conscience immediately. Florence hadn’t paid Shelby any more attention than she’d needed to squeeze past Davis’s drunk behind. Before she could open her mouth to apologize, Florence propped her elbow on the table and opened and closed her hand in Shelby’s direction, like a goodbye wave for a particularly dim-witted person.

Go on now. Don’t let your boy fall off his bar stool. That flirty imitation drawl was

back

too

.

In the face of half a dozen deadeye stares and Florence’s elegantly lifted black eyebrow, Shelby made a speedy