Authors; Amy Jo Cousins, Audra North, Brighton Walsh, Jennifer Blackwood, Lorelie Brown, Rebecca Grace Allen
Publication date: October 13th 2015
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Six stories of sex, love, and being young in the ‘90s, inspired by songs of the decade…
My Strongest Weakness by Brighton Walsh
It was supposed to be a one-time thing. No one would find out; no one would have to know. And then once turned into twice, and twice turned into several times a week, and now pierced, punk-loving, rebellious Tia Lanning is banging Mason Brooks, the big man on campus and Mr. All American. But banging him isn’t the problem. Falling for him is. Especially when he’s content to let her remain his dirty little secret.
Worthwhile by Audra North
Jill didn’t expect her semester in Leeds to start with getting dumped by her boyfriend. Especially since she only came to England to be with him. Two weeks in, all she wants to do is go home. Finding love with someone new is definitely not an option. But when she literally stumbles into grad student Stuart’s arms, her experience abroad becomes a lot more worthwhile.
Creep by Lorelie Brown
Roni lives for the raves in Oakland’s warehouse district. Dancing till dawn in white gloves under black lights breathes life into her soul. Nothing will get her kicked out of her underground world faster than turning over Skittles, her dealer. She refuses to provide info about the underage runaway to his big brother Tom. But Tom is going to find Skittles with or without Roni’s cooperation. But Tom is special. He’s rich, handsome and bold. Roni wishes she was special. And like the rave scene she loves, nothing lasts forever.
Smells Like Teen Spirit by Rebecca Grace Allen
Rory Stone’s days of grunge and poetry are behind her, her reality now in bags of Arabian brew, and counting the change in the tip jar. Can indie singer James Griffith rock her muse back into the present?
The Belle vs. the BDOC by Amy Jo Cousins
Shelby Summerfield is a gold star lesbian, even if she doesn’t look like one. Florence Truong is the only other dyke at Carlisle College in 1993 not wearing plaid flannel, and Shelby sets her sights on seduction. But instead of a delightful tumble in the sheets, Florence calls her out for being a straight girl. With seduction off the table, Shelby settles for revenge for her humiliation. But if all she wants is to show up her campus rival, how come Shelby can’t stop herself from saving Florence instead of annihilating her?
Little Red Thong by Jennifer Blackwood
Emily Jones is ready to embark on the most epic spring break trip of her college career with her bestie, twin brother, and her brother’s best friend, Chase. Chase has been in love with Emily since the eighth grade when she kicked his ass in laser tag. He’s not going to piss away his last chance to tell her how he feels. When the group decides to play a game of Spring Break BINGO that involves body shots, a red thong, and secret hookups, this is the perfect catalyst to get him out of the friend zone. But as things get heated, they have to decide if twenty years of friendship is worth putting in jeopardy because of a game, and what will happen when they hit dry land.
Excerpt from: Worthwhile by Audra North
How could he?
I couldn’t stop thinking those words, over and over, as I ran down the stairs, face hot with humiliation and anger and the effect of too many alcopops. I didn’t care that I could barely see through my tears. I was too desperate to get away from what I’d just seen. So I kept one hand on the wall as I stumbled my way downward, trying hard to ignore how the curving descent wasn’t helping my stomach much. After a week of barely eating, all the alcohol I’d had in the past two hours was already burning in my gut, and the winding staircase only added to the roiling discontent.
Not to mention that the high collar of my jacket was already soggy. Ugh. My face must be a mess. A watery, crumpled, heartbroken mess. I just had to get out of here. Out into the cool night air, and then I’d be fine. Shae would probably figure out that I’d left at some point, especially if she saw what I’d just seen.
Who was I kidding? The whole party had probably seen it already.
I didn’t want to stop running until I was back at my dorm. Then I could call my parents to let them know that I wanted to come home. Which was going to suck, because I’d begged them to let me do this program in the first place, and I hadn’t even managed to last two weeks in my semester abroad.
The humiliation of it only made me cry harder, and I stumbled with the force of my sobbing, missing the last step. I pitched forward, my platform sneakers making it impossible for me to find any traction, and all I could do was brace myself for a rough, embarrassing, terrible—
“Oof!” I made impact, the breath whooshing out of me. Strange. That was surprisingly less painful than I’d expected. What did British folks build their floors out of? This one was rather warm and muscular…
No, wait. Damn it. I hadn’t hit the floor. I was in someone’s arms. Someone strong and masculine-feeling. My face was turned to the side, my cheek pressed against his chest—itseemed that whoever this poor guy was had caught me when I’d fallen, but I was too tear-blinded and drunk on vodka and sorrow to even realize it immediately.
“You all right?” Something vibrated against my ear. His chest, probably.
I dragged a limp hand over my face, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my palm, and nodded. I felt my cheek rub over his shirt. Mmm, soft. Felt like a nice flannel.
Another swipe over my eyes and my vision finally cleared. I was hanging like a rag doll, both legs still on the bottom step of the winding staircase, the top of my body propped up by a purple-plaid-clad chest.
A muscular chest, from the feel of it.
Not that I was in the mood to notice something like that, really. Not when I’d just witnessed my very-recently-ex-boyfriend sucking face with and practically humping some random girl out in the hallway at our mutual friend’s party.
But something about the comforting way this stranger was holding me was helping keep the tears at bay. I nuzzled deeper into his shirt.
“Right. Uh, well…perhaps—might you be able to stand on your own?” His voice was somewhere between a tenor and a bass, and the tentative way he was speaking made it sound like he was singing me a lullaby. It felt so good. With the emotional upheaval and the drinks and the lack of food this past week while I mourned the unexpected, brutal end of a two-year relationship, I was suddenly very, very sleepy.
I wanted to reply and tell him that I’d rather stay where I was, but I couldn’t even muster the energy to do that. In a good way, though. It felt like a good kind of enervation.
Oh, you magical, flannel-clad, rumbling lullaby chest.
Sleep. I needed sleep, desperately, and for some reason, this chest was making me feel like it might be okay to go ahead and succumb.
The last thing I heard before I surrendered to total exhaustion was that deep voice, sighing and saying, “I suppose that answers my question.”