Upper East Side #9 Read online

  Also by Ashley Valentine

  Bridgeport Academy

  Bridgeport Academy #1

  Upper East Side

  Upper East Side 1

  Upper East Side 2

  Upper East Side 3

  Upper East Side 4

  Upper East Side 5

  Upper East Side 6

  Upper East Side 7

  Upper East Side 8

  Upper East Side 9

  Upper East Side 10

  Upper East Side 11

  UPPER EAST SIDE 9

  Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Valentine

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Based on the Gossip Girl series by Cecil von Ziegesar.

  Table of Contents

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  9

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  11

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  33

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  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Author's Note

  1

  “Good morning, madam!” trilled a female voice in a super-perky British accent.

  Porsha Sinclaire sighed and turned over onto her side. She’d been in London three days but still wasn’t over her jet lag. She didn’t mind, though: it was a small price to pay to see her movie-star-handsome, real-life-English-blueblood boyfriend, Lord Marcus.

  Wendy, one of the three maids whose round-the-clock services came with Porsha’s penthouse suite at Claridge’s, clacked across the hardwood floors and deposited a heavy mahogany tray onto the king-size bed, which was so big Porsha had divided it up into four sections: one for sleeping, one for eating, one for watching TV, and one for sex. So far, that section had remained unused.

  Wendy drew the thick maroon curtains on the massive wall of windows, flooding the enormous room with light. It reflected off the opulent gold ceiling and bounced off the gilded mirrors that lined the attached dressing room.

  “Ouch!” Porsha cried, pulling one of the six lavish pillows over her head to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “Breakfast as requested, Miss Sinclaire,” announced Wendy, lifting the silver cover off the tray to reveal a barfy-looking mush of watery scrambled eggs, massive greasy sausages, and a pool of stewed tomatoes.

  Classic English cuisine. Yum.

  Porsha smoothed her thick tousled hair and straightened the straps of the soft pink cami she’d worn to bed. The food looked disgusting but smelled delicious. Oh well, she deserved a little treat, didn’t she? She’d worked up an appetite the day before, walking around West London sightseeing.

  If you call Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and Whistles—London's most famous luxury department stores—sights.

  “And your paper,” added Wendy setting the International Herald Tribune on the tray with a flourish. Porsha had requested the daily paper when she checked in—a Yale woman had to keep up on world events, after all. So what if she hadn’t exactly gotten around to the reading part?

  “Will that be all?” Wendy asked primly.

  Porsha nodded and the maid disappeared into the sitting room. Porsha speared one of the huge sausages with her fork and picked up the paper, skimming the front page. But the tiny typeface and matter-of-fact photographs were so boring she couldn’t concentrate. The only paper she ever read was the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times, if only to scan the charity event pictures for familiar faces. Why would a worldly woman like herself need to read world news, anyway? She was world news.

  Porsha had always been impulsive, but her presence in London had actually been Marcus’s idea. His graduation present to her—other than the ridiculously extravagant Gucci earrings—had been a plane ticket to London. Porsha had envisioned rainy weeks locked in his enormous stone castle having chain-sex—the equivalent of chain-smoking—stopping only to gnaw on a cold leg of lamb or whatever medieval snack was stored in the castle’s primitive but well-stocked kitchen. But Marcus had been so busy working for his dad all he ever had time for was lunch and a brief kiss.

  Dropping the unopened paper onto the floor, she scanned her bedside table for British Vogue—she’d stocked up on all the English magazines so she’d know what to buy and where to buy it—when her new rose gold iPhone chimed prettily. There was only one person who had her new London telephone number.

  “Hello?” she answered as sexily as she could with a mouth full of scrambled egg.

  “Darling,” Lord Marcus Beaton-Rhodes greeted her in his charming British accent. “I’m coming round. Just wanted to make sure you were up, love.”

  “I’m up, I’m up!” Porsha was unable to control her excitement. She’d spent the last two nights alone, and her horniness was bubbling over into near-frenzy. How they’d made it this far without actually having sex, she wasn’t sure. Was this their chance for a morning romp?

  “Right,” he continued in his charmingly straightforward way. “I’ll be by shortly. And I’ve got a surprise.”

  A surprise! thought Porsha giddily as she shut her phone. That was just the kind of wake-up call she needed to get her out of bed. She scurried to the bathroom, discarding clothes as she went. Could it be roses and caviar? Chilled champagne and oysters? It was kind of early in the morning for that, but judging from the last present he’d given her—the Gucci pearl earrings, with their dangling gold Ps—it was bound to be good. Some equally exquisite symbol of his undying love? Everyone back in New York was so insanely jealous of her perfect English boyfriend that they’d spread rumors Marcus was already engaged. There was only one way to put that rumor to rest forever: return to New York wearing his ring. Preferably a flawless, four-carat, emerald-cut diamond, although an old family heirloom would do.

  How humble of her.

  Lord Marcus had initially invited her to spend the summer at his father’s Knightsbridge mansion, but when he’d picked her up from the airport in his chauffeur-driven cream-colored Bentley he’d taken her straight to Claridge’s. “We simply haven’t got the room, sweetheart,” Marcus whispered directly into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine as the desk attendant handed her the room key. “Plus, when I come over, we’ll have complete privacy.”

  Well, that’s hard to argue with.

  Porsha wasn’t sure what Marcus’s dad did for a living, but it had something do with bonds, and whatever it was sounded very boring. Marcus was interning at his dad’s office for the summer, and late nights and early mornings meant he had hardly any energy for...sex. Porsha had only done it a few times with Kaliq Braxton, and she was beyond eager to try it with someone older and more experienced, like Marcus—not that sex with Kaliq had been so bad.

  Her minty toothpaste masking the stink of scrambled egg and tomato, she hurried back to the bedroom and hopped into bed, wearing only a light sheen of lavender-scented bath water, Chanel No. 5 perfume, and the G
ucci earrings she hadn’t taken off once since her graduation party at the Yale Club a little over two weeks ago.

  After ditching Yasmine Richards' small apartment in dingy and weird Williamsburg, with no intention of moving back to the crazy world she used to call home, Porsha had decided to live at the Yale club. She and Lord Marcus had met in the elevator, and his sexy accent and neatly ironed jeans had gotten to her right away. Fate had it that their rooms were side by side, and she could imagine the feel of his sexy English breath on her neck even before they’d kissed—which had happened that very night. After pouring her heart out to him over six or seven cosmos, Porsha was so sure she’d found the love of her life, she practically threw herself at him. She was too tipsy—and he was too much of a gentleman—to do more than kiss. But all that was about to change.

  Porsha draped the sheets over her body and lit a cigarette, striking a pose that said, I’m on my honeymoon and worn out from having sex, but what the hell, let’s do it again. She grabbed the newspaper off of the floor and propped up the front page so it looked like she was reading it. There. Perfect. An intellectual sexpot. A worldly woman who read all about international crises—and preferred to discuss said crises in bed. If only she had a pair of vintage fifties reading glasses to perch on the tip of her nose.

  All the better to see you naked with!

  As if on cue, Lord Marcus flung the bedroom door open and Porsha turned her head slowly, as if she could barely stand to break away from the current poultry deficit in Asia. He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal summer suit with an olive T-shirt underneath that made his striking hazel-green eyes look serious and deep and oh-so-promising.

  “What’s this?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “Remember I said I had a surprise?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you too,” Porsha cooed sexily. “Come look under the sheets.”

  “Right,” he continued a little impatiently. “Well, put on your clothes, love.”

  “I don’t want to,” Porsha complained, pouting.

  He hurried across the room and kissed her quickly on the nose. “Later,” he promised. “Now throw on some clothes and meet me downstairs in the lobby.” Then he turned and left the room, leaving her perfumed, well-moisturized, and depilated body naked and alone.

  This better be a good surprise.

  Porsha emerged from the wood-paneled elevator in a hastily chosen ensemble: a chocolate brown tunic (thank you, Harrods), a favorite pair of old True Religion jeans, and clunky gold Marc by Marc Jacobs sandals. She looked like a jet-setter on holiday. Just right for a weekend rendezvous to Tunis in Lord Marcus’s private jet. Could that be the surprise?

  The grand, chandelier-lit marble hotel lobby was abuzz with activity, but Porsha noticed a hush fall over the crowd as she crossed the tiled floor, her sandals clopping noisily, to the overstuffed black velvet chaise where Marcus sat waiting for her. He was so goddamn handsome Porsha couldn’t help admiring him, like he was a painting or some rare piece of sculpture, and it was hard to resist plunging her fingers into the thick waves of his shiny hair. She was so busy mentally drooling over her gorgeous English lover that she barely noticed he was holding hands with someone who was definitely not her.

  Ding, ding. Hello?

  Forgetting the romantic getaway to Africa, Porsha’s eyes narrowed at the horsey-looking girl holding her boyfriend’s hand. What the fuck?

  “Porsha, at last,” Lord Marcus greeted her smoothly, standing but not letting go of his companion’s hand. “This, my dear, is my darling cousin Camilla, the one I told you about. My soul mate. She’s in town for a couple of weeks. We were practically twins growing up! Isn’t that the most marvelous surprise?”

  “Marvelous,” echoed Porsha, throwing herself onto a nearby armchair. She didn’t remember hearing anything about any cousin Camilla.

  But then, listening had never been her strong suit.

  “I’m so delighted to meet you,” said Camilla, staring down her long prominent nose—the kind of nose even the best plastic surgeon couldn’t fix. Her light complexion was layered with comical amounts of beige powder and primary-red blush. Her legs were clownishly long and skinny, like she’d been stretched on one of those old-fashioned lengthening machines Porsha had tried to find on eBay.

  “Mimi just turned up yesterday morning, unannounced,” Lord Marcus explained. “Imagine, like a lost waif, with bags in hand.” He chuckled.

  “Yes, well, thankfully I can count on my dear Marmar to open up his home to me,” Camilla gushed, casually running her free hand through her long black hair. Hair that could easily be cut off in the middle of the night.

  Wait—his home?

  “You’re staying at his place?” demanded Porsha rudely, already hating the crooked-toothed Camilla and her ugly yellow silk sundress, which probably cost thousands but looked like a tablecloth. “But I thought there wasn’t room.”

  “There’s always room for family,” Lord Marcus answered, squeezing Camilla’s talon-like hand before turning back to Porsha. “Not to worry, sweetheart. We’ll all have a grand time together.”

  Sure they will.

  2

  “Braxton!” Coach Michaels yelled up at the roof. “I want to hear your lazy ass banging those shingles. Now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaliq Braxton muttered as he watched Coach climb into his blue minivan and back out of the short driveway, honking a cheerful beep beep beep as he sped off down the suburban Hampton Bays street. Kaliq could picture him popping Viagra and jacking off to the pornos he probably kept in the glove compartment.

  Douche bag, Kaliq added silently. Sweat stinging his eyes, he ran a hand across his forehead and frowned down at the black-shingled roof. Idiot, he told himself for the hundredth time that morning. It was only nine o’clock, but the brutal sun was pounding down, the scratchy shingles were tearing up his knees, and his back throbbed. Kaliq straightened up to full height and pulled off his drenched T-shirt. Then he dropped his hammer and sat down, even though the roof was so hot he could feel it burning his ass through his shorts.

  He dug around in his pockets for the lovingly hand-rolled joint he’d been smart enough to stash there the night before. Kaliq pulled out the yellow plastic lighter he kept tucked into his sock and lit the joint, inhaling deeply.

  Wake and bake. The breakfast of champions.

  His fuckup was costing him, that was for sure, but Kaliq was determined not to let one mistake ruin his whole summer. His days belonged to Coach Michaels, but his nights were still his, and he had his parents’ place on Georgica Pond all to himself, since his folks preferred the splendid isolation of their compound up in Mt. Desert Island, Maine.

  Kaliq took out his cell and scrolled through his contact list until he got to the first person he knew with a house in the Hamptons. There was no sense letting the perfect party house go to waste.

  Waste not, want not.

  “Hey, it’s Charlie,” said the voicemail recording. “I’m out of the country for a couple of weeks, but leave me a message and I’ll check you when I get back. Later.”

  Damn. Kaliq hung up without leaving a message. He scrolled some more until he came to the number for Jeremy Scott, another friend from school. Kaliq half remembered hearing something about how Jeremy was spending the summer out in LA, taking acting classes or something lame like that. The only guy Kaliq knew for sure was in the Hamptons was Anthony Avuldsen, so Kaliq tried him too, but he didn’t answer his phone either. He was probably still sleeping. No one with any sense would be awake this early in the morning.

  Frowning, Kaliq took another deep drag on his joint. He could just imagine the endless march of hot sweaty days and lonely quiet nights before he would finally pack up and head off to Yale in the fall.

  Poor baby.

  From his perch on the roof, Kaliq could see the coach’s wide backyard, the very yard he’d be in charge of mowing and landscaping for the next few weeks. He’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the best part of the view
: the coach’s wife, lying poolside, sunning herself in the bright morning rays, topless. She was a mom and she wasn’t young, but she wasn’t that old, either. At least her boobs had aged well. He’d seen How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and he’d never been with an older woman. Shit could happen. Maybe working for the coach without pay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Or maybe the sun is getting to him.

  3

  Teetering ever so slightly on her black peep-toe platform sandals—okay, so they were technically Porsha’s, but she knew her onetime roommate would never come back to Williamsburg to collect any of the stuff she’d left behind—Yasmine thwacked over the cobblestones of the Meatpacking District toward the unmarked rusty door of Ken Mogul’s massive live/work loft.

  Despite her classmate Chanel Crenshaw’s drunken promises to put a good word in with him at Porsha’s wild graduation party a couple of weeks before, Yasmine Richards had never seriously expected to hear from Ken Mogul again. Earlier that year, he’d taken an interest in her career when some nearly-X-rated film footage she’d shot of Bree Hargrove and Kaliq Braxton hooking up in Central Park surfaced online and tried to take her under his wing as a protégé. But Yasmine didn’t like the idea of being under anyone’s wing, and working on a major Hollywood production out in LA wasn’t exactly her thing. She was more a dead-pigeons-and-used-condom film auteur than maker of big teen blockbusters, but Breakfast at Fred’s was going to be shot right on her doorstep at Barneys uptown. It was tempting to write it off as a learning experience. Still, something about it made her uneasy.

  She rang the buzzer marked only with the director’s initials and waited, fiddling nervously with her clothes. Nearly her entire outfit had been garnered from the hand-me-downs Porsha had left behind. She’d paired a black sleeveless top with her own tattered black jeans, Porsha’s clunky sandals, and the leather messenger bag Porsha used to carry her laptop in. The look was sophisticated and artsy: she looked like someone who didn’t care about things like looking sophisticated.

  Like she ever cared?