Upper East Side #11 Read online

  Also by Ashley Valentine

  Bridgeport Academy

  Bridgeport Academy #1

  Upper East Side

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  Upper East Side 2

  Upper East Side 3

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  Upper East Side 5

  Upper East Side 6

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  Upper East Side 11

  Table of Contents

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  UPCOMING BOOKS

  UPPER EAST SIDE 11

  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 Cecily von Ziegesar.

  1

  “Hello, Manhattan!” Porsha Sinclaire cheered, hopping off the Charlotte and onto the Battery Park dock. A huddle of unnaturally tan bikini-clad girls stood next to their private yacht, the Miami Mama, glaring at Porsha while their crew unloaded their bulging duffels onto the weathered gray wood of the dock. The high-rises of Battery Park City stood in the distance, the bright August sun reflecting off thousands of windows. Across town, the South Street Seaport boardwalk bustled with tourists wearing unflattering horizontal-striped polo shirts with overstuffed fluorescent fanny packs, and aggressive rollerbladers weaving their way through the crowd.

  Porsha licked her pink and completely bare lips—who needed lipstick when you’d been kissed that much?—and glanced back at the Charlotte. Kaliq Braxton's lanky frame appeared on deck, caramel, bare-chested, and grinning, his wavy hair glistening, his eyes perfectly matching the green board shorts hanging low on his hips.

  Yummy.

  Porsha resisted the urge to get right back on the boat and drag him down to the Charlotte’s ridiculously tiny bedroom. Even though they’d been together 24/7 for the last month, drinking frosty-cold mango margaritas all day and getting hot and sweaty all night, she still couldn’t get enough of him.

  Apart from enjoying each other’s company, there had also been the necessary visits to charming New England seaside towns like Rockport and Camden for cups of clam chowder—she’d actually learned to enjoy it, despite the fact that chowder was just hot, heavily salted cream with little pieces of chewed, gumlike clams in it—and adventurous forays up rivers and inlets so Kaliq could feel like the sailor he was.

  Porsha closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of sunblock still coating her skin, taking in the feel of the fine grains of sand still stuck between her toes, and the cool ocean breeze that tickled her cheeks. She sighed happily as she remembered last night, stretched out beside Kaliq, who was wearing light blue linen pajama bottoms, on the Charlotte’s tiny bed, falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ears. She ran her hands through her tangled hair and watched as Kaliq tied the last knot on the bowline and jumped onto the dock.

  “Well, don’t you look happy?” He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, burying his face in her thick, wind-blown hair. “You even smell nice, for once.”

  “Thanks a lot!” Porsha squealed as he began to tickle her, squirming away. Kaliq just grinned as he slid his feet into the black worn flip-flops he’d worn every day at sea. “I wish I could say the same for you!” She punched him lightly on the arm, fantasizing about the honey-and-almond body wash and Frédéric Fekkai shampoo awaiting her at home. The shower on the Charlotte was so fucking small she almost smacked herself in the face with the glass shower door every time she turned around. Though she’d been happy to make space for one more when Kaliq wanted to join.

  Scrub-a-dub-dub!

  Despite the memory of the dollhouse-size bathroom, Porsha felt a tinge of sadness as Kaliq threw her green tote bag over one shoulder and grabbed his own dirty monogrammed tote. This had been the most blissful month of her life. After a few days at sea, she’d almost forgotten why she’d been in such a hurry to get aboard—and stay aboard—the Charlotte in the first place: the love letter to Kaliq that her supposed best friend Chanel had slipped into the glove compartment of his father’s Aston Martin before they left. Porsha had found it while Kaliq was at a rest-stop bathroom, read it, and promptly shredded the thing to bits. Not that it mattered now. She could totally find it in her heart to forgive poor, lonely Chanel—after all, who could not fall in love with Kaliq? Besides, and most of all, Chanel had no chance of coming between them ever again.

  She and Kaliq were more in love than ever and heading to Yale together in just ten days. Sure, Chanel was going to be there too, but she and Kaliq would barely even see her once they ditched their separate and totally-unsuitable-for-living-happily-ever-after dorm rooms and found a shabbily elegant New Haven townhouse to move into. Once they were settled, they could reenact their cozy time on the Charlotte. She’d laugh at Kaliq for not knowing how to cook anything—not that she could make much more than caviar on toast points—and he’d have cocktails waiting for her when she got back late from one of her pre-law lectures. It was going to be perfect.

  “Your house or mine?” she asked with a sultry smile. Kaliq’s emerald green eyes glittered in the sun, and Porsha affected a little pout, which she knew he couldn’t resist. She turned around to face the water and closed her eyes, basking in the sun like a contented cat.

  Meow.

  Kaliq dropped the totes he’d been carrying and put his hands on Porsha’s smooth, milky chocolate shoulders. She leaned back into him and he nuzzled her neck, looking out at the shimmering blue water. He thought about the last few weeks. He’d been so happy out on the waves, with nothing in front of them but the clear blue sky and the roaring ocean.

  A ringing noise erupted from his pants and Kaliq jumped back. Shit. His cell. They hadn’t had a connection out at sea, and he hadn’t heard the damn thing ring in weeks. Kaliq pulled the iPhone from his rumpled khaki cutoffs and looked at the screen: HOME. Double shit. He pressed IGNORE and resisted the urge to throw the thing into the water behind him. Then he grabbed Porsha’s soft shoulders, a little tighter this time, already worried about the unavoidable confrontation with his dad over his future, which was kind of a mess now due to some recent mishaps.

  The message Coach Michaels had left him before he climbed aboard the Charlotte repeated itself on a loop in his head. He wouldn’t be getting his diploma from St. Jude’s; Yale was out of the question. Of course, Coach had probably broken the news to Kaliq’s strict former Navy captain father by now, which meant he’d be getting a serious reaming as soon as he walked in the door. Knowing his dad, he’d probably been calling to rip him a new one every day for the last month, and this was the first time the signal had come through. Obviously he should have dealt with the situation, like, weeks ago, but surrounded by all that ocean and P
orsha’s bikini-clad body, who could think straight?

  Kaliq pushed his parental worries aside and refocused on Porsha. He hadn’t told her about the diploma—or lack thereof—yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He wondered if he could just head to New Haven with her and Chanel and sneak into the occasional class on Western films or nude portraiture and tell everyone he had a lot of AP credits so he was taking an easy load this semester.

  A load, indeed.

  Kaliq sighed. The truth had waited this long—what was one more day? He bit down on his chapped bottom lip and tried to concentrate on how dark and smooth Porsha’s shoulders were under his fingers. All he wanted was to crawl back down into the Charlotte’s tiny bedroom, get under the covers with her, and never come out, except maybe to smoke a joint.

  It’s good to see that he has his priorities in order.

  “Let’s go to your house,” he suggested, releasing her. “Myrtle makes the best quesadillas, and I’m freaking starving.”

  She turned around and grinned at him. “Okay, then, let’s get the hell out of here, sailor.”

  Kaliq headed back to the boat to grab the rest of their bags, whistling as he jumped on board. He’d avoided his moment of truth with the Captain—and Porsha—for so long, maybe he could keep on avoiding it a little while longer.

  Porsha slid her enormous tinted Prada aviators over her eyes and starting walking down the gray wooden dock. Things couldn’t have worked out better—Porsha and Kaliq, the couple always most likely to end up together, heading off to Yale in ten short days. It was almost too good to be true.

  Yes, quite.

  2

  Chanel Crenshaw sat in the Sinclaire Campbell living room, flanked on either side by Porsha’s mother, Eleanor Sinclaire Campbell, and Davita Fjorde—party planner to those residing on Manhattan’s Golden Mile. Chanel had no idea why she’d been invited to Porsha’s house, but when Eleanor called she couldn’t very well say no to her so-called best friend’s mother, whose wedding she had been a bridesmaid in less than a year ago.

  “Now, I want it to be surprising and wonderful and luxurious, of course, but I don’t want anything too over-the-top. Nothing vulgar.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose and straightened the hem of her skintight silk Valentino skirt. After giving birth to baby Yale that spring, she was on a strict Pilates-and-no-carbs diet, and it was clearly working. “Although Cyrus just loved the belly dancers in Corfu.”

  “Eleanor, my dear, stop worrying. This party will be fabulicious,” Davita drawled, scribbling notes in her hot pink notebook with a gold pen, her signature pencil-straight, ass-length platinum blond hair draping almost to her fishnetted knees. Davita fumbled, dropping the pen, and then pulled an exact replica from her enormous Marc Jacobs tote without missing a beat.

  Chanel ran her fingers over the miniskirt she’d made herself out of her faded jean shorts. Ever since Porsha and Kaliq had sailed off into the sunrise on her birthday morning, she had been struggling to be her usual cheerful self. Sitting in Porsha’s living room wasn’t helping any. As she looked around at the gleaming oak floor, the heavy crimson silk drapes, the overstuffed toffee-colored sofa, all Chanel could think about was how she’d spent most of her childhood running around this very apartment. She and Porsha used to make forts out of all the silk pillows, throwing them off the couch and piling them in the center of the room, pretending the rest of the rug was the ocean while they were stranded on an island. They hid beneath their soft, dark weight for hours, whispering secrets and giggling the day away. Things were so much easier back then—before Kaliq had come between them. Not that it was his fault.

  Why is it never the boy’s fault?

  Chanel sighed and tried to concentrate as Eleanor’s nervously loud voice chattered away in her ear, the ice cubes in her Bloody Mary clinking against the glass as she waved her arms about.

  “Because, you know, when the Reynolds had their party last year, they chose that hideous bisque color scheme, which completely washed out Mitzi’s complexion,” Eleanor was saying, her brow wrinkled in worry. “I was envisioning shell pink or ivory, because those are Porsha’s absolute favorites, but I just can’t stop thinking about Mitzi looking as though she was about to be sick all over her very own soiree.”

  Davita leaned in conspiratorially. “My dear, that event was planned by Samantha Powers and her troop of underlings. Amateurs. You have to relax and realize you’re dealing with a professional here!” She threw her overbleached platinum locks over one shoulder and turned toward Chanel, her tanned face nearly as leathery as the distressed calfskin bag on the sofa beside her. “Eleanor tells me that you’re Porsha’s best friend,” she said with a stewardess smile, scribbling more notes on the pink pad.

  Or worst enemy.

  Chanel nodded. “We’ve been friends—”

  “Forever!” Eleanor finished enthusiastically.

  “Mmmm,” Davita murmured as she picked up a thin cucumber sandwich—crusts cut off, of course—from a hammered silver tray. She sniffed it delicately, then returned it to the tray.

  “Now, Chanel,” Eleanor began, smoothing her sleek, shoulder-length bob, “I hope you don’t mind me calling you over, but Porsha has been positively unreachable, and I thought that since you two have known each other since you were toddlers, you’d be the perfect person to help plan this event I have scheduled at the Met. We have more than a few milestones to celebrate—Porsha and Tahj going off to college, for one. And then there’s also—”

  Just then Davita’s cell phone began to ring frantically, beeping in the most annoying way possible. Davita jumped up, holding her bony manicured index finger out in the air, and walked quickly out of the living room, her Jimmy Choo slingbacks sparkling like firecrackers in the light that streamed through the south-facing windows.

  Chanel returned to picking at the frayed threads on her skirt again. She could barely concentrate anyway. As of today, Porsha and Kaliq had spent exactly one month together, alone on a boat with no one around for miles. They were probably, right at this very minute, eating steamed lobsters and gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes. Chanel blinked back hot tears as she pictured it.

  “So,” Eleanor said brightly, inching closer to her on the couch and resting one hand on Chanel’s forearm. “How has your summer been? With Porsha gone I’ve hardly seen you at all, and it’s only a matter of days before you kids are off to New Haven!”

  “It’s been okay.” Chanel forced a smile as she squirmed on the couch. She’d spent the last four weeks wandering around the city under the pretense of getting her fill of New York in before leaving it behind. In truth, she was just trying to distract herself. Unfortunately, everywhere she went—to the Central Park pond, to feed the mallards; to the mod boutiques on 12th Street, to shop; to the steps of the Met, to drink coffee; even her one venture into Brooklyn to see a warehouse art show—reminded her of her friends. They’d grown up together and experienced the city together, and, supposedly, they were leaving it behind together. But here she was, completely alone.

  “Just the usual. Nothing special,” Chanel finished, noticing how lean Eleanor’s legs were. Maybe she should take a Pilates class too.

  “Nothing special!” Eleanor exclaimed in the way that only mothers can. “May I remind you that your first feature film is going to be released very soon, and you’re starting Yale in a week and a half!” She squeezed Chanel’s knee so hard it hurt.

  Chanel knew that she had a lot to be excited about, but she just couldn’t seem to match Eleanor’s enthusiasm. Maybe it was because the thought of heading to Yale in ten days with Kaliq and Porsha and watching them be blissfully in love for four torturous years loomed over everything. “Has Porsha...mentioned me at all when you’ve talked to her?”

  Eleanor grabbed a white silk handkerchief from the antique coffee table and began to frantically pat her brow with the soft cloth, then sprayed herself thoroughly with an Evian facial mister and dabbed at her face again. “I’m sorry, dear, but is it hot i
n here? I’m telling you, never turn forty-seven. The hot flashes are unbearable!” She sighed dramatically, throwing the now-damp hanky behind her. “Now, sweetheart, what were you saying?”

  Chanel shrugged her shoulders, not at all fazed by Eleanor’s outrageous behavior. At least there was one thing around here that wasn’t going to change. She just wished she had Porsha or Kaliq to giggle with her about it.

  Davita flounced back into the room, snapping her cell phone shut with a decisive click. “Okay, ladies,” she said, breaking into an enormous smile, her obvious veneers wide and white. “Where were we?”

  “Well...” Eleanor motioned to Chanel, her gold Cartier bracelets clinking loudly against one another. “I was just telling Chanel we have a lot to celebrate right now. In addition to everyone leaving for college, there’s—”

  “We’re hoooooooome!” A taunting, singsongy girl’s voice called out from the foyer, a voice Chanel would know anywhere. Her heart fluttered. The sound of bags being thrown onto the marble floor was followed by the unmistakable patter of Porsha’s light, quick steps. Chanel swallowed hard, watching as Kaliq and Porsha appeared in the doorway of the Sinclaire Campbells’ massive antique-strewn living room, hands clasped, looking sun-kissed, glowing, and more gorgeous than ever.

  As if that were even possible.

  Kaliq’s green eyes lit up when he spotted Chanel sitting on the couch, and she smiled weakly, her stomach folding like pancake batter. Just the sight of him in his stained and wrinkled cutoff khakis and ratty gray T-shirt made her feel lightheaded. The last time she’d seen him, standing at the top of the staircase at her family’s house in Ridgefield while she hovered at the bottom, the whole world had gone quiet as she overheard him telling Porsha he loved her. Loved. With those words ringing in her ears, something in Chanel had finally clicked. She’d watched him lead Porsha upstairs and right then she knew as surely as she’d ever known anything that she loved Kaliq. And now that he was standing right in front of her with her on-again-off-again best friend, she knew it was really true. She loved Kaliq with her entire heart. It was something she’d always known, deep down. Why hadn’t she done anything about it until it was too late?