“Hey.” Vanity Laurent sidled up next to her, appearing as if out of nowhere. She wore a tight royal blue dress and towering Miu Miu platforms that made her a full two inches taller than India. She was holding the hand of a very cute, aristocratic-looking guy. “Great party!” She leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
Mwah, mwah!
“Marcelo Cashman,” the guy said, holding out his hand. India took it, batting her eyelashes. “I know your sister. She’s been walking my family’s dogs. Is she coming tonight?” he asked warmly. Vanity stared daggers at him.
India nodded, noticing now how good-looking Marcelo was. Why had Baby never mentioned him? Then again, Baby always went for stoners like Ace, not pretty, Upper East Side billionaires-in-training. She probably hadn’t even noticed.
“I got you another drink.” Vanity handed India a vodka cocktail, and she took it gratefully. “I thought you might need one—it’s so hard to be a hostess and take care of your own needs, especially when it’s such a great party.”
India grinned, too tipsy to detect the hint of sarcasm in Vanity’s voice. Vanity had been true to her word, and dozens of kids India had never even met were now crowding into the sunroom. The caterers India had insisted on hiring had long since gone, and Grandmother India’s white couch was full of half-eaten rolls and half-naked couples. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her black satin hostess dress, feeling like quite the hostess herself.
“Thanks so much for coming!” India spontaneously pulled Vanity into a hug. Maybe it was the millions of tiny lights installed all around the room, but Vanity somehow looked different tonight. Even her freaky green eyes weren’t as irritating as they’d always seemed. She squeezed Vanity’s arm as she carefully polished off her wine and then took a sip of the cocktail Vanity had made for her.
Didn’t Grandmother India ever warn her about mixing her drinks?
“Of course! I hope you have lots more parties in the future. I’d be happy to help with all of them. And I meant to say it before, but good luck with the election tomorrow.” Vanity smiled warmly at India as she tugged Marcelo’s hand to lead him away.
“So how come you’re not wearing your new dress?” Marcelo asked as they surveyed the crowded room. Marcelo had been true to his word as well and had bought her a pink princess dress, exactly as she’d described it. But it was absurdly frilly, with layers of bubble gum pink taffeta, and she would’ve looked like a giant cupcake in it.
“What, you don’t like what I’m wearing?” Vanity deflected the question, gesturing to her body-hugging dress. Marcelo knew better than to say she didn’t look good, so the point was pretty much moot.
“No, you look great,” Marcelo conceded. “But remind me again why you canceled the loft party?” he pressed. His hazel eyes scanned the crowd as if looking for someone. “I mean, you were the one who said you didn’t want a house party. My dad had everything ready. He was disappointed.”
Vanity shrugged. Couldn’t he just let it go? And did he have to sound so disapproving? “I changed my mind,” she said lightly, and lifted her face up for a kiss. She wished she could tell him that she really didn’t have a choice. India Cartwright held her social universe in the palm of her hand, and unless Vanity stopped her, her entire life would be over. She suddenly turned the stereo up, and Kanye thumped through the house. “That’s better.” She flicked off the lights, plunging the room into sexy, dim shadows that played off the floor-to-ceiling windows. She started to make her way to the kitchen to pour India a shot, but Marcelo grabbed her arm.
“It’s pretty noisy in here—want to go chill outside?” he yelled over the pounding music.
“I want to drink more first!” she yelled back, shaking his arm away and continuing in the direction of the kitchen.
“Fine, I’m out of here,” Marcelo replied shortly. “Enjoy the party.” He walked quickly through throngs of people grinding downstairs and out the front door.
Wonder where he’s off to in such a hurry...
Vanity rolled her eyes. Fine. Marcelo could be lame. She was on a mission to give India Cartwright exactly what she deserved. Starting with another drink of something that did not mix well with wine or vodka.
Across the room, Trey watched India gulp down her cocktail, a shot glass in her other hand. He was about to tell her to slow down when he noticed Reese in a corner, sitting on an antique chair with the girl from the waxing place perched on his lap. They looked like they were ready to make out any second. Trey couldn’t believe how well his plan was working. He gave Reese a discreet nod of approval.
India suddenly stormed over, her drink sloshing onto the floor. “Who’s that?” She followed his gaze. “Is that couple having sex on Grandma’s chair?”
Trey was laughing at his prim-but-plastered sister when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. The scent of apples filled the air. “Hey,” Kat whispered, her eyes dancing mischievously. She was wearing the same tight black halter dress she’d worn the night they met. Had she chosen it on purpose?
Wear the same outfit to two parties? I should hope not!
Trey glanced nervously at Reese. He shivered, a mixture of adrenaline and fear coursing through him.
“It looks like he’s doing better.” Kat discreetly gestured toward Reese and Astra, and Trey nodded. She nodded too, then smiled so sexily he stopped worrying about Reese. Then she bit her lip. “Do you think I should say hi to him?” she asked, looking up at him for approval.
“I guess.” Trey felt his heart pounding in his chest.
“And then maybe I could find you later?” she whispered near his ear. He felt her hot breath on his neck. He nodded wordlessly and waited, unable to breathe, as she stepped away from him and marched over to Reese.
“I thought that swimmer dude and that Seaton Arms girl had broken up,” Brittany whispered across the makeshift bar to a very dateless Draya as they both watched Kat enter Reese’s sight line. Brittany was wearing a black bubble dress that looked more like a tent.
Draya shrugged and poured a liberal splash of vodka into her crystal tumbler. "Forget them. Can we please discuss the wonder that is Trey Cartwright? I guess the rumors are true because he is beyond gorgeous, but he seems to be too busy making guy friends to even give a second glance to the ladies."
"Don’t worry, I’ll fix that." Brittany winked.
"And I must admit, India's style is admittedly impeccable," Draya added, peering around the opulent room. "But as we all know, looking perfect just means you've got more to hide..."
"Well, Baby is anything but innocent," Brittany piped up, making it clear that The Cartwright triplets had certainly established themselves as the ones to talk about on Manhattan’s Golden Mile. "Exhibit A: her expansive knowledge of French curse words. Like, why so angry?"
"Well, French is the language of love—maybe that’s all she needs." Draya shrugged.
“Hey, Reese.”
Reese looked up and his eyes widened in surprise. Kat looked amazing in a tight black dress that showed off her athletic shoulders, thin legs, and glowing honey complexion. He practically shoved Astra off him. She was nice and all, but he had really only been interested in her to make Kiara jealous. Which, apparently, had worked.
“Hey.” Reese grinned back, standing up to face her.
“I’m Kiara,” she said, holding out her hand to Astra.
“Astra.” She stood and smiled politely back, brushing the wrinkles out of her silver tunic.
“I just wanted to say how lucky you are to have met Reese. He’s terrific,” Kiara said to Astra, as if Reese weren’t in the room or, oh, her ex-boyfriend of only a few days.
Reese’s smile faltered. Something was wrong. She should be breaking down and crying and running off right now, at which point he would apologize to Astra, chase after Kiara, and they would spend the rest of the evening cuddling in his bed, whispering I love you’s and I’m sorry’s. In the morning they’d eat lemon scones and laugh over how silly and overly dramatic their “br
eakup” had been, glad to have a funny story for their children someday.
And in what world besides a Tyler Perry movie does this actually happen?
Astra smiled as she tried to grab Reese’s arm and pull him toward her. He took a step away, his eyes locked on Kiara’s face.
“So, how’d you two meet?” Kiara asked in her slow, melodious voice. It sounded like she was actually interested. And then it occurred to him: Kiara was totally over him and couldn’t care less if he hooked up with Astrid or Astro or whatever the hell her name was.
Reese felt like he was moving underwater as he walked away from the two girls without another word. He had to get out into the fresh air. As he walked, he grabbed a bottle of vodka and practically slammed into Trey, who was standing expressionless by the doorway.
“Hey, you okay, man?” Trey asked in concern. He had purposely placed himself far enough away so he couldn’t hear the conversation between Reese and Kat, but from the wild-eyed look on Reese’s face, it hadn’t gone well.
“No,” Reese choked. The room was too hot and too crowded. He felt like he was about to explode just standing there. Not really knowing what else to do, he jumped into the pool, splashing everyone. He stood up in the water, still holding the bottle of vodka, his button-down and jeans completely drenched.
“Hey!” India boomed, swaying on her Louboutin heels.
Vanity grabbed India's arm and escorted her towards Draya, Brittany, and the alcohol. “Looks like you need another drink!”
“Hey, are you okay?” Trey leaned over the pool. A group of half-naked L’École girls looked on, pretending to be very interested in the patterns of ash their Gauloises cigarettes made as they flicked them in the water.
“No,” Reese sputtered. He stood in the three-foot-deep water and rubbed water out of his eyes. Tears mixed with chlorine on his face. “Kiara...She’s...she’s fine,” Reese sputtered, pulling himself out of the water. “It’s really over.”
“Well, who cares? You’ve got Astra! She’s sexy as hell!” Trey tried to pump his buddy up as he passed him his own glass of straight Ketel One.
Reese shook his head and pulled himself out of the pool. “Bro, I can’t do this. I’m fucking wet!” He looked down as if he had just realized this. “I need to leave now.”
Trey looked at Reese, dripping wet and clearly on the verge of full-on sobs, and felt unspeakably guilty. He’d thought Reese was really starting to get over Kat, but maybe he’d only thought that because he wanted it to be true.
“You probably need to stay here with your sister, right?” Reese asked in a monotone, answering his own question.
Trey put down his drink, considering. Reese was his friend. But Kat was...Kat.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, man,” Trey apologized, feeling like shit. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” he asked halfheartedly, looking at Reese’s drenched limited-edition black Converses.
“Yeah,” Reese choked, hardly able to get the word out. His feet made a squishing sound with each step as he put the pool, the party, and the love of his life behind him.
29
“So, I really like Trey Cartwright,” Brittany Bennett remarked, half passed out on Malik Moore’s lap in a reclining chair next to the pool. “But, you know, I’m open to anything tonight.” Malik’s eyes widened in anticipation as she threw her thin arms around his bulky neck.
The party had been raging for the past four hours, and now, past 1 a.m., it was starting to really heat up. The pool was full of girls in bras and panties that left nothing to the imagination, especially in the water. The liquor cabinet had been completely ransacked, and India had spent the last hour enthusiastically hugging everyone she encountered and trying to remember their names.
Which is difficult when you’re so drunk you can’t even remember your own.
“Hey, you know that right now, if you do anything, it’s not consensual,” Sydney yelled up to Malik as she climbed out of the pool, wearing a white tank top and boy shorts that had turned practically transparent. Malik looked overwhelmed to have one girl climbing on top of him and another standing nearly nude in front of him. He was momentarily mesmerized by Sydney’s numerous piercings. “Think about consent is all I’m saying.” Sydney glared at him and stalked off.
Over in the sunroom, India was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by dozens of new friends. Take that, Satchel, she thought drunkenly, thinking of the five-year-old who lived in Vanity Laurent’s house. Grandmother India would be so proud of her. She was about to win that election—which would totally be in the bag once everyone picked up the gift bags on the way out. She’d had necklaces made at a darling custom-design shop on Prince Street. I = SLBO was written out in tiny, delicate script in white gold, so it looked ghetto-fabulous in a sort of downtown, cash-meets-trash way.
Hasn’t she ever heard of campaign buttons?
“I’m so glad we’re friends now,” India told Vanity, enunciating each word carefully. The whole night, Vanity had been at her side, getting her more drinks, suggesting everyone do shots, starting a game of Never Have I Ever in the pool, and keeping a steady playlist of great music blaring through the speakers. India hugged her new friend. Vanity was awesome. She couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been about her.
“Me too,” Vanity said, extracting herself from India’s tight grip. “I’ll be right back.” Vanity made her way out the townhouse’s front door and onto the stoop. It was quiet out here, except for the thumping of Rihanna's “You Needed Me” behind her. Unlike India, she had only had a few drinks, and the cool September air completely did away with any residual buzz. She pulled out her iPhone and dialed 311, New York’s government information and complaint line. She listened to staticky Frank Sinatra hold music as she looked up at the blue-black sky.
“Hello, this is Marion, how may I help you?” a bored-sounding woman on the other end of the line finally answered.
“Hi, I need to make a noise complaint,” Vanity said sweetly.
“Address?” the woman asked in a raspy voice.
Vanity looked at the iron plate screwed onto the oak door of the building. “64 East 61st Street.” She smiled as she heard the bass thumping through the door. By tomorrow, India Cartwright would be a complete nobody.
Hope she’s enjoying her last drink.
“Okay, ma’am, we’ll have someone investigate.” Marion hung up and Vanity quickly scurried into the party, turning up Fetty Wap on the iPod docking station as she collided with a nearly naked Sydney, wearing only boy shorts and a sheer tank top. She stalked over to the corner of the pool and yanked a semi-conscious Brittany off Malik Moore’s lap.
“We’ve got to go now,” she snapped.
“But Malik and I were just getting to know each other!” Brittany protested as Malik smiled lasciviously, stroking his half beard.
“You don’t want to get to know him, trust me,” Vanity said, still trying to yank Brittany into a semi-standing position. Just then sirens wailed outside and there was an authoritative knock on the door.
India walked to the door, smiling and holding two bottles of rum. She looooved parties, especially when people were still coming this late. But as she yanked open the door, instead of cute St. Jude’s boys, she saw one short, squat woman and one super-tall, thin man, both clad in New York City Police Department uniforms. Ohmigod. India stood speechless.
And drunk.
“Noise complaint.” The short brunette officer held up a badge. Kids began streaming out the front door, eager to escape before their parents found out. The taller, male police officer shut the door and stood in front of it, causing a tide of people to rush back to the living room, where someone thoughtfully turned the music off and the lights on. India could see cups all over the floor and mysterious puddles in different areas. For a second, she imagined how trashed the upstairs must be and then snapped to attention. Obviously the cops weren’t here to see if the house was a mess.
“Whose party is this?” the female officer, whose ta
g read OFFICER BEECHER, asked, looking around. Without the music, people had gathered into groups of twos and threes. Malik had taken Grandmother India’s rare edition of The Collected Works of Shakespeare off the shelf and was reading a monologue from Othello in a baritone voice. Officer Beecher raised an eyebrow at him, then looked back at India.
“We’re just having play rehearsal.” Malik shrugged, trying to save India.
How sweet.
“It’s my party,” India said, trying to make her voice as authoritative as possible. She set the two bottles of rum down on the sofa, hoping the officers hadn’t noticed. Trey came up behind her.
“Shit,” he whispered and put his arm around her protectively.
“Do you have ID?” Officer Beecher asked.
India shook her head miserably. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. They couldn’t arrest her, could they?
“Okay.” The male police officer frowned. “Do you have a party permit?”
“This is my grandmother’s house!” India said shrilly.
“Okay, well, we received a noise complaint. Where is your grandmother? Is she here?” Officer Beecher asked.
“She’s dead!” India wailed. Both officers rolled their eyes.
“Well, according to what we have here, the house is the property of a Meyers and Mooreland law firm. Unfortunately, until we speak with the owner of this house, we need to arrest you for trespassing. Put your hands behind your back.”
India’s heart flew into her throat. She wasn’t a criminal.
“Look, officer. I’m her brother...” Trey began, but neither of the officers seemed to hear him.
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