Porsha dropped her crystal-cut tumbler to the ground, where it landed with a thud. “Can we make it over this?” She stood on her tiptoes to more closely examine the redwood fence that separated the Winter estate from the Braxton residence.
Of course you can. In heels.
“Definitely.” Chanel placed her glass on the spongy grass and pulled herself up onto the fence.
Porsha followed her, easily maneuvering her body over the fence and landing on the grassy lawn beyond it. She inspected her white dress—there was a stain across the bodice from where she’d touched the fence. “Shit,” she swore.
No pain, no gain.
“Porsha? Chanel?”
Porsha looked up from her ruined dress to find exactly who she’d secretly hoped to find in the Braxtons’ yard. “Hello, Kaliq.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
“I heard someone scream. I thought it was a wild animal or something.” Kaliq looked dazed, like he’d been napping.
Or smoking, more likely.
“I was worried about you guys,” he went on.
“That’s sweet,” Porsha cooed, reaching out to take Chanel’s hand. “Now take us home.”
“What do you mean?” Kaliq blinked, staring at them like he was still trying to figure out if they were real or just a mirage. “Home, here? Of course. Come on in—”
“No, home!” Porsha and Chanel shrieked in unison. Then they took off running across the perfectly trimmed lawn toward the driveway, where Kaliq’s father’s pride and joy, a green Aston Martin convertible, sat basking in the cool night air.
Road trip!
12
“Well, well, well, look what the hairless cat dragged in.” Jaylen Harrison slid his Christian Roth sunglasses down his nose and fired a crooked smile at Yasmine. She’d barely taken two steps into Bailey Winter’s expansive yard before Jaylen had stepped into her path and started clucking at her. His pet snow monkey, Sweetie, was perched on his shoulder, wearing a sequined sailor outfit, bobbing up and down on its hind legs and tugging at the collar of Jaylen's pale pink polo. It occurred to Yasmine that Sweetie was quite possibly using it as toilet paper.
“Oh, hey, Jaylen.” She vaguely remembered that this guy was bad news—Mekhi didn’t like him for some reason, and she’d heard people gossip about him, although you couldn’t ever really trust that.
Is that a fact?
“You just missed the show, honey.” Jaylen popped his polo collar back into place and smiled insinuatingly. “Porsha and Chanel, up to their old tricks.”
“Thank God they’re here.” Yasmine released an audible sigh of relief. After all, she’d come specifically to see them, following a hot tip from the nanny next door, an Irish girl named Siobhan who, despite being a servant like Yasmine, seemed to be at the center of the Hamptons social scene. She felt moderately self-conscious about her outfit—actual black shorts that she hadn’t just cut off herself and a simple black cotton top she’d bought at H&M just before leaving for Amagansett—but she figured it would be okay since her friends were here.
“They were, darling.” Jaylen was distractedly checking his text messages. “You totally missed it. Hurricane Porsha left some real damage in her wake.”
Behind him the scene was pandemonium: a deeply tanned near-midget was kneeling by the edge of the swimming pool crying hysterically, while a thick crowd of gorgeous gay men moved further and further away from him. Standing nearby, in the middle of some orange-splattered white pillows, were two very familiar girls. “But isn’t that—”
“Porsha and Chanel? Don’t be fooled, darling. Total impostors. Look closely.” Jaylen went back to texting on his iPhone.
Yasmine looked again and realized that Jaylen was right—the girls she’d first taken for Porsha and Chanel were not quite as pretty or healthy-looking as the originals. The fact that their once-white outfits were both marred by sloppy, barfy-looking stains further cemented it. She squinted at them, realizing they were the faux versions she’d seen on the beach only hours before.
Just what she needed—a reminder of her horrible afternoon with the terror twins. The rest of their time at the beach had been uneventful enough, but the moment they returned to the house, Ms. Morgan had dug into her about what SPF she’d used on the boys, what books they’d read, and how she’d really prefer Yasmine not ruin their dinner with Cheez-Its. Yasmine had nodded patiently, then raced to her upstairs room and quickly changed into something relatively presentable. Then she’d dashed out of the house and into the night, refusing to let the minor fact that she didn’t have either a driver’s license or a car get in her way. She’d grabbed one of the twins’ tiny bicycles from the hook from which it was suspended and pedaled toward civilization, figuring that it would only be a matter of time before she came across someone who could direct her to where Porsha and Chanel might be. Luckily, she’d bumped into Siobhan after about one block.
“Do you know where they went?” Yasmine turned to see Jaylen disappearing into the crowd, his hand raised high above his head to avoid spilling his drink.
Great. No Porsha, no Chanel, and now, no Jaylen. Yasmine had a vision of herself alone, shivering on the beach, trying to avoid the perverts and murderous models.
Just another night in East Hampton.
Well, there’s only one cure for a lonely night, Yasmine reasoned as she dove into the crowd, slipping through a trio of shirtless musclemen, making a beeline for—where else?—the bar.
“Vodka martini.” She smiled at the bartender, giving him her best yes-I’m-on-the-guest-list look. She almost never drank, but holding a martini might give her a new outlook on life.
The bartender went right to work and smoothly handed over a glass. Clutching the stem, Yasmine turned back into the crowd, unsure who to talk to. There was Jaylen, laughing as he made small talk with a very tall man, and there were the two impostors from the beach, frowning and pathetically dabbing at their stained outfits with damp napkins.
Tough choice.
Yasmine wove through a thicket of linen-pants-clad types, heading toward the edge of the pool. “We meet again,” she offered by way of introduction. “I’m Yasmine.”
The light skinned girl stared at her dumbly through her tear-blurred slightly crossed eyes.
“You again.” The faux Porsha glared at her. “We must go change.” The girl grabbed her friend’s hand and started walking away from Yasmine. “Maybe you should also change.”
Yasmine resisted the urge to pitch her drink at the girl’s bucktoothed face.
Sliding off her flip-flops, she took a seat and dangled her feet into the aqua-colored water. She sipped her martini nervously, trying to drink her way through that horrible I’m-at-a-party-and-no-one-is-talking-to-me shame. Then she glanced at her watch, fiddled with her outfit, and stared at the placid surface of the swimming pool, pretending to be engrossed in each task.
“Yooo-hooo. Excuse me, dear.”
Had someone called security?
Yasmine turned oh-so-casually to come face-to-face with Bailey Winter himself, the gaytastic designer she’d crossed paths with on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s the day before she was fired, and the host of the party she just happened to be crashing.
“Hi!” She smiled enthusiastically, hoping to make him forget he hadn’t invited her to his soirée.
“Oh dear.” The designer produced a silk hankie from the breast pocket of his navy blue blazer and dabbed at his red eyes with the tip of it. “My cushions, you see—they’re ruined.”
Yasmine frowned at the booze-stained ivory cushions perched at the edge of the pool. “That’s too bad.”
“Oh, every cloud has a silver lining, honey,” he announced dramatically, his tears spontaneously drying up. “And dare I say, I think you are positively sterling! Who are you and where did you come from? You’re just the most delicious little thing.” Still clutching his handkerchief, Bailey Winter reached up and caressed Yasmine’s cheek.
Silk and snot. How
lovely.
“I’m, um, looking for some friends of mine. Porsha and Chanel?”
“Yes, those two vixens, well, who knows where they’ve gone off to—and who cares!” He gripped her upper arm tightly with his small hand. “You’re what I’ve been looking for. You’re the new new new look. At last!”
“Excuse me?” Yasmine wanted to back away, but if she did, she’d fall into the pool.
“You must stay with me this summer,” he continued, enraptured. “Your energy, your profile, your...baldness. They’re positively inspiring! Say you will, my dear. Spend the night. At least one night. Please. Don’t make Uncle Bailey beg,”
“Stay here?” Yasmine surveyed the scene once more: a modern glass-and-concrete mansion, a glittering blue pool, hundreds of perfectly dressed and groomed men, chilled martinis—it was like a Fellini film, if Fellini had ever made a movie about summer in the Hamptons. She felt a surge of creativity that almost took her breath away. Of course! A movie, in the Hamptons! An impressionistic documentary, inter-splicing party footage with first-person interviews, documenting the creative process of one of the fashion industry’s leading forces. Not to mention that it beat the shit out of booger patrol at the James-Morgans'. “Stay here...” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Why, yes. I’d love to.”
She would?
13
“Turn it up!” Kaliq cupped the flame of Chanel’s dainty silver lighter, trying to light a cigarette as Chanel navigated the convertible along the deserted Long Island Expressway.
Best way to beat the summer traffic? Set out in the middle of the night.
His cigarette lit, Kaliq tossed the lighter back onto the empty passenger seat in front of him. Chanel reached over and cranked up the volume as high as it would go, but even that loud, Fetty Wap distinctive warble was barely audible over the whoosh of wind.
“I’m cold. Can’t we put the top up?” Porsha wrapped her arms around herself and frowned.
“I don’t know how it works,” Kaliq admitted. “But I can help keep you warm if you like.” He draped his left arm around her shoulder protectively.
Just like old times.
Porsha leaned into the front of the car and grabbed the cardigan Chanel had abandoned there. “And I’m tired. Whose bright idea was it to stop for dinner?” She pulled the sweater on and leaned back into the leather upholstery.
It had been Porsha’s suggestion, actually, that they get dinner. She’d wanted to stop at a diner in Merritt—she and her dad had always stopped there on their family trips to Southampton when she was a kid—but they’d gotten lost, and it had taken an hour and a half just to find it. Kaliq decided not to remind her of this.
“Maybe you should take a little nap,” he suggested.
“We’ll be there soon,” Chanel chimed in from the front seat. “I can almost smell the city.”
Kaliq sniffed at the cool, damp air. He couldn’t smell anything but the gritty burn of his cigarette and the honey-almond aroma of Porsha’s hair. He couldn’t see much, either, just the vague outlines of the car and his friends, and the dark void of that along-the-highway wilderness, which was barely illuminated by the thin sliver of the summer moon. After a couple of other pit stops—to fill up the tank, to take dorky pictures of the three of them making faces in front of different scenic spots, to stock up on cigarettes and soda and junk food—they’d managed to waste most of the night. It seemed almost impossible that in a few hours Kaliq was supposed to climb back on that shitty bicycle and show up at Coach Michaels’s house for another day of hard labor and sexual harassment.
Guess he’ll be calling in sick. Again.
“So what’s our plan, anyway?” Chanel glanced over her shoulder and into the backseat. “Where exactly am I driving us?”
“Let’s go to the Ritz.” Porsha hopped up and down in her seat like a little kid who had to pee. “Let’s get a suite and order room service and sleep all day tomorrow.”
“How about we go right to the Three Guys coffee shop and we pig out on pancakes?” Chanel suggested.
Kaliq weighed the options: a hotel room shared with Porsha and Chanel or a greasy early morning breakfast.
Decisions, decisions.
But Kaliq had his own plan. He’d been going over it in his head for a couple of days now, ever since Anthony told him to seize the day. And know he knew what he wanted: an impromptu summer cruise on his dad’s boat. He could just picture it. He’d navigate them out of the New York harbor, the sun rising over the East River. They’d head north, toward the Cape, and eventually toward his parents’ place in Mt. Desert Island, Maine. They’d spend the rest of the summer lounging around on the sun-drenched deck in their underwear. They’d dive overboard and splash around in the cool water like kids. They’d pull into small towns so he could stock up on cigarettes and beer and Porsha could buy magazines and whatever else she needed. Then, when they’d worked up an appetite from fishing or swimming or making love, he and Porsha would raid the fully stocked kitchen, eating pickles directly out of the jar with their fingers.
Forgetting about someone?
That was the summer he was supposed to be having, and at last, he was seizing the day. The only problem was, well...Chanel. Never mind that he and Porsha weren’t quite a couple again. They’d had ups and downs for as long as they’d known each other, but they always came back to the same point: they were supposed to be together. And that point was coming again. That point was on the Charlotte. Kaliq closed his eyes, trying desperately to think of a guy they could bring along on their grand voyage to keep Chanel occupied while he worked on winning back Porsha. Jeremy? Anthony? Nah, she was out of their league.
He flicked his cigarette out of the car and cleared his throat. “I’ve got it,” he announced. “Let’s get the Charlotte. Then we’ll just, like, sail away.”
“Cool!” Chanel took both hands off the wheel and clapped them together. “Kaliq, you’re a genius!”
“I don’t know.” Porsha sat up. “I kind of just feel like taking a shower and going to bed.”
Porsha fidgeted in her seat, her knee brushing against Kaliq’s. Was she doing that on purpose? It sent a palpable surge of electricity through his body. He felt more clear-headed and aware than he had in months. It was like everything that had happened to him lately—getting in trouble and almost not graduating, getting shipped off to slave labor in the Hamptons, having that weird short-lived romance with Tawny—had been leading him right here, to this moment. Never mind that he was going to bail on work in a matter of hours, never mind that he had stolen his father’s prized possession, never mind that he might not get his diploma—he was with Porsha, and when they were together it was like everything else in the world was just...right.
“There’s a shower on board,” Chanel reminded Porsha, picking up her vibrating and blinking iPhone from her lap. “Don’t be a baby,” she called over her shoulder. “Hello?” she answered her cell phone. Who the hell was calling at four in the morning?
“Hey Chanel. How are you? It’s Trey. You know, your downstairs neighbor at the town house on 71st Street?”
Chanel smiled quietly at the road. Porsha was so not expecting this call.
“Hey!” She responded in her friendliest, most upbeat voice. Trey was cute but totally forgettable. After the Breakfast at Fred’s wrap party, that’s exactly what both girls had done—forgotten about him. But Chanel wasn’t the girl Trey had had the hots for, anyway. “I guess you want to talk to Porsha.” She shifted into fourth gear around a tight curve in the road.
“Kind of,” Trey admitted.
“Hold on.” Chanel tossed her phone behind her, accidentally hitting Porsha in the nose.
Porsha had been happily ensconced in one of her epic movielike reveries starring herself and Kaliq naked on a beach in St. Barts, kissing on the sand while the waves splashed over their bodies. She took the phone. Probably it was her mother, wondering why there was a $10,000 charge at Neiman Marcus on her AmEx.
“He
llo?” she said with some annoyance. Kaliq’s leg was so warm against hers. She rested her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort while she prepared to have an extremely annoying conversation. “What is it now, Mom?”
“No, it’s me, Trey,” a boy’s voice responded gruffly on the other end.
Porsha lifted her head from Kaliq’s shoulder and held the phone away from her face. Who?
She glanced at Kaliq’s profile. He was beginning to nod off, and she wanted to grab him and slip her hands under his shirt, just to feel his warm skin beneath her fingers.
“Hello? Porsha?” Trey’s voice squawked out of Chanel’s phone. Porsha hung the phone up and tossed it into the passenger seat.
“Porsha!” Chanel scolded. The two girls giggled, sharing a glance through their reflections in the rearview mirror.
Kaliq shifted in his seat. “What’s so funny?” he mumbled, making them laugh even harder.
Then Porsha turned, catching Kaliq staring right at her. But before he could look away, embarrassed, she let one eyelid fall in the sexiest, most unexpected wink Kaliq had ever seen. “Can I have a smoke?” she finally asked, gently biting her glistening-pink bottom lip.
“Sure.” He dug into his pockets for the pack. Anything for you.
Aw.
Sunrise must have happened during the four minutes it took them to speed through the Midtown Tunnel and into the city: the sky was dark purple when Chanel steered them into the gaping mouth of the tunnel, and by the time the little roadster emerged on the streets of Manhattan, the sun was up, the cars were honking, and it was already starting to get hot.
Kaliq tried not to be too obvious about watching Porsha, which was hard because she was so close he could smell her, could imagine the weight of her body against his if she happened to nod off to sleep, could conjure the soft feeling of her lips and tongue against his on the off chance they just started making out right there in the backseat.
Stop it. Focus. “Just drive downtown.” Kaliq locked eyes with Chanel in the rearview mirror. Did she know what he was thinking? Did she see something?
Upper East Side #10 Page 7