Upper East Side #3

by Ashley Valentine

  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 3

  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.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Author's Note

  1

  “If she was, like, six inches taller, he could rest his chin in her cleavage,” Porsha Sinclaire observed as she watched her ex-boyfriend, Kaliq Braxton, dancing with Brianna Hargrove, the short and extremely buxom ninth grader for whom Kaliq had unexplainably ditched Porsha only a few weeks ago. “But then again, he might have trouble breathing.” Luckily, Porsha had skipped dinner that night. Otherwise she would have headed straight for the ladies' room to vomit in disgust.

  Chanel Crenshaw, Porsha's oldest and newest best friend, shook her silky head in response. “I don't get it,” she said. “I have nothing against Bree, but I always thought you and Kaliq were, like, the perfect couple. You were destined to the spend the rest of your lives together.”

  It was a strange thing for Chanel to say. After all, she and Kaliq had lost their virginity together behind Porsha's back the summer after tenth grade. If any two people were destined for each other, you'd have thought it would have been them. But as with every relationship Chanel had ever had, her little fling with Kaliq had been just a spur-of-the-moment affair. Porsha and Kaliq were the real thing. And they had always been such a reliable fixture—like the doorman in the lobby of Chanel's Fifth Avenue apartment building—that it was impossible to fathom what the future might be like without them as a couple. Through them Chanel sampled what it would be like to be part of a committed relationship, and it was a little scary to see how badly things turned out.

  Porsha gulped her glass of Cristal champagne thirstily. The two girls were sitting alone at a big round table in the opulent ballroom at the St. Claire Hotel. The annual December Black and White Ball was in full swing. Girls in long strappy Versace dresses were dancing with boys in crisp Tom Ford tuxedos, and a gigantic ball made of black and white rose hung from the ceiling. Porsha was having major déjà vu.

  Her mother had been married only a month ago to a loud, sweaty, overweight loser named Cyrus Campbell, and the wedding reception had taken place in that very same room. The wedding had also taken place on Porsha's seventeenth birthday, the day she planned to go all the way with Kaliq. She'd spent hours grooming herself and had played out every moment of how it was going to be over and over in her head. But then she'd stumbled upon Kaliq making out with that little freshman slut in the hotel lobby and realized that in the end, it didn't matter how sexy she looked in her Givenchy maid of honor dress, or how dramatic her hair was, or how high her Manolo Blahnkik stilettos were. Kaliq was too busy groping that fuzzy headed fourteen-year-old's balloon breasts to even notice.

  It had been by far the worst birthday Porsha had ever had. But she wasn't about to dwell on it. She wasn't like that.

  Yeah, right.

  “I don't believe in destiny anymore,” she told Chanel, plonking her crystal champagne flute down on the table and nearly breaking its stem. She ran her fingers through her thick hair, which had been blown out and trimmed earlier that day by Antoine, her favorite hairdresser at the Red Door Salon.

  Chanel laughed and rolled her eyes. “Then how come you're always saying Yale is your destiny?”

  “That's different,” Porsha insisted. Her father had gone to Yale, and Porsha had always dreamed of going there, too. She was at the top of her class at Emma Willard and had extracurriculars coming out of her ass, so applying early admission had seemed like an obvious choice. But during her interview, she'd cracked under pressure and become Porsha, Drama Queen of the Silver Screen. She'd told her interviewer a heartwrenching sob story about how her mother had divorced her gay father and was about to marry a man she barely knew, and how she couldn't wait to go to college so she could start a whole new life. And then she'd kissed her interview—actually stood on her tippy toes and kissed him on his cheek!

  Porsha was always imagining herself as the heroine of some black-and-white fifties movie, in the style of Dorothy Dandridge and Audrey Hepburn, her idols. This time it had been her downfall. Now she'd been forced to apply to Yale regular admission along with everyone else, and she'd even ask her father to donate a Yale study abroad program in France to help give her a leg up. But her chances of getting in were still slim at best.

  Porsha reached for the bottle of Cristal sitting in its silver cooler in the middle of the large round table and filled her glass. “Destiny is for losers. It's just a lame excuse for letting things happen to you instead of making them happen.”

  If only she knew exactly how to make the things she wanted to happen happen without fucking them up completely.

  Chanel's attention span was shorter than that of a newborn puppy, and she had already drunk way too much wine to have such a serious conversation. “Let's not talk about the future for once, okay?” she said. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air above Porsha's head. “You know, that dark skinned guy Tahj's been talking to has been staring at you for the last ten minutes.” She covered her mouth with her long, slender fingers and giggled. “Oops. Here they come.”

  Porsha turned around to find her dreadhead vegan stepbrother, Tahj Campbell, and an extremely tall boy with a polished fade and light brown eyes, wearing a fabulously tailored Armani tux, walking over to their table. The boy drummed his long fingers nervously against his superlong legs and looked down at his shiny black Christian Dior dress shoes, as if he were worried about tripping over them or something. Behind the two boys, the dance floor was heaving with beautifully dressed girls and adorably handsome boys, their arms wound around each other's necks, swaying to a Frank Ocean song.

  “Say something nice to Porsha,” Chanel told Tahj. “She's stressing about the future.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes.

  “Who isn't?” Tahj's pink lips curled down in an apologetic frown. He, Porsha, and Chanel had come to to the ball together, and as soon as they'd arrived, Tahj had left the two girls to drink and smoke cigarettes while he went and found his friends. But Porsha had been kind of wound up and emotional lately, what with their parents' wedding and her lousy Yale interview and everything. She needed all the moral support she cou
ld get. “Sorry. I haven't been a good date. Wanna dance or something?”

  Porsha ignored him. Did she look like she felt like dancing? She glanced at Tahj's tall, handsome friend. “Who are you?”

  The boy grinned. His teeth were even whiter than his shirt. “I'm Miles. Miles Ingram.” Son of Danny Ingram, the famous restaurant and nightclub owner, creator of hot spots such as Gorgon in New York and Trixie in LA, to name just a few.

  “He's in my class at Bronxdale,” Tahj added. "We're starting a reggae band. Miles plays the drums."

  Porsha sipped her champagne, waiting for them to say something that wasn't completely boring. Miles grinned at her and drummed his fingers on the back of an empty chair. “You're much prettier than I thought.”

  He was cute, but the drumming fingers things could get seriously annoying. Porsha didn't smile back. Tahj had probably told Miles she was a total witch, and he'd expected her to have warts on her nose and a broom up her ass.

  Not exactly. Tahj just didn't like to talk about his new stepsister because he wanted to keep her all to himself. He pushed his dreads behind his ears. “And this is is Chanel,” he told Miles.

  Miles gave Chanel's perfectly chiseled face, golden beige skin, long, lithe body, and fantastic black Gucci dress the once-over. He let his eyes linger on her a moment—it was hard not to—before turning back to Tahj. “It's weird. You didn't say anything about Porsha and her friends being so beautiful.”

  Tahj shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

  Porsha and Chanel lit new cigarettes, still waiting for something crazy to happen. Considering the point Porsha had just made about destiny, it was up to them to make it happen.

  Tahj cleared his throat. “Sure you don't want to dance?” he asked Porsha again.

  Porsha noticed that he wasn't wearing a bow tie and that his tuxedo shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at the throat. Apparently he was making a statement. She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew smoke in his face. “No, thanks.”

  The Frank Ocean song ended, and people crowded back to their tables to fill up on alcohol. “My feet are dying!” Alexis Sullivan whined, flinging herself down on a chair opposite Porsha and whipping off her heels.

  “Mine are already dead,” Imani Edwards chimed in, sinking into the chair next to her.

  For the past two years, while Chanel had been away at Hanover Academy in New Hampshire, Imani and Alexis had been glued to Porsha's side. They bought makeup at MAC together, they drank cappuccinos at Le Canard together, and yes, they even went to the bathroom together. Porsha ruled the social scene, so when they were with her they felt famous, getting red carpet treatment everywhere. But just before Columbus Day, Chanel had gotten kicked out of boarding school and reappeared in the city to steal Porsha away from them, and Alexis and Imani had gone back to being plain old Alexis and Imani again.

  “How come you guys aren't dancing?” asked Alexis.

  Porsha shrugged. “I'm not in the mood.”

  Imani sighed. “All we have to do is make it through midterms next week,” she said, mistaking the note of boredom in Porsha's voice for fatigue. “And then we get to go away for Christmas.”

  “You guys are so lucky you're going someplace hot,” Alexis added. “I have to go stupid skiing in stupid Aspen, again.”

  “Well, that's not as bad as my boring country house in Connecticut,” replied Imani.

  “We're going to have so much fun!” Chanel gushed with an excited smiled. Alexis and Imani glared at her.

  Porsha and Chanel were going to St. Bart's together for Christmas break. Porsha's mom and Tahj's dad had spent their honeymoon cruising in the Caribbean and had arranged to meet Porsha, Tahj, and Porsha's little brother, Brice for the holidays at the exclusive Isle de la Paix resort in St. Barts. They were each allowed to bring a friend if they wanted, so after making up in the bathroom during her mother's wedding reception, Porsha had asked Chanel.

  It was true—Chanel and Porsha had finally decided to kiss and make up, and it was about time. How long could you actually stay mad at someone you took baths with in grade school? Porsha may not have been as pretty or as “experienced” as Chanel, but that didn't mean she had to hate her. And Chanel would never be devious or as self-absorbed as Porsha, but that didn't mean she had to fear her. Instead, the two girls had decided to put aside their differences and be pleasant to each other, at least for the time being.

  The question was, now that they were back together, what kind of crazy shenanigans were they going to get into? Of course they'd be back in the city for New Year's Eve. No self-respecting party girl spends New Year's away with her parents after the age of twelve.

  “It's going to be great,” Porsha agreed with a smug smile. She could picture herself perfectly, slick with oil in her new bikini on a pristine white-sand beach, her face masked by enormous sunglasses while sexy guys in surf shorts brought her exotic drinks in coconut shells. She was going to forget about Yale and Kaliq and her mother and Cyrus and just bake herself under the hot island sun. Of course she knew Alexis and Imani were totally jealous that she hadn't asked either one of them to to come to St. Bart's with her, but to be honest, she didn't give a rat's squiggly ass. Only one more week to go.

  Jaylen Harrison came up behind Porhsa and put his big, warm hands on her bare, tennis-toned shoulders. “I just saw Kaliq and that little chick from Willard feeling each other up in the corner,” he announced, as if everyone wanted to know.

  Jaylen was handsome in a manly, aftershave commercial sort of way. He was also the horniest boy in all of New York City. He had tried to molest Chanel when she was passed out drunk in his family's Tribeca Star Hotel suite in October and he almost gotten little Bree Hargrove to take her dress off for him in the ladies' room at the Kiss on the Lips party that same week. Jaylen was the worst sort of slimeball, but they all still put up with him, because he was one of them: He went to a small, private all-boys school; in grade school he'd took tennis lessons and went to dance class and sung in the Fifth Avenue church they all attended. He got invited to the best parties and the most exclusive private sales, just like they all did, and he was born to the high life, just like they all were. Even when he got rejected, Jaylen still came back for more. He was ruthlessly unshakable.

  Porsha tried to shrug his hands away. “So?”

  Jaylen kept his hands right where they were. “Kaliq never got you to give it up, did he?” He began massaging her shoulders. “I was thinking maybe I should be the one to do the honors.”

  Porsha's whole body stiffened. Until that moment, she'd never had much of a problem with Jaylen, but now she understood why Chanel hated his guts. She pushed her chair back, wrenching her shoulders away from his slimy hands, and stood up. “I have to pee,” she announced to the table, ignoring Jaylen entirely. “Then lets get out of here. We can have a party back at my house or something.”

  Tahj stood up and took a step toward her, tucking his dreads behind his ears self-consciously. “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding concerned.

  At that moment, his whole Mr. Sensitive act annoyed Porsha almost as much as Jaylen's sliminess. “I'm fine.” She turned and marched across the room as best as she could wearing four-inch Louboutins and a supertight black Prada dress, keeping her eyes straight ahead of her to avoid the sight of Kaliq with that little Bria bitch, or whatever the hell her name was.

  People were gathering on the dance floor, murmuring excitedly. It looked like Flow—the hottest lead singer in music—was about to make his appearance and announce how much money was raised. But Porsha didn't care. She didn't go crazy over famous people, like most girls. She didn't need to. She was the constant star of the feature film playing in her head, the most famous person she knew.

  2

  Bree had been in a sort of blissed out trance all evening. Before escorting her to the Black and White Ball, Kaliq had dressed up in a new tuxedo, picked her up in a cab, taken her out for sushi, and given her a little turquoise star-shaped pendant
. His green eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and his hair was so perfectly wavy, Bree kept taking mental Polaroids so she could paint a brand new portrait of him in the morning to add to her collection.

  The best part was that after they'd arrived at the ball, Kaliq hadn't dragged her around to talk to people she didn't know. Even Kaliq's boisterous best friends, Jeremy Scott, Anthony Avuldsen, and Charlie Dern, had left them alone. Tonight Kaliq was all hers, happy to just hold her as they kissed quietly in the corner.

  “You know that painting The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt?” Bree gushed, as she looked up Kaliq's adorable face.

  Kaliq frowned. “Not really.”

  “Yes, you do. It's really famous. Anyway, that's what this reminds me of.”

  He shrugged and looked up at the stage. “I think that dude from 45 is about to come out and say something.”

  Bree leaned her back against the wall. Before Kaliq, she would have wet her pants with excitement about seeing a celebrity like Flow, but now all she wanted was to keep kissing him.

  “So?” She giggled and dabbed at her mouth the back of her hand, careful not to smudge her MAC lipstick. “That was nice,” she added quietly.

  “What?” he asked, glancing distractedly around the room.

  “I've never kissed for that long before,” she admitted.

  Kaliq turned back to her and smiled. He'd smoked a joint on the way to pick her up and was still feeling it. He liked the dress Brianna was wearing. It was long and black, cut low in the front and back, with a dramatic white ruffle that flapped around her tiny ankles.

  Bree had bought the dress at Century 21, a discount designer store frequented by bargain hunters and desperately clueless people who would buy anything with a designer label on it. It would take exactly four months worth of allowance to pay her father back for it, but Kaliq didn't have to know that. He thought she looked like a tiny black-and-white angel. An angel with the best set of tits he had ever seen.

  He reached out and rubbed his hands up and down her brown, baby-soft arms. She felt nice, too, nice and warm, like freshly baked bread at a five star restaurant.