The Carlyles

  “Fine, I’m out of here,” J.P. 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 . . .

  Jack rolled her eyes. Fine. J.P. could be lame. She was on a mission to give Avery Carlyle exactly what she deserved. Starting with another drink of something that did not mix well with wine or gin.

  Across the room, Owen watched Avery gulp down her gimlet, a shot glass in her other hand. He was about to tell her to slow down when he noticed Rhys 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. Owen couldn’t believe how well his plan was working. He gave Rhys a discreet nod of approval.

  “Who’s that?” Avery followed his gaze. “Is that couple having sex on Grandma’s chair?” Avery stormed over, her drink sloshing onto the floor. Owen 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 blue 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!

  Owen glanced nervously at Rhys. He shivered, a mixture of adrenaline and fear coursing through him.

  “It looks like he’s doing better.” Kat discreetly gestured toward Rhys and Astra, and Owen nodded.

  Kat nodded thoughtfully, then smiled so sexily Owen stopped worrying about Rhys. Then she bit her lip. “Do you think I should say hi to him?” she asked, looking up at Owen for approval.

  “I guess.” Owen 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 Rhys.

  “I thought that swimmer dude and that Seaton Arms girl had broken up,” Jiffy whispered across the makeshift bar to a very dateless Genevieve as they both watched Kat enter Rhys’s sight line. Jiffy was wearing a pair of Citizens black skinny jeans and a black Diane von Furstenberg bubble dress that looked more like a Lands’ End tent. Genevieve shrugged and poured a liberal splash of vodka into her crystal tumbler.

  “Hey, Rhys.” Rhys looked up and his eyes widened in surprise. She looked amazing in a tight black dress that showed off her athletic shoulders and thin legs. He practically shoved Astra off him. She was nice and all, but he had really only been interested in her to make Kelsey jealous. Which, apparently, had worked.

  “Hey.” Rhys grinned back, standing up to face her.

  “I’m Kelsey,” she said, holding out her hand to Astra.

  “Astra.” She stood and smiled politely back, brushing the wrinkles out of her silver Tory Burch tunic.

  “I just wanted to say how lucky you are to have met Rhys. He’s terrific,” Kelsey said to Astra, as if Rhys weren’t in the room or, oh, her ex-boyfriend of only a few days.

  Rhys’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 Kelsey, 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 “breakup” had been, glad to have a funny story for their children someday.

  And in what world besides a Hilary Duff movie does this actually happen?

  Astra smiled as she tried to grab Rhys’s arm and pull him toward her. He took a step away, his eyes locked on Kelsey’s face.

  “So, how’d you two meet?” Kelsey asked in her slow, melodious voice. It sounded like she was actually interested. And then it occurred to him: Kelsey was totally over him and couldn’t care less if he hooked up with Astrid or Astro or whatever the hell her name was.

  Rhys 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 Citron vodka and practically slammed into Owen, who was standing impassively by the doorway.

  “Hey, you okay, man?” Owen asked in concern. He had purposely placed himself far enough away so he couldn’t hear the conversation between Rhys and Kat, but from the wild-eyed look on Rhys’s face, it hadn’t gone well.

  “No,” Rhys 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 Citron, his button-down and jeans completely drenched.

  “Hey!” Avery boomed, swaying on her Louboutin heels.

  Jack grabbed her arm and escorted her toward Genevieve, Jiffy, and the Tanqueray. “Looks like you need another drink!”

  “Hey, are you okay?” Owen 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,” Rhys sputtered. He stood in the three-foot-deep water and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. Tears mixed with chlorine on his face. “Kelsey . . . She’s . . . she’s fine,” Rhys sputtered, pulling himself out of the water. “It’s really over.”

  “Well, who cares? You’ve got Astra! She’s smokin’!” Owen tried to pump his buddy up as he passed him his own glass of straight Ketel One.

  Rhys shook his head and pulled himself out of the pool. “Dude, I can’t do this. I’m fucking wet!” He looked down as if he had just realized this. “I need to leave now.”

  Owen looked at Rhys, dripping wet and clearly on the verge of full-on sobs, and felt unspeakably guilty. He’d thought Rhys 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?” Rhys asked in a monotone, answering his own question.

  Owen put down his drink, considering. Rhys was his friend. But Kat was . . . Kat.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, man,” Owen apologized, feeling like shit. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” he asked halfheartedly, looking at Rhys’s drenched limited-edition black John Varvatos Converses.

  “Yeah,” Rhys 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.

  Maybe he should try a new look. I hear bushy mustaches are all the rage. . . .

  A’s Law—Whatever Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong

  “So, I really like Owen Carlyle,” Jiffy Bennett remarked, half passed out on Hugh Moore’s lap in a reclining chair next to the pool. “But, you know, I’m open to anything tonight.” Hugh’s brown eyes widened in anticipation as Jiffy 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 La Perla bras and panties that left nothing to the imagination, especially in the water. The liquor cabinet had been completely ransacked, and Avery 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 Hugh as she climbed out of the pool, wearing a white tank top and boy shorts that had turned practically transparent. Hugh 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 Hugh and stalked off.

  Over in the solarium, Avery was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by doz
ens of new friends. Take that, Satchel, she thought drunkenly, thinking of the five-year-old who lived in Jack Laurent’s house. Grandmother Avery 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. A = 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,” Avery told Jack, enunciating each word carefully. The whole night, Jack 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. Avery hugged her new friend. Jack was awesome. She couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been about her.

  “Me too, Ave,” Jack said, extracting herself from Avery’s tight grip. “I’ll be right back.”

  She made her way out the town house’s front door and onto the stoop. It was quiet out here, except for the thumping of Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around Comes Around” behind her. Unlike Avery, she had only had a few drinks, and the cool September air completely did away with any residual buzz.

  Jack pulled out her Treo 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,” Jack said sweetly.

  “Address?” the woman asked in a raspy voice.

  Jack looked at the iron plate screwed onto the oak door of the building. “Sixty-four East Sixty-first Street.” She smiled as she heard the bass thumping through the door. By tomorrow, Avery Carlyle would be a complete nobody.

  Hope she’s enjoying her last drink . . .

  “Okay, ma’am, we’ll have someone investigate.” Marion hung up and Jack quickly scurried into the party, turning up Nas on the Bose dock 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 Jiffy off Hugh Moore’s lap.

  “We’ve got to go now,” she snapped.

  “But Hugh and I were just getting to know each other!” Jiffy protested as Hugh smiled lasciviously, stroking his half beard.

  “You don’t want to get to know him, trust me,” Jack said, still trying to yank Jiffy into a semi-standing position. Just then sirens wailed outside and there was an authoritative knock on the door.

  Avery 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. Avery 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. Avery 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 tag read OFFICER BEECHER, asked, looking around. Without the music, people had gathered into groups of twos and threes. Hugh had taken Grandmother Avery’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 Avery.

  “We’re just having play rehearsal.” Hugh shrugged, trying to save Avery.

  How sweet.

  “It’s my party,” Avery said, trying to make her voice as authoritative as possible. She set the two bottles of rum down on the settee, hoping the officers hadn’t noticed. Owen came up behind her.

  “Shit,” he whispered and put his arm around her protectively.

  “Do you have ID?” Officer Beecher asked. Avery 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!” Avery said shrilly.

  “Okay, well, we received a noise complaint. Where is your grandmother? Is she here?” Officer Beecher asked.

  “She’s dead!” Avery 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.”

  Avery’s heart flew into her throat. She wasn’t a criminal.

  “Look, officer. I’m her brother . . .” Owen began, but neither of the officers seemed to hear him.

  “It won’t hurt,” the male officer said as the cold metal snaked around Avery’s wrists and locked with a sickening clank.

  “Okay, party’s over,” the female officer announced to the crowd. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone was already running in all directions.

  “After party at my place!” Hugh yelled into the melee. Both officers led Avery out the door and into the back of the police cruiser. The red and blue lights cast an eerie glow over the deserted street. Avery heard her own desperate sniffles as she shuffled down the regal brownstone steps and toward the cruiser.

  “You don’t really need to wear those.” The male officer gave Avery a sympathetic look as he unlocked the handcuffs and helped Avery into the backseat. Avery nodded gratefully, flexing her hands. She sat back in the police car, her head thumping numbly. She fingered the custom-made necklace she had worn under her dress for good luck. As the car came to a halt at a stoplight, she pulled it off to examine it.

  The letters read A = SLOB in elegant cursive.

  Avery stared at it, then broke into noisy, wracking sobs. She might as well get thrown in jail forever, because her life at Constance and the Upper East Side was absolutely and completely over.

  “We’ve got a live one,” the male officer sighed.

  Wait till she hurls all over them.

  A Prefers French Cuffs To Metal. . . .

  Dazed, Owen watched his sister get driven away in a police car. He pulled out his cell and called his mother, feeling bad for bothering her on the opening night of her big Brooklyn rodent exhibition.

  “Owen?” Edie answered, sounding kind of pissed. The roar of laughter and clinking glasses echoed in the background. Edie was obviously having way more fun than they were.

  “Hi, Mom.” Owen cringed. Part of the reason Edie let the triplets do whatever they wanted was because things like this didn’t happen to them.

  “I received a phone call from the police about the party. The precinct is right there, so I told them you and Baby would come for her.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Owen mumbled. Where was Baby, anyway? He hadn’t seen her all night. Or last night, for that matter.

  “Call me as soon as you all get home.”

  Unable to locate his tiny rebellious sister anywhere, Owen made sure the guests had scattered, and locked up Grandmother Avery’s house. Then he jogged down to the police precinct, just a few blocks away.

  He felt nervous when he first walked in, but quickly found that the precinct was less like Law & Order and more like the Nantucket police station he’d once visited on a school field trip. One cop sat behind a heavy wooden desk. A grainy black and white television was on in the background, its
sound interrupted every so often by a staticky noise from one of the police radios. The female officer who’d arrested Avery sat in a chair by the holding cell, filing her nails.

  Avery sat in a corner of the cell with her ankles crossed, crying hysterically. She held her wrists together in her lap as if they were still encased in invisible handcuffs. On the opposite wall of the cell stood a toilet and a small, grimy-looking sink.

  “Wipe your nose, honey,” the female officer called to Avery in a bored voice. Avery sobbed incoherently, her entire face red and wet with tears and snot. Owen was mesmerized. He had never seen Avery like this, not even the time when she was second-runner up for Miss Lobster Queen Junior in the seventh grade. Not even when they were little.

  “My family has the most powerful lawyers in the city,” Avery slurred, not noticing Owen. “I also really have to pee, but I am not using that toilet, and if I got a urinary tract infection, I could sue, you know.” She rattled the bars for dramatic effect.

  “That your sister?” the police officer asked Owen. “You can take her home. We spoke to your mother. She knew about the party, so there are no trespassing problems.”

  Owen grinned, relieved they weren’t in any trouble. He knew he should feel bad, but seeing prim and proper Avery sitting in the drunk tank was kind of hilarious.

  “Hey, Ave!” he yelled, his voice echoing across the concrete and linoleum. She looked up. Owen pulled out his iPhone and snapped a photo of her behind bars for posterity.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Blondie has a great mug shot she’ll be thrilled to submit to her yearbook,” the cop behind the desk laughed.

  The female officer unlocked the door to the cell, and Avery tripped into Owen’s arms. “Owen, you saved me,” she slurred.

  “Okay, we’re going home. Say goodbye to the nice police officer,” Owen couldn’t resist teasing.

  The officer behind the desk looked almost sad to see her go. It must have been an entertaining evening.

  Owen navigated Avery into a cab. “Seventy-second and Fifth,” he said. He noticed the cabbie staring at Avery in alarm. Her face was smeared with makeup, her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was running, and her mouth hung open in a gaping, drunken way, as if just breathing took enormous effort. “She’s fine,” he assured the driver.