The Carlyles Read Online Free Page B

Manhattan that all of the guys at Nantucket High sort of ostracized him for being a player. He took another sip of beer. The carbonation tickled his throat and the sun made him feel sleepy.
    “It’s pretty small here, too,” Rhys told him. “I’ve been in the same school with the same guys since kindergarten.”
    Owen watched as two freckly girls walked past them, their shopping bags swinging in unison. He couldn’t believe he was about to spend the rest of his school days surrounded by guys. What would he look at? “So, what’s it like not having any girls around?”
    Rhys squinted his gold-flecked brown eyes, as if he’d never really thought about it. “It’s fine. My girlfriend goes to Seaton Arms, which is down the street, so it’s not like it’s all guys all the time.”
    Owen sighed in relief. He stretched out on the blanket, feeling the sun warm him through his thin gray T-shirt. A runner jogged by wearing skintight Day-Glo Lycra.
    “So, one of the things I’m supposed to do as captain is to give some informal, end-of-summertime splits to Coach,” Rhys said, breaking the silence. “Since I don’t have any from you, let’s just race each other across the pond, and I’ll estimate your times off mine.”
    “Right here?” Owen asked skeptically, sitting up.
    “Why not?” Rhys stood up on the rock, motioning for Owen to stand next to him. Rhys took off his shirt and revealed a sculpted six-pack and broad swimmer’s shoulders. Owen shrugged and pulled his T-shirt off too. Two girls flipping through a French Vogue on a nearby bench looked up to stare over their magazine.
    Hello!
    “Ready? Go!”
    Owen dove into the muddy pond without a moment’s hesitation. He kicked through the seaweed and began to freestyle, startling the ducks in his path. He tore through the water with a smooth, strong stroke, his competitive instinct taking over.
    He reached the other end of the noxious pond, breathing hard as he set his feet down on the squishy mud bottom. It felt like week-old oatmeal between his toes. Green gunk clung to his arms. Across the pond, Rhys stood on the rock, drinking out of his paper bag and laughing. Owen narrowed his eyes. What the fuck? The two girls on the bench giggled.
    “Hey, dude, you’re pretty fucking fast,” Rhys yelled good-naturedly as he made his way around the pond toward Owen. A green-jumpsuited park ranger appeared from behind the castle, shouting.
    “You can’t swim there!” he yelled, charging toward Owen with a rake.
    Forgetting about his shirt and shoes, Owen sprinted away. Rhys caught up with him on one of the winding paths out of the park. As they reached the exit, they stopped and doubled over laughing. Owen grabbed the still-open forty out of Rhys’s hand. Maybe living here in NYC wouldn’t be so bad. A cool guy friend, hot girls, and fierce swimming—what more could he want?
    Hey, this is Manhattan. There’s always more to want.

Voulez-vous Coucher Avec J ?
    Jack Laurent stuffed her pointe shoes in her regulation pink School of American Ballet dance bag, ignoring the other dancers drinking Vitamin Waters and flirting with the Fordham freshmen gathered around the fountain outside Lincoln Center. This year, Jack was in the prestigious internship program, in which she would take several classes a day in hopes of being selected for performances with the company. She had been dancing for most of her life, and it came as naturally to her as breathing. But today, she’d been half a second behind the music. For the first time, ballet had seemed hard, and Mikhail Turneyev, the internship program director, had noticed every single one of her missteps.
    As she walked across the expansive marble plaza, Jack noticed a spot of blood from a blister staining the powder-blue suede Lanvin flats she’d bought at Barneys just this morning.
    “Fuck,” she murmured. Angrily, she pulled off her shoes and threw them in a trash can. Thud.
    One man’s trash is another’s