Blair traced the edge of her martini glass: cool to the touch. Just like her boyfriend as of late, the great Chuck Bass. If someone asked her to describe the boy she had grown up with, words like "passionate" and "hot-headed" would come to mind, adjectives that didn't seem to fit the distant and unrufflable man who had been coming home from the office for the past couple of weeks. Chuck's usual fire, the twinkle in his eye and the smirk on his lips - the things she secretly loved most about him - had become suspiciously absent. That is in the few times Chuck wasn't absent himself. He was always at work, a fact she often used as ammunition to start a fight, hoping to spark a flame inside of him. Instead, he usually apologized quickly, with soulful eyes and tender kisses. How was Blair supposed to continue her attack when such guilt shone in his eyes?
Blair missed the humidity of summer – of the beginning of their relationship – when the two couldn't stand to spend 3 hours apart, nonetheless 3 days. Blair hadn't seen Chuck in 3 days! At least not in a fully conscious state. Chuck always returned to her at night, his icy limbs sending shockwaves through her own as he climbed into bed and wrapped his body around her own. At first, Blair had tried to make conversation, ask Chuck about his day, tell him about hers - or even better yet, seduce him. But Blair could no longer stand to take away the few hours of rest Chuck managed each night, not when she could visibly see the toll these long days were taking on him in the dark bags under his eyes. Instead, she would bring his hand to her lips, before desperately intertwining his fingers with her own and whispering an "I love you" into the night air, hoping against all odds that her hand wouldn't wake up empty in the morning.
But Blair's hand was not empty now. She brought the cool glass to her lips and downed the rest. She missed Chuck Bass: the tempestuous, brooding bad boy; the considerate, carefree boyfriend; the dispirited, yet dedicated businessman. She would settle for whatever version of the man she could get because her life was ruled by one truth: Blair Waldorf needed Chuck Bass.
She signaled Joey the bartender for another drink.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Waldorf, but Mr. Bass gave me express instructions not to serve you more than two martinis in one night," Joey explained, his hands defiantly on his hips contradicting the fear in his eyes. But Blair didn't feel like attacking tonight. She would go gentle.
"Well then, I guess we should both be happy Mr. Bass didn't say anything about a scotch on the rocks." Blair pushed her empty martini glass towards Joey, her eyebrows raised and lips pursed, challenging the bartender to refuse his customer. He backed down, shaking his head as he picked up her empty glass and quickly replaced it with a different one. Blair's lips curved slightly upward in a smirk that didn't match her eyes, "Wise choice."
Despite having gotten what she wanted, the fact that Joey caved so easily only served as a reminder of Chuck's absence. A few weeks ago Joey never would have disregarded Chuck's wishes. Because a few weeks ago Blair would have returned to an apartment occupied with a Chuck angry that his girlfriend was drunk, alone, in a bar. Even if it was his bar, and she was totally capable of taking care of herself. A few weeks ago, Chuck and Blair would have gotten in a ridiculous fight over these facts, followed by a round or two of mind-blowing sex, and a morning after of blueberry pancakes and a phone call to fire Joey the bartender. But that was a few weeks ago.
Blair downed the scotch in one go. It had barely had a chance to get acquainted with the ice and still had some warmth in it, dirty and sweet as it burned down her throat. Her fingers were wet from the scotch that had splashed over the side in her haste, and they smelled like Chuck. Like his breath when he murmured dirty suggestions intermingled with sweet affirmations of his love, his scotch-kissed lips just a whisper from her own. Her fingers betrayed her. She wanted to stick them in her mouth and suck away their treason. Chuck could do that better, she mused, her mind following her fingers' example.
Worse still: the heart. She feared she could do nothing to stop its deceit. Last to fall, after her lips and hands and tongue. It had put up a good struggle – a stalwart warrior standing alone – but, inevitably, it had fallen the hardest, as the fiercest fighters often do. She feared even if she could compell those fingers to reach into her chest and rip out the traitorous organ, it would still beat for him.
Blair shot to her feet. She needed to get out. Away from his scotch, his bartender, his hotel. It was too hard to be in his world without him. The room swirled a bit around her, but the ceiling stayed above her perfectly-pinned hair and the floor below her Louboutin-laden feet, so she marched towards the exit.
"Hey, Joey! Turn that up," a businessman bellowed from the bar, easily catching her attention in a way that never would have been possible if not for the alcohol she had just imbibed. The businessman's hand was inching up the leg of a woman half his age, wearing half as much clothing as him. Blair's face twisted in disgust. Some people have no class, even in the most expensive of hotel bars. Couldn't this night just let her slink away without a reminder that Chuck's world was filled with such people?
Blair's eyes flitted to the television screen briefly as she turned the door knob, not really sure where she was planning on heading, but emboldened by the cold, metal feeling of escape in her palm. One foot was out the door before she registered what she had just seen. Her body snapped back around in a way that probably would have been comical if not for the situation. The television was turned to CNN, a news anchor practiced tone becoming louder as Joey clicked the volume button.
"…is still unknown. I repeat: all that is known is that – just moments ago – Charles Bass was escorted by the NYPD from his Manhattan office in handcuffs." Blair shivered as a draft swept in through the open door. She couldn't move. Not yet. She was still trying to comprehend how this moment could be so different from the one before. The anger and frustration that had so consumed her mere seconds ago were still present, but had been shoved aside by shock and confusion and – above all else – concern.
A group of obviously underage drunk high schoolers giggled their way into the bar, knocking Blair out of the doorway and out of her spell. She darted outside and towards the street, hailing the first cab that rushed by.
"Where you heading?" the driver threw over his shoulder.
Blair froze at the question. She didn't know which station Chuck was being held at. He could be anywhere in the city, she realized. She rattled off the first random Manhattan address that came to mind as she brought her phone – her most lethal weapon – to her ear. Where was she heading? Sometimes she didn't realize it or didn't want to or took her sweet ass time getting there, but she was heading to only place she was ever really heading: to Chuck Bass' side.