"Ugh, Chuck," she uncontrollably rolled her large limpid brown eyes, a noise of revulsion was the perpetual response he always received from her, as if it was involuntary, disgust was the primary emotion he ignited. He couldn't blame her though; she stood by the door frame of his presidential suite, clutching an ostentatious acidic orange handbag, patent shoes pointed towards the exit, a vision of comeliness with her rich, soft hair loose and wavy around her slim shoulders. Her brown gaze roved over the empty champagne bottles and half eaten Chinese takeaways clumped together carelessly in various collections on the floor. Several garments of tacky, female underclothes lay discarded on priceless pieces of auction-bought furniture, like the cerise thong dangling comically from the sedate canopy fresh ivory silk-blend lampshade. She had never looked more out of place in her endearingly chic attire. "What died in here?" her nose wrinkled of its own accord as she peeled off a cashmere glove, pointedly ignoring the tawdry thong. "You look awful, by the way," she held up a hand to indicate she wasn't finished and discourage the protest already on his lips, "don't even say anything," she hindered, "just look in the mirror: if you think you can handle it," she added partially to herself. "It's a wonder you can still get girls to sleep with you, do they literally have no standards," her tone lamented the low aspirations of some Manhattanites, "in your current dishevelled state surely you have to pay the money upfront, no," she mocked lightly, her condescending tone oddly titillating, "do you increase their tips by twenty percent, forty?"
"No," he drawled, amusement sparkling in his tired hazelnut eyes, he wrapped his trademark scarf around his cold neck, a peculiar accessory with his silk pyjamas, he locked eyes with her "I'm just that good," he stated matter-of-factly, a devilish smile lighting up his face as he spied the heat rising to her cheeks.
"Please, Chuck," she replied, apparently unconvinced, "I get it, you're seventeen, a junior, your life is going nowhere, destined to live in your father's ever-present shadow, you'll never be quite good enough, no plans for college, too little familial affection and no, nannies do not count. It's no wonder you are reacting the way you do, if anything it's to be expected," she widened her deceptively sweet, naive eyes, "The girls, the booze, the illicit activities," she gestured to the array of cards and abandoned ties and skirts on the small midnight table, "Strip poker, let me guess."
He laughed in the affirmative, slightly embarrassed, "Maybe I am a tad predictable," he permitted pouring himself a mimosa.
"Predictable? No, you're boring," she declared harshly, "At least Serena mixed it up a little, there was drama, a little intrigue, and she even inexplicably departed for boarding school last year. Out of nowhere, I might add," she muttered towards the end, her tone belying the carefree demeanour with which she so eloquently spoke.
"Still bitter, then?" he interjected rhetorically, swigging from his cold glass resentfully. Serena wasn't his favourite person on the planet, a blonde bombshell for sure but she had Nate suspending on the same string for two years, waiting patiently for her imminent return. He bet Blair wouldn't be so calm if she had seen the Gossip Girl post.
"My point is," insistently she steered the conversation back on track, "that I am sick of it. Nate worries about you constantly, it's all about you. Chuck's throwing a party. Chuck wants to go to the EMA's. But there are naked lingerie models waiting to assault Chuck in his suite, he needs my support," she parroted her dashing but occasionally dim boyfriend.
Chuck smirked, "That was one time."
"Whatever," her lips twitched in anger, "He's my boyfriend and forgive me but I would like things to be about me for a change," she took a deep breath, "As you no doubt are aware it will be my birthday soon and I want to be the only thing on his mind. Got it," she stared him down, or rather stared menacingly at him from her irksomely average height of five foot four inches.
"Hey, I can't help it if your boyfriend has the hots for me," he chortled as she aggressively tossed her pastel glove in his direction. He was finding this conversation quite entertaining, he knew Blair much better than he let on, he was painfully aware of her constant need of admiration and attention from the one she had devoted her heart to, unfortunately that was Nate. His best friend.
"I mean it Bass, you know how much my birthday means to me," her downturned mouth looked so kissable his stomach churned. He did, she had celebrated her birthday with extravagance every year since she had taken over the organisation when she was five, and each year was more spectacular then the last. It was the one day that she genuinely believed nothing would go wrong, a childlike faith similar to the existence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and one of her more endearing qualities. She put expensive jewellery on hold at Tiffany's and awaited the day with enough excitement to make the stars if Nickelodeon jealous.
"I do," he swallowed, audibly, "And I'll do what I can," he massaged his smooth forehead, pressing his warm fingertips to his throbbing temples, it felt like someone unpleasant was cutting through his cerebrum with a rust chainsaw. He sat down shakily, loosening his scarf that suddenly felt as strangling as a noose around his neck.
"Are you okay?" she cocked her brunette head, edging closer until her pea coat brushed is arm, the vanilla-honey scent with undertones of timeless musk and caramel that clung to her skin suffused his acute senses. He sniffed deeply: Prada Candy. Concern mingled with exasperation as she comfortingly placed her hand on his shoulder, "Chuck?" she pressed, "I wasn't joking or just being spiteful earlier, you seriously don't look good. Maybe you should get checked out," she scrutinised his unkempt appearance. Even with his tousled dark, uncombed hair and five o' clock shadow he still looked charmingly attractive, he exuded the glamour of Old Hollywood movie stars, they too could get girls with a click of their uncalloused fingers. But it was his savvy that made Chuck so irresistible, nothing was more arousing than intelligence, he was a fount of knowledge, the kind of knowledge applicable to the real world especially in its current state of sorry financial ruin, he possessed unbeatable capital, was destined for success.
"I'm fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, "Don't fuss, it's just a migraine. I'll recover for your birthday; you'll still get your present."
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped tetchily, "If you drank more water and less vintage Dom you probably wouldn't look like road kill, but then we can't say for sure," she amended, pursing her lips she poured him water prodding his dry, dehydrated mouth until he obliged, drinking heartily until the contents vanished. "Better?"
"Much," he swiped away the wet traces of the liquid with the back of his hand, "Thank you," he looked up, feeling beholden to her/ He was so pathetic, a single, kind act made his heart turn over, the worry written briefly upon her brow invigorated him. He knew there was something. Definitely something.
"Don't mention it," she said weakly, "It's common knowledge that excessive alcohol makes you dehydrated, anyone else would have given you the same advice. Are you coming to my mother's dinner party tonight? I heard Bart was out of town for the week," she inquired, getting ready to leave, the atmosphere had changed around them. It was tingling with expectation.
"Yes, he's in Madagascar for reasons unknown, but I'll be there as the Bass family representative. Not that there is anyone else to do the job."
"Great," she said without feeling, at his searching look she reiterated it with the appropriate enthusiasm, ""I'll see you in a few hours then."
"See you," he helped her with her coat, further reminding her of Humphrey Bogart.
"Don't make Nate late," she warned sternly before the chrome doors of the spacious elevator shut. Alone, in the confined yet roomy container she leaned back against the wall, allowing her eyes to close and her shoulders to sag. Talking to Chuck was beginning to be an incomprehensible strain, the tension in her shoulders was uncomfortable, and she had no clue why their tenuous and unlikely friendship had turned into such a chore. The sight of nasty underwear strewn around a perfectly habitable presidential suite was enough to make anyone feel nauseated, though.
Chuck slipped open his BlackBerry, alerted to three new messages, two from Nate offering to pick up his tuxedo from the dry cleaners and another revealing that he would make his own way to Eleanor's with his mismatched parents. The final message was from Harry Winston himself, the item he had specifically requested was almost ready, the accompanying photograph was everything he could have hoped it would be. He imagined it sitting on her neck, kissing her nape as he fastened the thin, delicate clasp. Perfection.