There wasn't enough Gin and Vodka and Bourbon and Brandy or anything else in New York City to get him drunk enough to feel better. There probably wasn't enough alcohol in the State to make him forget the fact that Blair had left the literal Prince to run off with…him.
Good Lord, he had written her a whole book and she still didn't like him like that [or so she said]! Dan rubbed his temples in an effort to remove all thoughts and feelings from his mind. If that didn't work, he'd just move away and write a real tell-all book. Hey, he'd been a punching bag for those people for how long? Maybe he was entitled to a little actual revenge.
Taking a pull off his Gin and Tonic, Dan sighed. Being an author was…. well, blah. Write-ups, blurbs and endless reviews about his amazing insight into the Upper West Side, they were just bothersome at this point. He never knew being a published writer meant no social life, or, well, even less of one than he had to begin with.
From his booth at the thankfully quiet and pleasantly upscale bar, he glared out at the Manhattan skyline. It was, per usual, glistening perfection.
"You look familiar." A male voice from behind pulled him from his gazing.
"…Huh?" Dan replied, suddenly going from brooding to his funnily clumsy self. He turned his head to see what a lesser writer than he would call 'tall, dark and handsome'. Said stranger was holding up the Society section from some tabloid, complete with a picture of Dan doing his best to fake a smirk. He sort of looked like he was having an aneurysm. "Let me guess…you want an autograph or an interview?"
"God, no." The stranger said
"Excuse me?" Dan shot back; somehow offended by a stranger not being impressed by a book he didn't want to ever be published.
"I don't read about whiny young people doing whiny young things."
"And yet, you know who I am," Dan casually retorted. "Fancy that."
"Touché," said the stranger. He was going to ask permission to sit, but didn't. He reasoned he didn't owe a twenty-something year old 'writer' any real respect. "I know you because you've been in here every night for four weeks. I'm genuinely tired of looking at you."
"Then drink somewhere else." Dan groused.
"Aw, but I was here first." Said the stranger.
"Then how come I've never seen you before?" Dan asked.
"Because, like all wanna-be writers, you're not very observant."
For a split-second, Dan wondered if Blair had under gone a sex change. Because, well, it appeared he was being insulted in the exact way he secretly longed for. Call it masochism, but Dan missed it. "Fair enough." Dan shrugged.
"Wow, you guys get your feelings hurt easy."
"Us guys?" Dan repeated.
"The people in your book. From the reviews I've read, you snitched on your friends and now they're all mad. Very unoriginal."
"You're telling me," The wayward Humphrey admitted. "I'm sorry, but what's your name. It's just you kind of remind me of someone I once knew."
Ah, this was the fun part. He had played with the mouse, but how far did he want to go? His life was reasonably dull, but maybe this charmingly half-witted scribe could provide some fun. If not, he could just wipe it all out later and walk away. "You, writer-boy, can call me Damon. Now, I may be wrong, but it looks like you've got some girl problems."