A/N: Another drabble! I've decided that these are probably the best story form for me, seeing as how their length fits in perfectly with my span of attention. Anyways, I did a bit of research for this one, guys, because FANFICTION IS EDUCATIONAL NOW.

For example, I find it highly unlikely that you (unless you live in the general vicinity) were aware that the Montauk Yacht Club Resort is a real hotel located in the real East Hampton. Also, I'm willing to bet that you didn't know that the journey from the UES to Southhampton took a mere 2 hours and 29 minutes. See, that's why you should all read my stories. They're replete with new knowledge.

Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is not mine. Yet.

A sleek, black stretch limo had been meandering up and down the main resort drag in East Hampton, New York for several hours when the concierge at the Montauk Yacht Club Resort decided to call the police. He didn't know much about terrorists, but he knew that one's image is the only thing that truly matters in the hospitality industry, and he wanted that mobster-esque vehicle off of his roadway.

Within said vehicle, Chuck Bass had splayed himself across the back seat, his hair completely asunder and bare chest sticking to the hot leather.

"But sir," his limo driver implored, tipping the bill of his hat in Chuck's direction, "With all due respect, this is a public beach." Chuck sighed and re-tied the string on his cotton-candy pink and white striped swim trunks.

"I am aware of that fact, yes," he drawled. The driver smiled, kind but crooked, revealing a row of uneven teeth.

"But sir," he repeated, "Wouldn't you rather—"

"I would not." Chuck tucked a translucent blue inner tube underneath his arm and grabbed the matching vinyl beach tote, which contained naught but a bottle of SPF45 and several hundred dollars in cash. "This will do, thank you."

And before the limo managed to screech itself to a halt on the scorching black tar, Chuck was already halfway down the block, bare feet slapping against the roadway.

Several hours later, the chauffer chuckled to himself as he eased his car back into its usual parking spot underneath the Bass' building. He should have known.

Because although the Waldorfs owned private beachfront property on seven different exclusive beaches across the globe, he knew for a fact that they hadn't yet acquired a single meter in any of the Hamptons.

A/N: In case you were wondering whatever happened with the police call, I honestly have no answer for you. There are several possible options. For example, the line could have been busy, when he called, or Chuck's driver could have taken them on a high-speed rural chase (I like this option best), or perhaps that particular concierge is a bit of a cry-wolf police dialer, and they tactfully decided to ignore him.

Let's hold a vote!

A) Police line busy

B) Bad teeth took fuzz on high speed farm chase (and won!)

C) Resort manager too whiny too often