Part 8
"If I had time to sleep, I'd dream of Scylla."
"And Charybdis," his therapist offered.
It was almost morning, but the hour was unholy yet. But even though he claimed respect for her family time, Chuck was still Bart's son—enough that at this time, when he was rushing to Blair's side, he could set aside that courtesy and think to himself that he paid the woman enough to warrant four am calls.
Serena eyed him from the other side of the limo. Chuck turned his gaze out the window, towards the streets where the lights were still as bright as if it were seven at night. She would hear. Serena would hear and she would tell Blair. God, he had not even decided if he wanted Blair to know.
"Not Charybdis. Are you supposed to imagine my dreams now?"
He felt Serena's gaze hot on the side of his face, wondered how much she could tell from one side of the conversation.
"Well, Chuck, this isn't exactly a dream you've had," she reasoned. "But please—why not Charybdis?"
"Because my head won't ever consider it. I'm not caught between two immovable things. I'm never going to be trapped by circumstances," he said, with a trace of pride, with a lot of pride. "If I stay with her, I will hurt her. If I don't—"
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply.
"If you don't—"
The blood on her gown. The blood in a sick pool on the tiles.
The sound of her voice, terrified, and she was breathless, running from shadows.
"Fine," he threw back. "I'll dream of Charybdis. What do I do?" Chuck asked into the phone, not to his therapist. The woman knew that too. They had been discussing this for half a year not to know when she was only needed to listen.
"Why don't you pass by the office this morning, Chuck?" she suggested gently. "I can push another session."
He licked his lips, then grunted his appreciation. "I'm not in the area," he said. And he had just answered his own question. He turned off the phone, then felt the hand on his arm. He closed his eyes, then lowered his forehead to rest on the tinted glass of the limousine.
"Are you sure?" Dan heard Serena say. "Because I can leave, B. I just need to wait for Rufus. He's due here in an hour at the most."
The pain was concentrated on his hip, but Dan managed to raise himself up on one elbow to see Serena looking out the window talking on the phone. It was bright out, already morning. He groaned when he realized that it had been hours since his accident and he had missed an Econ test.
"I mean, I can send the limo over. Where are you?"
Serena glanced at him, but Dan waved her back to her conversation while reaching for the glass of water on the side table. She hurried over and poured him a fresh glass.
"Only if you're really sure," she stated. "Well if he said ASAP, then I suppose that would be fine. I'll see you in a few hours?"
Dan muttered his thanks, then rested back on the bed again. "Blair?"
Serena nodded. "Chuck wants her to leave campus and go home," she shared.
"I'm going to have to agree with Chuck Bass on that one," Dan admitted, as if it were the worst thing in the world to have this in common with the other man. "Are they leaving together?"
"She couldn't wait until your dad arrived."
Dan protested at once. "I can stay here and wait with my dad."
"It's fine," Serena assured him. "Besides, she said her batt's dying so can't rendezvous with the limo." He knew the worry was still set in his brow. "She's hitching a ride with a friend—with one of your friends, I think. He offered her a lift to Manhattan."
"Who's she riding with?"
~o~o~o~o
Chuck Bass aged fifty years during the short ride from her dorm room to the street outside. It was only when he spotted Jeff March that his heart started beating again, and when he did it was a quick and heavy. The man strode like he had no care, and for that brief moment a triumphant rush came over him. She was on her way home, and he had March within sight.
"March!"
The blonde turned around and spotted him, and Chuck could almost hear a switch in his brain go off. "I thought we agreed to talk," he drawled at the man who was a couple of years her senior. Jeff March was taller, reeked Hollywood entertainment from every pore of his body and reminded him just a little of Nate in the way he carried himself. Didn't Serena mention that he was Blair's date to that party? Hell, he should have known she would have sunk back to the same old bad habits when he left her alone. "You don't just walk away from Chuck Bass."
He hoped the man heard the warning in his voice. Chuck Bass was never one to spoonfeed his threats to his victims, but he knew how to make them obvious.
Jeff stopped in his tracks, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Look man, I'm familiar with people like you." He eyed Chuck from his expensive Italian shoes to the hair that Chuck had barely combed—in his rush to NYU he had forgotten even to use the vanity kit in the limo. "Bass, right? Is that why your girlfriend agreed to go out on a date with me? Were you two scheming together? That's low."
The accusation threw him off, and Chuck's jaw ticked in his effort now to explode. Instead, he spat out, "What?"
"You're out to prove yourself. I'm here to study, not to be my father's messenger. I don't bring your proposals over. He has secretaries for that." And with those words, March stalked away from Chuck.
"Where are you going?" Chuck demanded. Either way, there was no rush. Blair and Serena would be safely at the back of the limo, and he had a hawk's eye over the man.
"None of your business." A blue convertible cruised towards them and March flagged it with a finger. Chuck's eye honed in on the logo stuck to the windshield. He knew enough of his Greek alphabet to conclude that it was the sticker that Dan described.
Chuck's eyes narrowed. The car stopped and March moved to get in. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "You drugged my girlfriend," he said menacingly.
"I apologized." March shook off Chuck's hand.
He apologized. And Blair had apologized a hundred times in his voicemail, to his face, and apologized for whatever it was she had done. Why did people apologize for all the wrong reasons? His next retort was caught in his throat when he pulled an arm back and slammed his fist into the blonde's nose. The convertible driver cursed and hopped out of the lowered car. Jeff March was sprawled back on the street.
Chuck took momentary satisfaction at the sight of the pretty back clutching his nose. When March pulled himself up his face was red and blood was smattered on his face.
The man looked a little less like Nate, a little more like the villains during the climax of the movies that March Productions released.
March's friend pulled the blonde up. Chuck's lips curled. "You are fucking insane!" he yelled at Chuck. The insult did not weigh on him. He had called himself that. Once, he thought his therapist called him that when Chuck pushed her enough. He once had daily nightmares detailing ever possible way he could murder the only girl he loved—the first girl he loved, the therapist corrected him once to which Chuck had replied, in his quiet, affectionate, offensive way, "You're fucking insane."
"I am," Chuck admitted.
And it was Blair and Jack and Serena and his own father. It was Lily and Dan and Nate. It was Jenny and Eric. It was the board. It was Queller. It was the doorman from the Palace. It was his accountant for the Empire.
"Why would you do that, man?" cried out the guy from the convertible.
Chuck wanted to ask him his name, so he could come up with an insult that rhymed. But it was not the time or place, so he called him Curly in his head. Blair was right. The people in NYU had no self-respect. If they did, Curly would have had his hair cut short before leaving home, and not cruised around the campus sporting ringlets springing from his scalp like Little Orphan Annie.
Chuck shook his head in disgust. He kept his gaze on March. "I know it's you." He gave a humorless laugh. "I might be out to prove myself, but everything I have is mine. Unlike you, I'm not waiting for the old man to croak. I've got all the resources I need. I can prove that you're the one stalking my girlfriend."
Curly handed March a handkerchief, and March wiped the blood off his face. "Stalking her," he repeated. "You have better imagination than the writers at the studio."
"Let's see what the police will say once they connect it all together. Just remember, March, you already admitted to the drink." Chuck drew out his own handkerchief and wiped off the blood from his knuckles. Then, he dropped the handkerchief on the sidewalk. Ridiculously enough, Curly picked up the cloth and threw it into the trash can.
Chuck turned away and walked.
"Wait!"
He turned around, saw Curly holding up his hand in a silent gesture. Chuck's gaze flickered over to March, then back at the newcomer. "What?"
Curly glanced at March, then at Chuck. "The drug wasn't even his," Curly explained. "He wouldn't know where to get it."
And whether the statement was reality, or a foolish attempt to salvage the fraternity he did not care. If you put enough fear into a person then he would not make the mistake of even looking at Blair—never again.
"I didn't know she had a boyfriend," March began.
Chuck scoffed. "What difference does that make?" he retorted. Because Blair could well have told him that she was single. She had been. She still was. "So you'll drug a single girl?" He was not up to speed with NYU culture. Truth be told, he did not care to be nor made an effort to be. But if the community thought was this radical, he needed to educated and quickly.
"I'm not the one who brought her to the party," March explained. "She wasn't exactly one of the popular girls that you just know. Someone brought her in to be my date, and she was hot." Chuck's hand fisted at his side. "It was Kyle—he's the social chair."
Party planner, Chuck translated in his head. Publicist, he thought, to be a little kinder.
"He's the one keeping tabs on her," Curly offered.
"Blair Waldorf's stepfather is Cyrus Rose," March said. "Her mother's designs are hitting the Red Carpet this year. He said she's the perfect girlfriend for the president."
Pimp, he amended.
Perfect for a big Hollywood producer's son, who was only here in NYU to study, not to prove himself to his father. Dickhead.
Chuck stepped forward and grasped March's arm. March winced and turned his face away as if bracing for another punch. "Where's Kyle?" he asked.
~o~o~o~o~
"Thank you," she said, and when she did her lips curved into that small, perfect smile that glistened the same way it did those few seconds after she sipped some Dom.
It was her favorite. He had two bottles at the back of the car, just in case. By some wonderful stroke of luck, it looked like he had some use for those bottles now.
"You're welcome," Kyle said. "And thank you for the company. The drive would have been boring without a pretty girl to talk to."
Her hands went to the seatbelt buckle. She frowned when it did not release. Even the frown was delightful. Her eyebrows drew together, and a wrinkle formed between them. She pouted, then looked up at him. "Is this broken?"
"It shouldn't be," he told her. "Then again, I haven't had anyone in that seat for a few months." And then he unsnapped his seatbelt and leaned over to her. She caught her breath. He heard it. She smelled nice. He had wondered what that scent was on her pillow, and now that he was close enough he recognized it. Michael Kohrs, Holiday Collection. It came in a nice glittering gold box. He wondered if he smelled the perfume or the lotion and decided it did not matter. He grabbed the buckle and slowly turned it in his hands, and the metal dug into her. She drew in her breath sharply.
"You know what, Kyle, I think I can manage that."
He looked up at her. "Let me," he told her. And slowly, she nodded. "You're a guest." She lowered her lashes as she watched his hands work on the buckle. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
And they glistened more now. His breath could touch her lips, and he faltered when he saw the skin slowly drying.
"Do you want something to drink?" he offered. "Looks like this would take some time."
"No, really," she answered. "I just want to get out of here."
That was offensive. Kyle took the buckle in one hand and pulled sharply, making her gasp and grab the door on one side and the hand brake on the other.
"There's some Dom at the back. I know how much you love it," he said. He should not have done it, but she should learn that some things just did not do. She was a Waldorf. Granted, it was not as fantastic as being a Harris or an Archibald. He doubted his father had heard of hers. But even a Waldorf probably had better manners. "I won't take no for an answer."
She smiled, and he was grateful that she finally got her wits together. "Why don't we take the Dom in the suite?" she suggested.
That would do. He pushed the control on the driver side door and with a click, the belt unsnapped. She sighed in relief, and Kyle took the bottles from the back.
~o~o~o~o~
Gaining access to the room was not difficult. With only a few months experience in fully dealing with investors and various shareholders, Chuck had already sharpened his skill in assessing people. With a few well-placed threats he found himself standing outside the room of a senator's son.
"Kyle!" Jeff March called.
When there was no answer, Chuck bit out, "Open it." No more wasting time. He had wasted enough on March. He needed to know if it was Kyle Harris before wasting more time on accusations. He threw open the door and looked around. Chuck strode towards the study table and pulled open the drawers. He then walked over to the closet and slid the doors to the side, then rooted around. He pushed the hangers to the side. He rifled through the sweaters and the vests.
"Man, don't rummage like that."
Chuck turned to Jeff March, then pointed out, "He'll know either way."
"So maybe it's not him. Look, Kyle's many things, but he's not a stalker."
Chuck pulled open the drawers and gave a look of disgust when he saw the socks and the underwear. He held his breath and he shoveled through them, causing balls of socks to fall on the floor. He grunted, then looked under the bed. When he found nothing, Chuck pulled himself up and caused the bed covers to slide away.
He smirked in triumph at the sight of the thin camera from under the bed. Chuck grabbed the cable from the study table and found the computer locked. Since he never claimed to be a computer wizard, he turned to the two men with him. Before he even barked his demand, Curly returned with his own laptop. Chuck connected the USB cable and waited for the window to pop up with his choices.
He chose to see a slideshow.
Curly put down the computer on top of the mussed covers of the bed. Chuck watched as the pictures turned from groups of students at a party—and had to remember that the congressman's son was the chair of the frat's social committee—to pictures taken from yards away. His eyes narrowed. Chuck hit the touchpad to stop the autoplay, then zoomed.
And there was his girlfriend. There was his ex-girlfriend. And he scrolled through dozens of candid shots of her entering the classroom, or walking by the shops. There were photos of Blair with Nate, before his attack. And there was a snapshot of Dan taking her back to his dorm.
She was in the library, looking over her shoulder.
Not even in his dreams, right before he killed her, had he seen her so scared.
First, it was Jack. And now it was a party planner from NYU. After this he swore that no one would disrupt her privacy again, not even if he had to install security for her to keep watch 24/7.
He slammed the screen shut, then turned around and strode out of the room. He tossed back his warning to the house, "The police will be here in an hour." March cursed behind him, and yelled about deals and agreements as if his word meant anything at all.
Chuck brought his phone up to his ear. He dialed her number, and listened to her voice give him recorded instructions on leaving voicemail. He noted the text message waiting in his inbox, then clicked to display.
'N my way bak to Palace. C u ther. Take d limo. Hitchd a ryd with clasm8.'
He called his stepsister. "Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "Why isn't she with you?" he asked, even as his pace grew faster and faster.
"Hey, Chuck!" Serena mumbled. "I'm in the limo. Where are you? We'll pass by for you."
"Why did you let her go alone?"
"She said you told her to hurry, and I couldn't leave Dan alone." He heard her sigh. "Listen, it's fine. She's with a friend."
"Who, Serena?"
She paused. "Don't be jealous, okay?" she started. Chuck drew his breath sharply, as if he cared about anything else right then. "Really. Dan says he's a good guy."
"Who?"
"Senator Harris' son. Kyle Harris."
tbc
Ooops. 40 mins before my shift. I gotta go get dressed. Looks like there's another part.
