A/N: I seem to be apologizing every chapter now for my delay in updating. But again, I am so sorry. Real life has been a pain and school is suddenly giving me stuff to do. Go figure. Anyway, this story is still going and will keep going. Please know I appreciate new and old readers to review and drop me any kind of comment you wish, whether it be short or long, kind or not. With almost 100 of you on Story Alert, the reviews have been rather rather few lately. I'd love you all for some added encouragement! Also, p.s. Thanks to Lynne as always.

Blair Waldorf was finished with men. Boys, to be exact. If she happened to find a man, a real man, she might not object to that.

But to hell with boys.

"To hell with boys," she said, raising her wine glass to toast.

"Woo!" Serena cheered on as she met Blair's extended glass.

Butter was becoming all the rage across town and Blair had secured their reservation before many of the girls had had the chance to wear the place out. She had hardly seen Serena lately, now that she lived with the Basses, and she needed a friend. After seeing Nate with Vanessa, and after the strange feeling sabotaging Nelly Yuki left in her stomach, she was unsure of her current war with Little J. She needed to be an adult tonight; she needed to rise above it all with Serena.

She and Serena were on their second bottle of Bordeaux Cabernet Franc and the conversation had drifted delightfully from Blair's condemnation of the Humphrey clan, to a warning against Dan's friend Sarah, and the absurdity of Nate possibility dating Vanessa. Blair had decided altogether to eliminate any sign of Brooklyn on the Upper East Side, as she likened its presence to a pest invasion that needed to be exterminated. Serena took her flippant comments, laughed at her more outrageous ones, and even offered a clever comment or two herself.

"It's just a pity, seeing him wasting himself on that. He could be put to so much better use," Blair mused.

"It's not like he's interested in any of the girls from Constance. And B, would you even let any of them get close enough to try?"

"You could have him," Blair said nonchalantly as she speared an haricot vert and slyly turned up the corners of her lips.

Serena almost spit out her Franc as she lurched forward, dabbing the corners of her own lips with her napkin. "Blair, is that supposed to be a joke?"

"I'm serious, S. I mean, P would kill to have her way with him, the lecherous hag. But you have my blessing."

"I have a boyfriend, Blair!"

"Oh like that's relevant," she answered sarcastically and daintily took another sip.

"Yeah, it kind of is—," Serena began but her phone's ring interrupted her. "Hold on."

Blair gazed into the translucent orb of her glass and inhaled the aroma of the liquid. It was giving her a warm feeling, unlike the heat of hard liquor that was like a honeyed trail through her body. It made her feel smarter, her tongue was still sharp and her head was light and airy.

She waited for Serena to be done with her conversation, her friend's voice muffled and far away to her ears. "Yeah, it's been almost two weeks and nothing. No it is weird. Nothing has come up anywhere? Ok, yeah. I'm not worried about it anymore."

And then Blair heard something that brought Serena's voice gratingly to her eardrums.

"Ugh, Chuck, this is why I hate you."

It was like the horn of a train bellowing through her, or maybe more like the screech of dry chalk on a board.

Serena snapped the phone shut and scowled slightly, not noticing the harsh clank of the knife that had been dropped across the table.

"Sorry, B."

Picking up her knife, Blair skewered through her roasted chicken furiously.

"It's ok. I suppose soon to be stepsiblings are obligated to build a relationship with one another. Just make sure all of your passwords on your computer aren't saved by default, your social security card hidden and the bathroom door locked at all times."

She took a large swig this time and fought with the wide rimmed glass for the last bit of wine at the bottom, the edge digging into her forehead.

"Oh, God," Serena muttered and ordered their third bottle.

"Your problem, not mine," Blair said.

Blair took the remainder of the bottle home with her.

Two Weeks Earlier

"Oh, God," she groaned when she turned a corner and almost ran clear into the last man on earth she wanted to see. She thought if she were stuck alone on an island with him, she'd bash his head in with a coconut.

"Your problem, not mine," he said and threw up his hands in mock surrender, stifling a smirk when her eyes narrowed.

"Please. I see the way you leer at me in the courtyard, Bass," she spat.

"And I see the way your throat tightens when you notice."

"It's just the hives settling in when you're within a hundred feet of me."

She began to brush past him.

"The bathroom is the other way."

Dammit. Why did he always know that she had to pee when she was drinking? She ground her teeth as she turned around to make her way down the adjacent hallway. Admitting defeat to Chuck Bass, no matter the circumstances, was the one thing she hated more than anything. Even more than Vanessa Abrams. Even more than hating that she knew Vanessa Abrams' name.

While twisting the brass knob, the door jut open more forcefully than she had intended as Chuck appeared behind her, coaxing her into the space hurriedly. She heard the click of the latch behind her and she was trapped. Trapped in a four by six marble coated powder room with Chuck Bass.

"What do you think you're doing? Get out," she demanded, jutting her chin up slightly so as to assert her authority.

"I'm bored. I thought you could entertain me," he drawled. It was true, even if SAT prep parties came exclusively with a bartender specializing in every Disaronno mixed drink in existence, they were downright boring.

Blair caught an all too familiar glint in Chuck's eye as she remembered the last conversation they had had. He didn't want her. She was used up, tainted and he didn't want her.

"You disgust me."

"Thank you," he said smarmily.

"I'm not your tramp, Bass." His back left the support of the door and he stepped towards her. "Back off."

He was close enough now that his body grazed hers and the edge of the sink dug into her lower back as he pressed himself closer. Her hands gripped the marble edges and her knuckles turned white, willing her body to resist molding into his.

"I should," he agreed and his hand explored the lines of her jaw and his fingers wrapped around a curl of her hair. "But I'm far less bored now, seeing you squirm against me."

She gulped.

"You said you didn't want me," she said softly and waited but he remained silent, unfazed and fixated on the curl framing her face.

She looked up at him under the soft sweep of her eyelashes and smiled.

"But, you see, Chuck. I'm the one that doesn't want you." His hand stilled. "All that time, during our entire meaningless charade, I wanted Nate. I always wanted Nate."

Chuck's eyes felt like daggers that were stabbing her with rage. But he kept his composure—they were the only part of him that couldn't lie.

"Is that so?" he asked, low and guttural, his lips hovering above hers as he grabbed her arms.

It was all a game. A charade. Still and always.

He knew it when her eyes fluttered shut and her back arched slightly so that he could kiss her. She needed kissing badly, and by someone who knew how. She needed to be kissed by him.

"Open your eyes, Blair. I'm not going to kiss you."

Because then she would win.

Opening his eyes, his vision took its time adjusting to the light of the room.

"What do you want, Waldorf?" Chuck feigned annoyance and exasperation into the speaker of his phone.

Blair had made it home, to the dark, empty atmosphere of her apartment and had poured herself a thik glass from the bottle she had escorted back with her. In the kitchen, alone and sipping on her Franc, she felt sophisticated and adult. But with it came all of the loneliness and inner restlessness of her fifty thousand dollar kitchen with no one to share it with.

"As someone who often drinks alone, I was wondering how wine compares with scotch on the pathetic level."

Chuck sat up from his couch, muted the television and was officially intrigued.

"Depends what the wine is."

"Bordeaux Cabernet Franc."

"What year?"

She turned the bottle to squint at the print. "Umm…1990."

"Well, it's tough, Waldorf, you do have impeccable taste—"

"Apparently not in men," she interrupted.

"Did you call to insult me? Because that old tune is tired, especially after what happened two weeks ago."

Blair scoffed. And huffed. And just…just…could not find a retort. Why couldn't she think of something? She always thought of something.

"Blair…are you…are you drunk?" Chuck asked, piecing the puzzle together.

"What!?" She was shocked. "Of course not! I do not get drunk. Ever."

"How many bottles of our dear Franc have you had?" A smile crept into the corners of his mouth as he realized Blair was drunk dialing him.

"It's…my third," she answered in a haughty tone, becoming defensive but for some reason unable to lie. "But," she searched for words. "I shared the first two with Serena!"

Chuck knew what that much wine would do to her. She was much more inebriated then she let on. The little actress was good.

"Are you alone?"

"Ew!" she crinkled her nose and he could almost see it. "Chuck I am not having phone sex with you!"

"Do you need me to come over?" he asked in his typical voice laced with innuendo, but he wasn't sure if he meant to look after her or to take advantage of her in ways he desperately wanted to.

"Get a grip," she said but her tone had betrayed her and instead of mean and emasculating, she had reverted to her Upper East Side meets Valley Girl voice.

"A grip?" he raised and eyebrow and she could definitely see it.

"God, what is wrong with me?!" Her palm connected with her forehead and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to be sober and composed, but instead she dropped her purse.

The clinking of its contents against the floor interrupted her foray into the air of a sophisticate. Out of the quiet, empty kitchen ambience erupted a slew of curses and an ungraceful exit from her wobbling stool to the tiles of the floor in order to pick up the pieces.

"You're drunk," Chuck offered smugly.

"Shut up."

"I do love it when you get mean."

"Chuck," she paused to blow her disheveled hair out of her face and slumped against the panels of the island. "I hate you."

"Well, now I definitely won't kiss you."

He was playing with her and loving it while she, for once, was confused and pouting, unable to meet him blow for blow.

"Who said I wanted to be kissed?"

"The Grenier's bathroom sink."

"Don't play these games with me, Chuck. I'm too drunk for this," she was exasperated.

"Oh, so you finally admit it. I am proud."

"Just. Just…be Chuck. Be that Chuck. Why can't you—"

"Can't I what?" he asked earnestly.

Her eyes were drooping and she was trying to articulate herself. She vaguely recalled a fleeting thought that this was precisely why she hated being drunk. No articulation.

"—Be my friend, Chuck. Like before. Like before all of this," her voice trailed off.

There was a pause on the other end of the line but Blair hardly noticed.

"We're not friends, Blair. We'll never be friends." His voice was solemn; different from his previous tone.

"Were we ever friends?"

"I don't know."

She yawned.

"Goodnight, Blair."

"Goodnight, Chuck."

She wouldn't remember the end of the conversation the next morning when Dorota made her coffee and called the masseuse to work on her strained back.

She had slept on the kitchen floor, immaculate and cold, while Chuck had made sure to match his scotch to her wine.