Chapter Two: Stairway Scene, Take Two
But still I have to wonder why
You can't come to tell me I'm the one
--"The One" by Vanessa Carlton
Chuck Bass was disappointed—which was saying something, since he usually didn't allow himself to care enough about anything to feel one way or the other about it.
But how he felt about Blair Waldorf didn't comply with his usual tendencies.
Hell, it didn't comply with anything.
A few weeks ago all he'd wanted was a one night stand with her—or so he'd told himself. Just to get the mechanics working. It was embarrassing as hell not being able to get her out of his head even when he was with another girl. Just one more time, he'd thought, and that would do the trick. And then, after she decided she'd rather have Marcus, and that kissing in the dark, behind closed doors, was all he would ever get, Chuck realized he had to stop trying to forget about her—because forgetting about Blair Waldorf was impossible.
She was all he'd ever wanted.
When he'd issued the challenge on her bed, while he was on top of her, touching her, he'd hoped she'd just say it. Three words. Eight letters. He should have known she'd refuse. Throwing her own trick back in her face wasn't the best way to get what he wanted. He knew he'd been foolish to hope. He knew that he had just thrown away, with both hands, what she'd been willing to give.
But was it so wrong to want more than just sex?
If any girl other than Blair had asked him that question, he would have answered with an emphatic "yes" and shown her the door.
And apparently when he asked it of Blair, she used the same answer and he showed himself to the door.
He knew, somewhere, Fate was laughing at him.
Blair's clumsy attempts to "chase" him had been amusing at first—until she'd acted in desperation and ruined his pants. He really had thought she'd be more creative than that. He hated seeing a poor job done by someone he hadn't considered an amateur. Or perhaps he'd chased her so long, he'd gotten used to his role. Blair ran, he followed, she frowned, he smirked, she glared, he kissed, she turned her face away, he breathed in the scent of her hair, she trembled in his arms, he trembled in his soul.
Chuck hadn't expected to forget his own rules when she'd set up that scene in Serena's bedroom. It was classic B: candles, lingerie, and snarky denial. Was it his fault it made him so hot? And her neck… She knew he couldn't resist her, not when she was in full form. Thank God Serena had texted her. And he'd seen what Blair had texted before.
EZ, was he? Not anymore, thanks to her.
He'd thought she'd given up. Blair had done everything in her book short of ignoring him: denial, cutesy friendship with ulterior motives, petty comebacks, and her regular candlelight act. He hadn't thought she'd play by his rules and admit what she really felt.
So when Blair had texted him that she had something to say, and that he should meet her on the roof, inwardly he'd been ecstatic. Chuck felt like everything—his pushing her into Nate's arms at cotillion, his mistaken (and revenge-fueled) tip-off to Gossip Girl about Blair's reckless sleeping habits, their dance at his dad's wedding, his abandonment of her in Tuscany, her shoving that stupid count in his face—everything led to the moment on the roof. They would finally admit the truth. Because he fully intended to say it back once she did.
He just couldn't say it first.
He had tried, when she'd asked him for a reason to stay at the white party. He'd gotten as far as "I…" Hell, he'd even said it twice. But the words just wouldn't come out.
Chuck Bass wasn't a risk taker: he planned and schemed and pulled strings behind the scenes to see a beautifully orchestrated plot unfold onstage before society's gossiping audience. How could he risk it all without knowing how she felt? The pressure had been incredible. Say it or I walk away. This is your one chance.
Well, he'd decided to make his own chance.
So he'd been ecstatic—which had lasted as long as her first forced smile.
He'd been intent—until she'd dragged up Vanessa.
He'd been hopeful—until she'd asked why she had to go first.
The delicately balanced shards of his heart had shattered all over again the moment she mentioned Tuscany.
Would he never live that down? He was sorry. He'd apologized. He'd suffered as much as she had. Perhaps more, because he knew the reason he'd stayed away all those months: he was scared shitless. Like his father had said, having a girlfriend would force him to learn responsibility, sacrifice, and faithfulness. He'd have to take into account her feelings. The partying and women would be over.
Hell, they already were, really. And he and Blair weren't even together. Mother Chucking Basstard couldn't even get it up unless the girl was brunette, cherry-lipped, and smelled like Dior. He couldn't do it unless her name started with a B and ended with a lairwaldorf.
So, he was being faithful, had sacrificed everything that gave him pleasure except his scotch and his scarf, and was more responsible than he'd been in seventh grade: he'd just gotten an A on his fucking calculus test. And as to taking her feelings into account, wasn't that what he'd done when he'd raised the stakes on her bed? He knew she wanted him, and he knew she cared about him—why else had she asked him to say those three words at the white party?
Jesus, what had been the point of not going to Tuscany? Everything he'd been afraid of had happened anyway. And sure, he felt different, but Chuck couldn't help thinking that if he and Blair were together, then it would be better than everything else. It would be worth it.
And now he was disappointed.
Of course she couldn't say it. Of course she was tired of going first. Of course she didn't love him…
No one did.
He should have known.
Blair left, crying from the rooftop, and he felt like crying along with her. But Chuck Bass never cried. Chuck Bass didn't feel anything. Chuck Bass…was a total screw up. Why did it never turn out okay in the end? Why couldn't they get it right, for once? It seemed like no matter where they turned, their ending was never happy—even the short-lived bliss they'd found in each other's arms was just that: short. It never lasted. The sun always came out the next day. And revealed the smudged makeup, party stains, and stupid dreams of the night before.
One of them always decided that the night before was a mistake. Or for revenge. Or didn't mean anything…
When really, it meant everything.
God, his life was a joke.
Chuck Bass. Bad-boy incarnate. Different girl every night. Cocky, conceited, and a pain in the ass. Knew everyone—everyone who mattered, at least. Drinking and gambling and smoking his life away. Everything was a game for a bored, lonely little rich boy to play.
And wasn't his daddy proud?
Chuck closed his eyes, unwilling to even think about his father.
Who the hell was he kidding? Bad-boy? Different girls? If he was being truthful—which he hardly ever was, even to himself—but if Chuck was actually being honest, then he'd have to admit that much of his former lifestyle had ended nearly a year ago. The first night he'd spent with Blair had changed him, even though he hadn't realized it at the time. Mr. I-don't-have-a-care-in-the-world-it-is-my-play-thing was sucker punched in the gut with something deadly and unforeseen.
Butterflies.
And they still lived on, no matter how many times he'd tried to saturate them with scotch or freeze them with the ice around his heart.
It was unavoidable, laughable, even, but true.
And through all the games and manipulations and unwillingness to admit his feelings, deep down Chuck just wanted something real. Not a game. Something honest. He felt rather strange thinking it, but it was true.
When he'd asked Blair to say those three effing words, he should have realized that she would take it as a challenge, when really, it wasn't. He was just asking. True, he'd claimed to be "raising the stakes" but it was just a metaphor.
He wanted to stand on solid ground with her for once. No more playing around. No more games.
But apparently they could never break the rules.
Chuck sighed, taking one last look at the city below him. His upper lip curled in an involuntary sneer. Brooklyn. Really? Maybe it was the setting's fault they hadn't been able to say it… It was a hostile environment, after all. Not worthy of either him or Blair. Especially Blair.
God, why had they met on top of this stupid gallery? Not only was Brooklyn one of the worst New York boroughs, but it also reminded him of a certain amateur writer who loved playing the innocent card and also carried a burning judgment of all things Upper East Side. Ugh, he didn't even want to think about Cabbage Patch. Why had Blair asked him to meet her on top of Hum-Drum Humphrey's dad's art gallery anyway? Not only was it beneath both of them, but the setting of the roof certainly lured one to throw caution to the wind and take matters into one's own hands. Not in matters of love, unfortunately. But the enticement to leap from the railing down to the merciless streets below was especially tempting.
Chuck headed for the door that led from the roof, sick of the whole evening.
God he needed to get out of here. He wondered what would happen the next time he and Blair met. Would she try and pretend nothing had happened? He knew he couldn't. Somehow he felt that tonight couldn't just be brushed under the rug and forgotten. It was too big. Too many words…hadn't been spoken.
Chuck strode down the flights in the stairwell, the methodic rhythm of his expensive shoes on the cheap concrete stairs soothing his overactive brain. The first thing he'd do when he got to this limo was pour himself a scotch. And the first thing he'd do when he got to the Palace was roll a joint. He need a buzz—preferably one so strong he could barely sit up—if he was going to survive this night. Chuck tried to smirk in expectation but his lips barely managed a grimace.
He had to get Blair out of his head. And disappointment out of his system. At least for the time being.
"Hey! Chuck!" a nauseatingly familiar voice called. "Hey, wait a second!"
Chuck continued down the steps. He did not want to deal with Brooklyn right now. Not after the night he'd just had. He wouldn't be responsible for his actions if Dan got too close.
"Come on, don't act like you didn't hear me," Dan's annoying voice whined.
Chuck paused on his descent. "I heard you," he answered bitingly. He glanced up at Dan, who stood at the top of the flight. "I just chose to ignore you."
"Well, don't. Because, what just happened—with you and Blair—" Dan gestured up to roof.
"Is none of your business," Chuck interrupted. What the fuck? What did Brooklyn know about him and Blair's meeting on the roof? Was Dan stalking him now, still determined to write that pathetic story?
He could barely look at Humphrey's insufferable face without anger burning in his stomach. No one used Chuck Bass...and lived to tell about it. Chuck Bass used other people.
He had decided to play a little game with Humphrey, see if he could be amusing, and at first Dan's wide-eyed wonder and endless questions had, predictably, put a damper on the evening. But a few more meetings and Chuck hadn't been so disgusted—especially when Brooklyn had punched that other guy in the bar. Chuck may have had all the things money could buy, but if he was being honest—what the fuck was with that word lately?—then he'd have to admit that he couldn't punch worth shit. His memory hadn't been lying; Dan actually could deliver a nice right hook. And when they'd been in that jail cell, and all Brooklyn could do was moan about his stupid dad, Chuck hadn't been able to stop the pangs of envy from choking him. Just thinking about that scene in the cell made him want to down a bottle of scotch. Chuck Bass was envious? Of Dan Humphrey? What was the world coming to? And he hadn't been able to stop himself from talking—the words just bubbled up. It had sort of been worth it to see Dan's face when he'd revealed one of the many how's and why's that Bart hated him. But it had been a mistake. Chuck should have known. Open yourself up and get cut. Reveal your weakness and be prepared to be wounded. Even Humphrey—or perhaps especially Humphrey, that Brooklyn snake—couldn't say no to sniffing out advantage in every possible situation.
What the hell had he been thinking? Baring part of his soul to Dan Humphrey? Of course it would bite him in the ass. He should have known Cabbage Patch had an ulterior motive—who didn't when they talked to Chuck Bass? He just hadn't dreamed it would be because Dan was writing a story about him. An honest to God effing story. By the lamest fiction writer in Brooklyn. Chuck Bass becomes Charlie Trout. Signature scarf becomes signature neck tie. But other than that, everything was the same…he even drank scotch and answered the "And who are you?" with a smirking "I'm Charlie Trout."
How could he have been so stupid? It would have been funny if it hadn't hit so close to home. "Get his secrets! Find out what makes him tick!" A damaged character, was he? What the fuck?! His life was none of Humphrey-Dumphrey's fucking business.
And neither was his relationship with Blair. Or the disappointment on the roof.
"No, it is, actually," Dan insisted, stuttering in a way that Chuck was sure his step-sister found charming, but which Chuck found incredibly irritating. "Look. I don't know how you feel about her, but I do know how she feels about you. And—she was going to tell you, until I stopped her."
Chuck just stared at him, trying to figure out what the dunce was actually saying.
What did he mean, he knew how Blair felt about him?
What did he mean he stopped her?
The look on his face must have prompted Dan to explain.
"She—I've been giving her advice, about how to, I guess, 'win you back.' Serena thought it was a good idea, for Blair to get a guy's opinion…but, apparently it wasn't."
Dan was starting to look uncomfortable from the death glare he was receiving.
"Chuck, look. I—I know you were mad about the story I was writing—but I wasn't trying to—I didn't—"
"Last time, you tried to use me, Humphrey," Chuck finally whispered. "This time, you've stuck your obnoxious nose into my private affairs. You're going to wish you hadn't."
Dan, leaning forward, raised his hands palm-up. "Hey, I was trying to help before. And I did—Blair was on her way to the roof when I told her to be careful. I only pulled out because Vanessa told me what you and Blair did to her. I know you guys like playing your sick little games, but—"
"Don't talk about what you don't understand," Chuck drawled. Great, just what he needed: Vanessa to spill more about Chuck's life to Dan freaking Humphrey. "It was a game. Vanessa played along like everyone else. Why else would we have deigned to include her?"
It was true. There must have been a reason Blair had decided to go after that little troll. He wondered what Vanessa had on Queen B—but it was obvious Blair had taken care of it. That little scene at his parents' house-warming party where she shooed Vanessa-the-pawn away and told him she'd be waiting up in her room was evidence enough. Blair never moved on unless she got her way.
He had felt a little guilty about using Vanessa. Not the using part, more because she had trusted him. Someone truly trusting Chuck Bass was a strange sighting on the Upper East Side. But Vanessa had changed her opinion so fast. True, it had taken a second try, but all the same, she had trusted him. And so had the owner of that old bar. He almost felt worse about letting the bar owner down. Trust was something foreign to Chuck unless it was followed by the word "fund." But it, surprisingly, had felt good.
And Vanessa had apologized. No one apologized on the Upper East Side. Not unless they wanted to be blogged on Gossip Girl as a pansy-ass blubbering idiot.
The way she had treated him was so strange, so new, compared to how everyone else—including Blair—treated him that Chuck may have gotten a little ahead of himself when he'd upped the stakes in Blair's bedroom. But he was sick of her playing games with his heart. Why couldn't Blair trust him like Vanessa had? He knew he'd messed up in the past, but wasn't it obvious how he felt? He'd changed. Couldn't Blair see that and trust him for once?
Who was he to talk? He didn't trust Blair enough to get past "I…"
And apparently neither did she.
But if what Humphrey said was true, then Blair had been willing to stop playing. She had meant to tell him how she felt on the roof. She had meant to say those three words.
And she would have, if fucking Brooklyn hadn't interfered.
"Please," Dan countered. "Vanessa told me everything. And I don't understand how you and Blair can take pleasure out of embarrassing people. Look. You know what?" he shook his head, "I don't even know why I bothered to tell you anything. Serena tried to make me feel guilty, but obviously it was a wasted effort. How can I possibly feel guilty over stopping you two from—I don't even know."
"No, Humphrey, you don't know. Anything." Chuck felt the sneer spread over his face. "And if you stopped trying to integrate yourself into my world, then maybe you'd stop stepping on my toes."
"Look—I told you, that story—"
"That pathetic piece of writing is just one of the many reasons you're going to wish you never set foot at St. Jude's," Chuck broke in.
It was Humphrey's time to go down. He'd gone one step too far this time.
Sucking up to Chuck and following him around under false pretenses had been bad. Cozying up to his best friend was even worse. Chuck still felt an incredible amount of jealously when he thought about Nate. Nate had abandoned him for Hum-Drum Humphrey. Perhaps to the outsider, Chuck's game at Yale had been a little juvenile—but he didn't understand Nate's reaction. So he'd pointed those stupid Skull and Bone members in the direction of Dan instead of Nate; how could that be taken as anything but having his best friend's back and getting a little revenge at the same time? Why did Nate suddenly think Chuck was in the wrong and that Brooklyn was "actually pretty cool"? Gossip girl had even blogged that Nate and Dan had been spotted playing soccer together that afternoon.
How could Dan fool so many people? Apparently his charms even worked on Blair… God, why had she listened to Brooklyn's advice? Hadn't the thought crossed her mind that Vanessa would smear them both because of their little game? A humiliated girl will say a lot of things—Chuck would know. And who was Dan more likely to listen to: his ex-girlfriend Serena who was best friends and step-sister of the two involved, or Vanessa, his long-standing friend from his oh-so-sweet and innocent childhood?
But it wasn't entirely Blair's fault that she'd reneged from saying those three precious words. Dan was to blame for that, too. Chuck knew Blair's self-esteem wasn't the highest on the market. God knew both of them were in the same boat as far as parents went: controlling, uncaring adults who criticized as frequently said "hello" and were often gone for long periods of time on business trips. And then there was Blair's whole perfection obsession, Queen Bee mania, unwavering pride, personal body issues, and denial of things not going according to plan. One word from a supposed friend and even the strongest determination was ready to topple like a house of cards.
Why did Brooklyn have to mess up everything? He'd meddled too far this time. Chuck, Nate, Blair. He was going to pay.
"There are many other offenses at your door, Humphrey," Chuck continued. "And you just don't know when to stop." He started walking back down the stairs. "I'd tell you watch your back, but then you'd be prepared."
He left Dan standing there like the gaping fish that he was.
As he gave his driver instructions and got into his limo, Chuck took a bracing breath. A drink would have been nice, but he knew he needed all his faculties if he was going to visit a certain pent house.
Dan Humphrey was going down. And Chuck knew just the conniving bitch to plan Brooklyn's social annihilation with: the love of his life, Blair Waldorf.