A/N: This is a companion piece to Love and Loathing, which is told entirely from Blair's perspective. This piece will fill in the gaps that can't be told from Blair's pov. I highly suggest reading LL before reading this one.
Chapter One: Victrola
Six Years Ago
"She's a butterfly with a broken wing and bleeding feathers, but still she flies…" -J. Iron Word
Fire burned through my veins, scorching a path straight for my heart, but I could barely feel it. Gulp after gulp of premium scotch, and I was numb to it all; the woman sidled up beside me with her breasts pressed against my arm and her hand tracing the pants seam that stretched across my inner thigh was little more than a momentary distraction. Tonight after the masses dispersed, I would take her to my bed, have my fill, and throw her to the streets before morning. If she's lucky, I'll pay for her cab, but that depends on my mood after she's served her purpose.
And you want me to pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into an excuse for you to be around booze and women? You want to impress me with your commitment to something? Try getting a few As in school or maybe a part-time job.
Her purpose is to make me forget the never-ending disappointment that I see every time my father looks at me. Most days I can handle the disappointment; at least then, he knows I exist. The alcohol and the drugs, though, those are to numb the sting of his apathy. Bart Bass's typical parenting style is cold indifference with occasional reproach should my behavior impact his business endeavors. Over the years, I've grown accustomed to this detachment, and, now, I prefer it that way. My personal autonomy over my decisions, the ability to do whatever the hell I want whenever I want, trumps Bart's rare need to compensate for his absence with a couple hundred thousand dollars deposited into my already padded trust fund.
Despite this, however, I still found myself searching out ways to gain his approval, to see something other than spite in his callous expression for once in my life. Was it too much to think that one day he might even show some level of fatherly pride for the son he left nannies to raise?
From the day I could comprehend the meaning in his words, he'd repeatedly regaled the story of how he turned his first profit by the time he was twenty-two years old. With such stories, there was always an underlying insinuation that I would never live up to his level of greatness, that I am the lesser Bass – the worthless kid billionaire who is set to inherit his father's fortune. I didn't want his legacy; I was determined to build my own, to be better than he could ever hope to be.
One thing I hate more than I hate my father is the way he makes me feel weak and inferior. I will prove to the world that I'm more than Bart Bass's son. I'm Chuck Bass, and, one day, that'll actually mean something.
But now, all of that – all of my plans to best my father – had gone to shit with his rejection of my proposal for Victrola. Tonight, the only thing I had left was alcohol and the woman beside me whose name I didn't care to know. My temperament typically shifted between stoicism and cynicism, but tonight's mood was far more sinister than the cool demeanor I usually give off. I am always aloof and unapproachable, but tonight I felt dangerous. Anger and self-loathing pricked at my skin like shards of glass, and the shadows outlining black heart grew darker with every passing second.
I turn nineteen this year, and what do I have to show for it besides a dead mother, a piece-of-shit father, and a bleak and lonely future?
I threw back the rest of my scotch, determined to debauch myself until I forgot every single thought floating around my head.
Tonight was supposed to be a victory party for winning Bart to my side – a celebration of sorts. Instead it was a symbol of my failure in the eyes of my father. I'd invited the attendees to my annual Lost Weekend, and with them came many of St. Jude's junior and senior class. I graduated last year, so I didn't know many of them, but I recognized a few familiar faces at the door. The lacrosse player who crashed my most recent Lost Weekend with Carter Baizen darkened the entrance with an unremarkable brunette on his arm. Her face was obscured by the dim lights of the club, but her attire and body language screamed uptight Upper East Side princess – the kind of girl whose delicate sensibilities I'd offend with my vulgarity.
I focused my attention back on her boyfriend. His eyes were dull and glazed over as he scanned the crowd for someone or something, clearly ignoring the girl on his arm. I scoffed, thinking that it must be a relationship of either convenience or obligation because he looked like he would rather be anywhere else than listen to whatever she prattled on and on about.
His expression grew from somber to rapturous when a bouncing blonde sidled up to them, throwing her arms first around the brunette and then around him. He encircled her waist a little too enthusiastically, his hands sitting too low on her hips to be considered friendly, and just like that, he came to life – smiling and laughing at every word the blonde spoke. I almost felt sorry for the petite girl now standing quietly in the shadow, seemingly forgotten by both of her companions, but she had to be a fool not to see what was obvious from a single ten-second interaction: her boyfriend was lusting over her friend. I watched her confidence deflate with each passing second until she shrank into herself, wrapping her arms around her waist in a move spurred by self-consciousness and feelings of inferiority.
I studied her a little closer than I had when I'd so quickly dismissed her a moment earlier. I still couldn't see her face, but I could see how desperate and unsure she felt around the blonde. Her boyfriend seemed completely unbothered; he was either ignorant, oblivious, or unconcerned by her discomfort. For him to remain entirely unaware of his girlfriend's change in demeanor when I could clearly ascertain her distress from across a dark club told me that he must be an incredibly shitty boyfriend. She may be the clingy type, but I was certain that her insecurities stemmed from his negligence.
I shrugged, refilling my tumbler, wondering when I had started paying so much attention to the interactions of strangers. I reclined back into the sofa, letting the redhead beside me nibble on my neck while her hands teased the buttons on my shirt. I finished my drink, shaking my head sternly when she tried to kiss me on the mouth. She pouted, but I ignored her, closing my eyes and resting my arms behind my head. The upbeat music drowned out the pounding in my head, but it wasn't enough to free me from Bart's torment raging inside my mind. The alcohol stirring in my blood should be enough to momentarily rid me of this ever-present agony; the soft feminine hands working their way beneath the waistband of my trousers should provide a sufficient distraction. None of it helped though; nothing could erase the burden of self-hatred that I blamed Bart for. He might be the catalyst to my failings, but the worst part was that every single one of his words of criticism held at least a grain of truth.
"What the hell is she doing?" the redhead giggled, kicking her legs over my thighs, momentarily forgetting her exploration of my body.
I was inclined to ignore her, certainly not in the mood to humor some twit for a subpar lay, but when my eyes caught the stage, something inside of me froze. I shoved the woman's legs off of me and stood to my feet for a better view. The girl on stage didn't belong there; she was awkward in her movements alongside the practiced burlesque dancers, but I couldn't draw my eyes away.
Slowly, my gaze traveled up her lithe frame, from her slender legs to her voluminous curls. There was a sinful innocence in her expression; her demure dress, prim headband, and large doe eyes were the perfect contrast to the coquettish smirk playing across her red lips. I watched her long fingers dance a path over her thighs, just beneath the hem of her dress, teasing the audience with small glimpses of her stockings. She was the most dangerous kind of temptress – one who wasn't entirely aware of her seductive charm.
She turned her back to the audience, swaying her hips rhythmically to the beat of the music, and with one glance over her shoulder, she lowered the zipper on the puritanical dress that hid much of her figure from view. The glint in her eyes told me that she knew exactly what she was doing, and I gulped involuntarily as my body tensed in anticipation. Once she stepped out of the dress, everyone around me disappeared. Only she and I existed in this strange alternative universe; she'd chosen to dance for me – to bare herself before my eyes only.
She swept her hair over her shoulder, and I focused in on the long, delicate column of her neck, imagining momentarily what it would feel like to brush my fingers over her skin. God, the thing I wanted to do to this girl. I'd never felt the innate, carnal need to touch someone as intensely as I did now. I was drawn to her; I wanted to yank her from the stage and have my way with her, everyone else be damned.
But on the other hand, I never wanted her to get off the stage; I didn't want her to stop dancing. I wanted her to stay caught in this moment of careless bliss, free from whatever troubles plague her mind on a daily basis. I could see that she was the kind of girl who hid her burdens deep inside of herself, who internalized all of the criticisms ever tossed in her direction and tucked them in the deep recesses of her mind. The girl on stage was escaping something, shedding some metaphorical baggage that had weighed her down for far too long. This girl had never experienced freedom like this. Her jubilant giggles suddenly became the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
Who was this girl?
"Mr. Bass?" I heard from over my shoulder, but I ignored the intruder, giving my Siren my undivided attention.
She was a beautiful kind of wicked – deliciously sinful and deceptively pure at the same time. Flawless and deadly. If I was the devil, she was an angel with a penchant for destruction. I would do anything for her, anything for just one taste of this forbidden fruit.
When the spotlight centered directly over her, I finally saw the battle raging behind the depths of her dark eyes. This girl in front of me was free, confident, and sexy; she owned the club and everyone in it. But the other girl - the one she tried to suppress – was the same girl from earlier, the one whose boyfriend couldn't afford her even a fraction of the attention she craved. In the flash of millisecond, she blinked and all evidence of her insecurities vanished once again.
She was a butterfly, emerging from a dark cocoon to flaunt its beauty despite the broken edges of its wings. Her boyfriend may have cracked the surface, but she wouldn't shatter. She had an unbreakable spirit to her – something I had missed in my premature and dismissive assessment when I first saw her. She was stronger than either her boyfriend or her friend, but she didn't realize it.
I yearned to show her the power she held, the fire I saw roaring behind her eyes, the infinite worth that others seemed to underestimate.
"Mr. Bass." The gruff voice interrupted again, this time more forcefully.
"What!" I snapped, turning to find Johnny, Victrola's bouncer, standing behind me.
"Sorry to bother you," he husked in a heavy Jersey accent. "But -" He held out his phone to show me the security recording. "There's a couple going at it in the coat closet, and I wasn't sure if you wanted me to kick them out or leave them to it. You did say that this was a place to escape without judgment."
I glanced down at the video, annoyed by the distraction from the enchantress on stage. "Just -" I stopped, recognition setting in when the long blonde hair came into frame followed by the athletic build of the now half-naked lacrosse player from a few hours earlier. "What the fuck," I muttered. "Forward me the video. I'll deal with it." He stared at me inquisitively. "Get back to your post," I barked at him.
When I turned back to the stage, she was gone, and I cursed under my breath, searching the crowd for a head of rich mahogany curls. After a few moments of frustration, I found her near the bar with wild eyes darting around the room as she once again hugged her arms to her chest. For years, I didn't think my heart was capable of beating, but in that moment, at that sad image, my heart clenched to see her confidence diminish before my eyes.
Without considering my actions, I moved toward her, seeking her out for reasons I couldn't quite comprehend. The closer I got, the more I could read the apprehension written in her expression. I didn't know if it was a result of her impromptu striptease or the absence of her companions, but she reminded me of a wild animal trapped in a cage. She wanted to run, but she didn't know how to escape. Her silk chemise clung to her body, and I averted my eyes from her exposed cleavage, feeling oddly discomfited by her state of undress now that she reverted into the meek girl from earlier. I wanted to toss her my jacket, to cover her from the curious eyes drinking in every inch of her body. If any one of these hungry men approached her, I might lose it. If I could focus on anything besides my need to get to her, I would laugh at the absurdity of my behavior. If her dance was any indication, she wasn't a damsel in need of rescue, and I sure as hell wasn't a knight in shining armor.
I gritted my teeth, pushing my way through the mass of bodies, not caring who I shoved aside or how rude I appeared. I kept my eyes trained on her, watched her pull at the hem of her slip and say something to the bartender. A few seconds later, he handed her a glass of water – a wise choice, but it meant she had to unwrap her arms from over her chest.
I was only a few feet away. I could see her delicate features, and I had to smile to myself when I saw that there was no longer fear in her eyes. She was perhaps anxious and frustrated, but she wasn't nervous. The powerful woman who'd danced on stage in front of a crowd of inebriated men was still there; she was just overshadowed by her less confident counterpart.
As I closed in on her, a muscular arm engulfed her shoulder, pulling her into a broad chest. My heart pounded until a navy blue blazer was draped over her small frame. Her boyfriend placed a kiss to her temple, whispering something in her ear, and she smiled up at him as though he was the only answer to her never ending quest for happiness.
I paused, a mixture of anger and bitterness knitting itself together in my stomach. She had no clue. He had missed her dance in the name of infidelity, and I didn't see a single ounce of remorse in his features.
What a worthless piece of shit.
I had never had a desire to start a fight; I'm not violent by nature, but I wanted nothing more than to break his jaw against the bar top.
She deserves to know.
She deserves better.
I approached the two of them, focused intently on their conversation.
"Where's Serena?" she asked tentatively, looking around for the blonde, I assumed.
"Ah, she had a headache, so she headed home." He was a terrible liar. Surely she could read it in his tone. "She said she'd meet up with you tomorrow for breakfast."
I felt sick. Right under her nose. Somewhere inside, she must know; she just doesn't want to admit it. It's none of my business, but God, I'm invested.
I couldn't understand my need to protect this girl; I've never cared about couple bullshit or friend drama. Monogamy is for the middle class to establish the financial stability that they couldn't otherwise achieve on their own; it serves no other discernible purpose. Anyone who willingly enters into an exclusive relationship is setting themselves up for betrayal and infidelity. Cheating is an inevitable side effect to the monotony of commitment.
But, still, as I stood there, I was ready to defend this girl's honor, to comfort her and affirm her value. Why do I care so much? Clearly, the level of alcohol coursing through my body has muddled my mind.
Taking one step closer, I stop in my tracks when something dawns on me: what am I planning to do with this information that I've just discovered? I can't just approach the girl with her boyfriend standing next to her, and say, "Hey, by the way, while I was watching you strip off your clothes a minute ago, he was fucking your friend in the closet. Don't believe me? I've got video evidence."
Yeah, that was sure to earn me a slap to the face from her and a punch to the gut from him.
As I stood frozen, contemplating my next move, he folded his arm across her shoulder and guided her toward the door. She leaned into his embrace, a small, sweet smile spreading across her red lips. He was paying attention to her, and she was swooning. It was disgusting, but I had wasted my only opportunity.
Probably better this way anyway. I had no business getting involved.
But still…
"Chuck Bass," A shrill voice grated on my nerves, and I turned toward the owner, rolling my eyes at the appearance of Georgina Sparks.
"What do you want, Georgie?" I groused.
"Just wanted to let you know that Victrola is about to make heads spin," she arched her eyebrows.
"How's that?" I asked absently as the two lovers disappeared from my view.
"I sent a video to Gossip Girl," she explained. "It'll be in the hands of every student on the Upper East Side by morning."
Vague interest sparked my curiosity, and I asked, "What's Gossip Girl?"
"Look it up," she winked.
I tapped the name into my browser and read the tagline when the pink website loaded onto my screen: Your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Manhattan's elite.
I recognized the blonde in the cover picture, and a new surge of anger hit me all over again.
Georgina turned to leave, but I grabbed her by the crook of the arm. "Wait." I zoomed in on the video that Johnny sent me, making sure that only the lacrosse player appeared on the screen. "Do you know this guy?"
She smiled, letting her eyes rake over his bare chest shamelessly before responding, "Yeah, that's Nate Archibald."
Driven on by blind rage, I tapped the button on the Gossip Girl page that read "Send me your tips." If I couldn't tell the doe-eyed brunette that her man was a cheating bastard, then perhaps Gossip Girl could.
A/N: Let me know which parts of Love and Loathing that you would like to view from Chuck's perspective, and I'll try to include them. :)