Socialista
The room smelled like a mixture of liquor and sex.
And, Blair thought, somewhat like the fragrance counter at Bergdorf Goodman.
She was poised between Cottie and Hazel in the middle of a burgundy leather couch, her legs crossed at the ankles and a watermelon Bellini resting in her hand. Socialista hadn't changed a bit in the seven months since she'd stepped through the door; same décor, same menu, same faces, more or less. It was still one of her favorite places in the city, fourteen dollar drinks held between manicured fingers while beautiful patrons modeled the latest attire from Bendel's. All in all, the perfect scene in the mind of Blair Waldorf.
Except, apparently, for tonight. She wasn't in the mood, not even being able to derive appreciation from the long, approving stare of the attractive Wall Streeter leaning against the bar. She couldn't enjoy herself, could barely even breathe because of the distracting throb lingering between her legs. She was losing her buzz, and losing her temper, and all she could think about was the mind-numbing orgasm she'd had an hour before.
That, and Chuck freaking Bass.
She hated him, really. That's all there was to it.
It was the way he looked at her with that stupid, cocky smirk on his lips, the way he spoke in that deep tone of voice that made goosebumps emerge up and down her spine. He knew exactly how to push her buttons, exactly how to make her blood boil and her cheeks flush with anger.
And he knew exactly how to make her toes curl in ecstasy.
Basstard.
She had thought they were beyond this, beyond the infuriating battle of wits that somehow always led to sex. She had spent the past year and a half at Yale, and he at Duke, and the five hundred miles between them allowed her to forget the horrible, unyielding hold that he seemed to have over her entire being. But there it was, months later and still as strong as ever after only minutes in his presence.
Yes, she definitely hated him.
She groaned inwardly at the thought, bringing the glass flute to her lips and downing the last of her Bellini. "I'm going home," she announced abruptly, uncrossing her legs and standing to her feet. She didn't wait for the others to respond before walking away from them, placing one Manolo in front of the other as she headed toward the bar's exit. If she called now, she thought, she could probably convince Serena to meet her at Bungalow for one last cocktail.
That, and to plot the slow, excruciating assassination of Charles Bartholomew Bass.
The winter air was frigid when Blair finally pushed through the crowd, busting through the front door and stumbling into the cold December air. The wind immediately whipped against her skin, penetrating her layers of clothing before she even had a chance to cringe at the feel of it's biting force.
She headed toward Jane Street on autopilot, her eyes scanning for the heavenly sight of a vacant cab, yet only spotting taxis with passengers loaded into the backseats. She rolled her eyes, suddenly hit with the realization of how difficult it could be to get a cab in the Village during the winter . "Fucking great," she muttered, pulling her cell phone from her clutch and searching for Serena's name.
She was just turning the street corner, scrolling through her Blackberry's address book when her black velvet peep-toe betrayed her, sliding traitorously across a patch of ice and knocking Blair momentarily (and ungracefully) off balance.
--
Central Park, 1995
The earliest memory Blair had of ice skating by herself occurred when she was five years old. Her father had taken her to the rink in Central Park the day it had opened, his giggling daughter at his side and her brand new pink ice skates tucked beneath his arm. Blair had perched herself on a bench as he'd laced them at her feet, admiring the way they perfectly matched the polka dots on her her mittens before voicing this very thought to her father. When she'd held up her gloved hands to show him, he'd nodded, smiling as he stood up and tousled her hair. "You're mother wouldn't have it any other way, princess."
She hadn't felt even a twinge of nervousness when she'd first glided across the ice, placing one wobbly foot in front of the other as her father had gripped her hand strongly, keeping her upright. It was the greatest experience she'd ever had, in fact, exhilarating and whimsical and liberating all at the same time.
It was a half hour later when Harold Waldorf had finally released his daughter's hand, nodding encouragingly and giving her shoulders a squeeze. "Just give it a shot, honey," he'd said. "You can do it all by yourself. I know you can."
And Blair had believed him because her daddy never lied. She'd returned his smile before turning away, not even hesitating before skating ahead of him courageously. "Watch me, Daddy!" she'd yelled, grinning as she'd staggered along.
She hadn't turned around again until she was halfway across the rink, and it was then that she realized she could no longer see her father, his red knee-length coat no where in sight. She had immediately tensed, her knees locking and her eyes welling with tears as a sense of panic invaded her body. "Daddy!" she had called, her voice unsteady as her head whipped around. He was gone, though, she'd realized as her eyes frantically scanned the crowded rink, her mouth going dry and her hands becoming clamming beneath her cashmere mittens. "Daddy!"
It had only taken seconds for him to appear by her side, his hands immediately gripping her protectively and pulling her into his arms. Tears had flooded her cheeks as she'd buried her face into his Burberry scarf, the familiar scent of his cologne invading her senses as he'd stroked her back soothingly. "You're fine, Blair-bear," he'd told her, smiling and kissing the top of her head as he skated toward the wall of the rink. "I'm sorry you couldn't see me, sweetheart, but you're fine. I promise nothing's ever going to happen to you."
--
Present day, West Village
Blair hadn't thought of that day in years, so it was strange that such a random recollection flooded her mind at that particular moment. It was certainly a bittersweet memory, one that probably would've made her miss her father had she been able to feel anything other than an overwhelming sense of terror.
I promise nothing's ever going to happen to you.
She couldn't help but think how ironic it was that those words were all that echoed through her head when, just as she regained her balance on the slippery sidewalk, a hand clamp over her mouth, roughly pulling her down an abandoned side-street as her cell phone clattered against the concrete.
–
Short, I know. I do what I can.