There are some words marked 'unspeakable,' for Upper East Siders. 'Gossip,' for instance. Well, for those unprivileged it means fresh news, hot off the press, rumors to be shared and secrets to be recoded.

But for those always featured on Gossip Girl's blog, it's a whole different story.

GOSSIPGIRL: Spotted. A fancy French coquette stepping into the New York Palace, and coming out with Chuck Bass. Hands Linked. Lips? Further Reports await. Loyal no longer, Mr. Bass? Hope you'd have a good excuse for your fiancée, C.

"Oops. Oh. Ow!"

I screech clumsily (ever heard of a better excuse for rolling over your phone?) And the stupid ringing…ow. (What could Gossip Girl possibly have for me at this hour?)

It's only brunch time, for God's sake.

Sleepily and groggily—was up last night going over the Save the Planet Benefit with Crazy Mom (who still insisted I invite my 'so-called,' fiancée, Chuck)—I help myself to half sit up on the bed, grabbing and flipping out my cell.

Huh. What news?

And just before I can read the message, the cell rings. Serena.

Talk about waking up with birds chirping in the morning. This is so not my movie of the day.

"Yes, S, I'm here, what's up," I throw on my bathrobe hastily, saying a couple of greetings.

Her reply is immediate. "Oh, B, hope I didn't wake you, s'sorry."

"Nope, Gossip Girl beat you to it."

She sighed. Sigh? What could possibly make her sigh? Other than…

"Is it some Dan Humphrey miscalculation incident, that you're calling to me so early in the morning about?"

Hearing so, S laughs. A bright, airy sound. "No, Dan's fine. It's about you—"

"Me?" The rise of pitch is automatic.

"And Chuck."

"Oh God. Here we go," I touch my forehead lightly, heart preparing to depart to Mom (And here's your Mr. nice Bass…)

"Check Gossip Girl," she suggests, "I know it's kind…of…early? But the news was yesterday. Someone just send it in."

All the while, her tone rises up and down systematically. On the beat. Nervous and anxious, I could tell.

"S, nothing's wrong," I chuckle as I put on my dress, "It's probably another Chuck's drunk party or something."

"It's something…of a French coquette, B," she says, "Just thought you should know. And I thought there's something good in him."

Ah huh. I couldn't. Or will ever can. How surprising.

"French coquette?" I ask, of pretended innocence.

"Hand in hand with your man."

I roll my eyes. "If it weren't a Chuck matter, I would have praised you of your excellent ability to rhyme, but, he's not my man if he's going hand in hand with someone. But…but…but…who cares? Let him. French coquettes? There's no evidence he's cheating." This'd better be good, Blair, I told myself.

Following a gasp, there's a long pause at the other end of the line. I suppose S is looking out the window to see if it's raining amidst the summer heat.

And then she gets on. "What'd you mean? Let him?"

I cough. "Well, I—"

"Blair? Did he…drug you or—"

I can never let her pause again. Before any unimaginable idea gets—

"No, he didn't do anything. And I haven't. To him, I mean," I explain, "It might be his colleague at work—"

"Chuck's never had any colleague, only coquettes."

"Whatever, S. I'm fine. I'm way, way fine." By this time, still sitting on my bed, I haven't gone down to Dorota's call downstairs for my late brunch. The call is way too interesting to hang up. "And the bet between Chuck and me is on, just you know, too."

She snorts at my 'too.' "What in the Upper East Side is happening to you, B?" hanging up suddenly.

Shrugging to an imaginary Serena, I jump off my bed, ready to begin my day.

All right. I'll keep an eye on him.

But don't you know? I already am.

"Mhm, don't…Monsieur Chuck…don't…I'm…"

We've just finished off a meeting, but I'd grabbed her, touching every part of her, wanting her, until we are merely two figures attached, stumbling into my dark suite.

Blind to her protests, I'm already pressing my lips to hers. Kissing her hungrily. Deeply.

"But why not, Aimee, why not?"

I ask in between kisses, taking of my clothes hurriedly.

"Because…" she hesitates, "Because…"

What happens next is what I'd hardly like to mention.

I'd wish with all my heart she wrestles free from my grip and storms off. (At least the initial kissing part would be real. And sort of a mediocre satisfaction.)

Yet her voice morphs into that of mine, echoing, ringing so clearly in the ears. "Because you've got to wake up."

Damn it.

The worst sentence I've ever heard.

My eyelids flutter open, to the sight of the woman in (not particularly of) my dream(s), wearing her sexy working style clothes, armed with a notepad and a pen, watching me on the sideline from the doorway.

Um. Ahem.

"I see you've woken up," she greets me, smiling, "Let's get to today's agenda, shall we?"

I'm too busy staring at her (mouth) to notice.

Really, is that all I think about?

See, since the day she came in here, I thought I'd—get some (you know my motto: seal the deal, tape that ass.) Yes, I'm bind to Blair's bet. I am.

I love her.

As so do other women to me.

Being with a gorgeous one all the time, everywhere, even in the morning, and not able to lift a finger on her is weakening my hold on the bet. Whenever I 'begin,' any prologues, she would 'go off,' somewhere else. No kissing. No lips. No hands. (There was one brief moment, though, yesterday's morning.) No embracing.

This is getting too much tempting.

"Monsieur?" her accented voice lifts me from my private guilt world, "Chuck?"

"Uh, yes," I slide off the bed, quite unceremoniously, "Do begin. Wherelse have I got to go on this dreary…ah…"

"Wednesday?" she offers, clicking her pen and cocking her eye at me.

Wednesday. Only half a week's passed? I swear silently, mouth ahead of my heart. "We could do something…a little more…thought-provoking, you know."

A curl at the corner of her lips. "Thought-provoking? Please, Monsieur," in her breathless voice.

I try asserting my eyesight. Seems like, at that exact moment, she unbuttons one of her top jacket buttons, revealing her tank top.

As she has always done with me. Luring me in for nothing.

"You've got the Wall Street Briefings, Stockholders' meeting," she rattles off, pen trailing down the list (blah, blah, blah), "And Miss Blair's Save the Planet Party."

My ears perk up at that. Finally a chance to 'meet' Blair again.

This time I can so show my love.

Not in any perverse ways, of course.

And, before I can continue with my thoughts, my cell rings…

"Chuck? It's Blair. We need to talk."

A/N: I'm back. After a longer-than-Gossip-Girl-hiatus break.

Been thinking…

Thank you so much…for all your stopping by, reading, and, especially reviewing,

Let me know if you like it,

Lots of love and peace out,

(Gossip Girl rocks…)

Your ever humble fanfic writer, xoxo…