Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

Sometimes he thinks there must be a god. Some higher power up there laughing at his expense. Really it is the only rational explanation for this sick cosmic joke that has become his life. And if God exists, God is surely female because only a woman could be this cruel and vindictive. It’s got to be karmic retribution.

Why else would he be having nightmares about her? Okay, maybe not nightmares. Dreams. But certainly not pleasant dreams. Not entirely.

Fuck.

Before, when he slept he imagined a girl who wasn’t real. Never mind that she had chestnut curls and wide chocolate eyes. Ignore the fact that she smelled of magnolia blossoms and wore ridiculously conservative dresses before he stripped them off her. This dream girl didn’t actually exist. She was only a fantasy. But now the fantasy had a face, and that face belonged to Blair Waldorf.

Now, when he closes his eyes, there she is. Part saint, part succubus. She smiles at him in a way she has never done in real life and he is powerless to resist her siren call. In his sleep, he is hers in a way that transcends logic. She claims him with her words, her lips, her touch. And every time, just before he surrenders to the ecstasy her embrace brings, he hears Georgina’s voice.

“She’d never look at you again if she knew.”

The shock always wakes him up, propels him from his bed in a cold sweat, gasping for air, fighting the demon in his memory. Shaking in horror and shame, lust and confusion, he feels that this must be a prelude to the hell that is undoubtedly waiting for him.

Sleep, he decides, is the enemy. Best to avoid it until necessity forces his compliance, and even then he doesn’t go willingly. No, copious use of recreational substances temper his experience. Drunk and high, the dreams aren’t so intense. Sometimes, he doesn’t even remember them beyond a vague recollection of being caressed by Blair that is quickly forgotten.

Georgina’s mocking laughter, however, is not so easily dismissed. It stays with him, lingering long after the dream has faded. It resurfaces at the most inopportune times and he finds himself haunted by thoughts of her and that awful night.

He will not remember.

He cannot forget.

And as much as he abhors agreeing with that bitch on anything, he has to admit she was right. He really can’t banish the memory of his first. But he still wishes he could. He’d erase the moment his psyche had been shattered by her without a second’s hesitation.

While he was at it, he’d probably expunge these disturbing dreams about Blair too. She would have nothing to do with him if she ever guessed the thoughts about her creeping around in his head. Georgina had been right about that too.

Blair and Chuck’s relationship is tenuous at best, non-existent at worst. It isn’t like they are friends. She’d only watched that stupid film with him that one time. And so what if that one movie night had turned into two, or three, or five? It didn’t mean anything. Certainly not that he enjoys her company, or that she deigns to spend time with him out of anything more than desperation. She’s lonely, he reminds himself, and there literally is no one else for her to turn to. Not since Serena went away and Nate was being distant. Sure she has her minions, but she can’t exactly relax around them. She is their Queen after all and must maintain appearances. He is the only person left, her incredibly convenient last resort.

And for reasons he still cannot fathom, he allows it. He finds himself making excuses to leave Thursday evenings free in case she decides to come over. Not that they ever have plans. Of course not! But Thursdays just frequently happen to be when she condescends to gift him with her presence. That she considers her visits to him a favor is always quite evident.

Bitch.

Chuck cannot let this continue. He is totally going to be ruined if it persists. The game is not even, but stacked against him. Already the mere thought of her holds power over him.

It isn’t that he wants her. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. Not a girl like Blair Waldorf. It has to be something else. Some weird kink. A frigid bitch fetish or something. He’s tried to get it out of his system with the best that money can buy, but alas the sluts can never quite get the glare down, that look of utter loathing she reserves especially for him.

So now he’s running out of options. He has either got to fuck her, even though this isn’t really a choice since he hates her, or ruin the object of his fascination, which had been the original goal way back before he got sidetracked by thoughts of her laugh and the swell of her breasts and the expression she’d get on her face when he…

He rakes his hands through his hair in an effort to clear his mind.

Okay, the situation has obviously gotten out of hand. Thoughts of her are now intruding upon his waking life! She is going to be the death of him, unless he gets to her first. So destruction it is then. It’s the only way.

He thinks back. He knows he’d had a plan a while ago. What had it been? Oh yeah. Get her to sleep with Nate, then alert Gossip Girl. Sounds good. That’ll work.

Why the fuck is his stomach acting up again?!?!

That last doctor must have been incompetent. Psychosomatic his ass! His suffering has only increased since that misdiagnosis. He makes a mental note to sue for malpractice.

Glancing at his watch, he grits his teeth in annoyance.

5:15

Blair will arrive promptly at 6. Not that he is counting on her to show up. It isn’t a regular thing. It’s spontaneous! The fact that it happens precisely every seven days is so beside the point. It isn’t planned or anything. She’ll just show up randomly and then they’ll snip at each other until one of them begrudgingly suggests watching one of the movies that coincidentally are already waiting by the DVD player so that they can sit on the couch for two hours being acutely aware of each other while reciting the film’s dialogue and it is so not a date!

He will prove it. He has more than enough time.

Exactly forty-five minutes later, Blair knocks at his suite.

“Waldorf, what a surprise,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

She’s about to say something back, some biting retort no doubt, when her eyes register his disheveled appearance. Chuck watches her notice the unknotted bowtie hanging loose around his neck and the top few undone buttons of his Armani shirt, the tails of which have clearly been tucked in hastily. She furrows her brow questioningly and might have spoken had the slender tanned arm not wrapped around him possessively that very second.

He really couldn’t have planned it better.

For a brief moment, her expression is pure shock. Then her standby mode takes over, obscuring the display of emotion with an unreadable smile as the golden haired waif peek from behind Chuck.

The bimbo is almost a perfect doppelganger for Blair’s best friend. It’s why he’d singled her out at the hotel bar. Unfortunate that she was a sloppy drunk like Serena too, but it was a small drawback in the scheme of things.

“As you can see,” he drawls as he pulls the blonde tightly against him, “I’m otherwise engaged with Trixie –”

“Tracey,” the girl slurs.

He feels a flash of irritation. He doesn’t give a shit what the slut’s name is. Still, he amends, “Tracey here.” Then, giving Blair a significant look, he lowers his head to kiss the Van Der Woodsen clone. It’s a deep kiss, full of passion, like the kind that comes at the end of every chick flick ever made. The kind of kiss Blair Waldorf has never received from the lips of her precious Nate Archibald.

When he’s finished, the blonde clings to him breathless. He looks back at his nemesis with a self-satisfied leer.

“We had plans Bass,” Blair says tightly through a smile faker than a knockoff Prada bag.

Despite her chilling tone, his stomach flutters at her words. Plans! She said they had plans! She called them that! She admitted that coming over here to see him was intentional!

Fighting down the sudden surge of elation, he sneers, “So?” He slides a hand down the back of the girl in his arms to cup her ass. Blair watches the movement just as he knew she would.

She rolls her eyes in apparent disgust, but instead of turning to leave like he expects, she stands there defiant. “So Trixie will have to wait!” she snaps.

“Tracey,” the slut corrects, which Blair ignores as she pushes past them into the suite.

Still in the doorway, watching her straight back and casual walk, Chuck thinks perhaps he had overestimated. She doesn’t seem as bothered by finding him with someone else as he had anticipated.

Then Blair calls coyly over her shoulder in a voice dripping with sweetness, “Did that rash ever clear up? It looked really painful.”

“What?” the tousled blonde breathes into his face. Her eyes are unfocused and she reeks of booze. Abruptly, he shoves her out the door and slams it.

“Real cute, Waldorf,” he says when he joins her in the living room. She’s leaning on the back of the couch, grinning smugly.

“How much did you have to pay for her?” she asks

“I never have to pay for female companionship, princess. Sometimes I choose to pay, but I never have to.” He takes a step forward, invading her space. Pressed against the couch, she cannot escape and they are so close now that the hem of her flared skirt brushes against his trousers. He looks down at her, glad that she is in her flats today. The height gives him a slight advantage. Still, she raises her chin insolently and looks coolly back at him. Such bravado. It is one of the things he admires most about her.

A lazy smirk spreads over his face as he whispers, “I’m Chuck Bass.” Three innocuous words in and of themselves, but his husky voice gives them a seductive power. They’re tempting now, dangerous, loaded with innuendo, hinting at pleasure and decadence previously unimaginable. From his lips, those words are not merely an introduction. They are a challenge, a promise, an invitation.

A flush rises in her cheeks, and he hears the way her breath catches slightly in her throat. She isn’t as immune to his charms as she likes to pretend. Then as if mesmerized, she closes the space between them, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest. Her lips part and she tilts her head back as if daring him to kiss her.

And before he can, she stomps down upon his foot with a force he would have not believed possible from one of her size. Thank God she wasn’t wearing stilettos.

“Shit!” he bellows.

“I’m appalled anyone would fall for that line,” Blair spits as he hops on his uninjured foot.

He looks back at her viciously. “Jealous,” he sneers.

“Never.”

“Notice my voice didn’t go up at the end? Not a question,” he states as he collapses onto the couch.

Her mouth drops open in outrage. “Why would I be jealous of your whores, Bass? I have a boyfriend.”

“And yet here you are. Again,” he counters. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No! We’re perfectly happy,” she denies hotly. Her eyes don’t match her mouth, a sure indication that she is lying.

He nods at her patronizingly. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, the barest edge of pity creeping into his tone as he reaches for the remote control. He knows she’ll catch it.

He barely has a chance to turn the television on before she sits on the couch next to him. “What did you mean by that?”

Bingo!

Resisting the urge to grin, he turns back to her. “Nothing,” he says in feigned innocence.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know something!”

He shrugs noncommittal and returns his attention back to the television. Immediately, she grabs the remote from his hand and turns it off.

“Tell me what you know” she demands fiercely. Then her resolve breaks, and a note of uncertainty comes into her voice. “Has Nate said something to you?”

“He doesn’t have to.”

She blinks in bewilderment. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve been together since when, kindergarten? That’s a long time to wait.”

“Are you saying Nate is acting weird because we haven’t had sex?” she asks incredulous. She shakes her head. “No. No, he isn’t like that. He’s a gentleman.”

Chuck sighs and looks at her sardonically. “Let me be more succinct. Nathaniel may be a gentleman, but he’s still a guy, and guys want to get laid.”

“Not that it is any of your business,” she snaps, “but sex is actually kind of a big deal to some of us, unlike you!”

“Right,” he nods. “A big deal. You’ve probably got it all planned out too. Every move already scripted probably from the day you first learned what sex was.” He scowls contemptuously. “Well let me give you a hint. You can’t live your whole life according to a day planner, princess. Some things are better when they aren’t on the agenda.”

She turns from him haughtily, eyes staring fixedly at the wall. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore with you.”

“Fine,” he grinds out. He gets up from the leather sofa and walks with familiarity over to the television and picks up a small stack of DVDs. “So which one tonight? Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday, or Funny Face?”

“How do you know I don’t want to watch something else?” she replies angrily.

He snorts. “You never do.”

“I brought Charade to watch that one time!” she cries, temper flaring.

“And you still hated it,” he explains cutting her off. “So just pick one of your favs and let’s skip all the dramatics, okay?”

Her shoulders visibly relax. “You don’t mind?” she says, her voice small.

“No,” he sighs.

She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles from the silky fabric. “Nate always complains,” she confesses. “It drives him nuts watching the same films over and over.”

“Well I’m not Nathaniel. Besides, I know why you do it,” Chuck says confidently.

“Oh really?” she says a challenge in her eyes.

“Yeah. You need the routine. It makes you feel safe. You like knowing how things are going to turn out,” he whispers as he rejoins her on the couch.

She purses her lips. “Well if I’m so easy to read, which one do I want to watch then?”

He smirks and immediately holds up the middle case. “Easy. Tiffany’s.”

She doesn’t comment, merely arches one perfect brow.

“You used to watch it every weekend with Serena,” he continues. “And since she is gone, your tradition has lapsed. The change in schedule bothers you immensely."

With a glare, she snatches the case from him and stomps towards the DVD player as he laughs.

“Cocky bastard,” she mutters. “You think you know everything.”

“Not everything. Just you, Waldorf.”

“Well one of these days, Bass, maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t think I could?” she says indignant. “I’ve got moves.”

“Moves?” he repeats in amusement.

“Yeah,” she boasts. “Moves you’ve never seen!” She sits back down on the couch, closer to him than before, with a sassy flip of her curls and a smirk to rival his.

“If you had moves, I’d already know about them.” He leans forward, his voice dipping low. “But if you want to practice…”

She shoves him back. “You’re heinous!”

“And you’re predictable.”

He presses a button on the remote, and they sit in silence for a few moments as the first strains of ‘Moon River’ play over the opening credits. Finally he looks at her.

“Someday, Blair,” Chuck says. “Someday someone is going to upset your perfectly ordered world and it’s going to be the first time you actually feel alive and I just hope I’m around to see it because it will scare the shit out of you.”

She drags her eyes from the screen, annoyed to have her favorite movie interrupted. “What are you talking about? I’m living my life right now!”

He smiles at her displeasure. “There’s a difference between ‘living’ and ‘alive,’ princess. You just don’t know it yet.”