Psycho Killer (24 page)

Serena downed the last dregs of her second Dark and Stormy. Again, a bloody fast-motion film of every one of her kills streaked through her mind’s eye.

“Don’t you get it?” she demanded, her voice quavering. “Jude and Milos and Soren and Jeremy. Kati and Is and Ms. Glos and Anna.” She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to stop the film and then opened them again. “I did it all for you, Blair,” she said in a monotone. “It’s always been for you.”

Blair stood over her, hands on her hips, shaking her head. She was about to have sex. She didn’t have time for another pathetic, corny speech about how much Serena missed her.

“Save it,” she snapped, but then she faltered as Serena rose to her feet, her empty glass clutched in her white-knuckled hand, her fine nostrils quivering. She was nearly six feet tall, and the look in her cobalt blue eyes as she stared Blair down was one of pure rage.

Blair swallowed, her throat dry. She was fine with Serena killing
other
people; it had never occurred to her that Serena might try to kill
her
.

“Well, have a great weekend,” she said with a final stiff smile. Sex with Nate was so much more important than any of this bullshit. She dropped a hundred dollars on the table for their drinks. “Excuse me?” she asked the three tall boys who were blocking her path. “Do you mind getting the fuck out of my way?”

Shaking, Serena collapsed onto the black velvet ottoman and swallowed an ice cube, whole, as she watched Blair leave. It burned her throat and tasted like lemons.

Blair kept pushing her way through the crowd and out the door to the street. Gasping for air, she walked over to Sixth Avenue to catch a cab uptown. It started to rain and her hair frizzed. A bus roared by with Serena’s picture on the side of it. Was it her belly button? It looked like the dark pit at the center of a peach. Blair turned her back on it and waved her hand in the air to flag down the next taxi. She couldn’t get away fast enough. But the first taxi that stopped for her had the same poster in the lighted advertising box on its roof. Blair got in and slammed the door. She could never get completely away—Serena was fucking everywhere.

And she wanted her dead.

Serena reached for another cigarette and stuck it in her mouth with trembling fingers. Suddenly a pinky-ringed hand proffered a Zippo and lit the cigarette for her. The lighter was gold, with the monogram
C.B
. So was the ring.

“Hey Serena. You look seriously hot,” Chuck Bass said. “What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?”

Serena inhaled deeply, licked the blood from her cuticles off of her teeth, and smiled. “Hey Chuck. I’m glad you’re here. Blair ditched me and now I’m all alone. Anyone else coming?”

Chuck clicked his lighter shut and put it in his pocket. He glanced around the room. “Who knows?” he said casually. “They could come, or they could not come.”

He sat down in the armchair where Blair had been sitting.

“You really do look hot,” he said again, staring at Serena’s legs like he wanted to eat them, with a side of garlicky fava beans and a nice glass of Chianti.

“Thanks,” Serena said and laughed. It was kind of a relief to know that Chuck was still exactly the same, even if everyone else was acting like freaks. She had to love him for that.

Before she ripped his head off.

“Hey Missy,” Chuck called to the waitress. “Bring us two rounds of my special shots. And put everything on my tab.” He handed Serena the hundred-dollar bill Blair had left on the table. “You keep that,” he said.

“But it’s Blair’s.” Serena took the bill and examined it. The bland, ugly face of Benjamin Franklin stared back at her, challenging her to a duel. She stuffed the bill into her red velvet handbag.

Missy brought over four brimming-over shot glasses full of nondescript clear liquid.

Chuck pushed two of them toward Serena. “I call this Sunday Bloody Sunday, because you drink it and the next thing you know it’s Sunday and there’s blood all over your shoes and you can’t remember how it got there.” He clinked glasses with Serena. “Bottoms up!”

The shot tasted like pickle juice. It was delicious. Serena reached for the second one and tipsily poured it half into her mouth and half down her front.

“Oops,” she said, as the shot sloshed all over her. “Damn.”

Chuck dove for the spill and sucked it right off her chest. “There. Got it,” he said, licking his lips. “You can’t even tell.”

Serena giggled and pushed him away. “Thanks, Chuck. You should come out with me more often. I’m always making messes.” Again the bloody film flashed before her eyes. She shook her long blond ponytail, trying to make the images go away.

Chuck leered at her and grunted before downing his second shot. “I bet you are.” He signaled to Missy to bring another round.

Serena closed her eyes and opened them again, giggling drunkenly to herself. Chuck’s pageboy haircut swam before
her, looking even more ridiculous now that she was drunk.

“Why don’t we take this next round up to my suite?” he offered smoothly, his face all teeth.

Serena hesitated, thinking about what Blair had said about the Basses not liking people in their suite anymore. “Are you sure it’s okay with your parents?” she asked.

Chuck snorted and held out his hand. “Them?” he said disparagingly. “They’re in Caracas. Come on. It’s Friday the thirteenth, I’m sure the TV’s got good movies to watch. The hot tub’s nice and hot. We can order room service. I’ll put on your underwear, you can put on mine. Anything you want.”

Even though it was raining out and he was freezing his ass off, Nate was in no hurry to get to Blair’s house. It was pretty ironic, really. Here he was, a seventeen-year-old guy, about to have sex with his girlfriend for the first time (hers, anyway). He should have been
running
.

She must know by now
, he kept telling himself, over and over and over. How could she not? The whole city had to know by now that he’d had sex with Serena. But if Blair knew, then why hadn’t she said anything?

Thinking about it was driving Nate insane, literally. First the freakout at the pizzeria. And then last night he saw a paunchy black and white–feathered, pink-beaked vulture standing in his open window, staring at him and looking…
hungry
.

He ducked into a liquor store on Madison Avenue and bought a half pint of Jack Daniel’s. He’d already smoked a little joint at home, but he’d need a few shots of courage before he saw Blair. His hands were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure he could even take her clothes off.

That’s okay. She won’t be wearing any. And she comes with instructions.

Nate walked the rest of the way as slowly as he could, taking surreptitious sips from the bottle. He turned down Seventy-second Street only yards from Blair’s building. A young vulture flapped down to the sidewalk. It waddled along beside Nate, glancing up at him with its beady eyes as if it wanted to make friends.

Nate hurled his bottle at it and broke into a run. The bottle smashed and the vulture squawked. It hopped away, beat its heavy wings once, twice. Then, airborne, it flew away into the night.

Staggering, Serena followed Chuck into the elevator and up to the Basses’ ninth-floor suite. It looked exactly the same as it always had: living room with entertainment center and bar; huge bedroom with king-sized bed and another entertainment center, as if they needed two; huge marble bathroom with a sunken round hot tub and two fluffy white terrycloth bathrobes hanging on horseshoe-shaped chrome hooks. That was another thing Serena loved about hotels—the bathrobes. Nothing felt better after a particularly brutal bloodbath than a steaming hot shower and a clean white bathrobe.

Doesn’t everyone agree?

On the coffee table in the living room was a pile of old photographs. Serena recognized Nate’s face in the top one. She picked them up and shuffled through them.

Chuck glanced at the pictures over her shoulder. “Last year,” he said, shaking his head. “We were pretty wild.”

Blair, Nate, Chuck, Isabel, Kati, Rain—everyone was in them,
naked in the hot tub, their bodies red from the heat, dancing and drinking champagne on the big bed, ghoulish makeup streaking down their sweaty faces. They were all party shots from last year—the date was in the corner of each one—and they were all taken in the suite.

So Blair had lied. Everyone did still party in the Basses’ suite, same as always. And Blair wasn’t the little goody-goody she pretended to be either, with her mock SAT and her prim black cardigan. In one picture Blair was wearing only a black thong and a red clown wig, jumping up and down on the bed with a bottle of firestarter in her hand.

Serena gulped down her third shot and collapsed on the couch. Chuck sat down beside her and pulled her feet into his lap.

“Chuck,” Serena warned woozily. “I’m really drunk.”

“Let’s take your boots off then,” Chuck said helpfully. “I know reflexology.”

“Sure you do.” Serena lay back on the couch and allowed Chuck to remove her boots and ply her tired feet with his greedy hands. She reached for the remote and clicked on the television.
Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday
was on—the scene where the autopsy doctor eats Jason’s heart.

Oh, goody.

Serena loved this part. Eyes fixed on the screen, she put down the remote. Chuck began to suck on her toes. He bit her big toe and kissed her ankle.

“Chuck.” Serena giggled, wriggling her legs. The room tilted and the TV screen went fuzzy. She never could hold her liquor.

Chuck worked his hands up her legs. His fingers massaged the insides of her knees.

“Chuck,” Serena slurred again, sitting up in annoyance. “Do
you mind? I’m pretty drunk, okay? Let’s just hang out on the couch and watch
Freaky Friday
or whatever this movie’s called. You know, like girls.”

Chuck crawled toward Serena on his hands and knees until he was looming over her and she was pinned beneath him. “But I’m not a girl,” he growled hungrily. He lowered his face to hers and began to kiss her. His tongue tasted like a big dill pickle.

“Shit!” Blair shrieked when she heard the doorman buzz from downstairs. Nate was early. She was still wearing her clothes, and she had just spilled red candle wax all over her rug.

She switched off her bedroom light and ran to answer the buzzer in the kitchen.

“Yes, send him up,” she told the doorman. She unbuttoned her jeans and flew back to her room, wriggling out of them. Then she pulled the rest of her clothes off and tossed them into the closet. Naked, she grabbed a tube of black body paint and began drawing greasy black arrows pointing to all her anatomical areas of interest. Next she grabbed the tube of red and wrote “No Parking” across her butt. Then she grabbed a tube of taxi yellow and wrote “This Way” above the arrow pointing down between her legs.

Beep beep!

Blair checked out the result in the mirror. The paint was garish and spooky in the candlelight. Her skin was still nice and tan from the summer, but now it was impossible to tell. Adding insult to injury, her unbrushed hair stuck up in a halo of frizz from the rain. Oh well, Nate was always horny. He wouldn’t mind.

The doorbell rang.

“Hold on!” she called out, carefully drawing little red hearts on all four of her cheeks.

Serena let Chuck kiss her for a while because he was heavy and she couldn’t get him off her. She wanted to kill him, but she was too drunk. As he explored the inside of her mouth with his tongue, she continued to watch TV. Jason’s heart had just turned into a demonic baby and crawled out of some guy named Randy’s neck. Serena turned her head away and closed her eyes.

“Chuck, I really don’t feel so well,” she said. “Do you mind if I just lie here for a little while?”

Chuck sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure, that’s cool.” He stood up and cleared his throat. “I’ll go get us some water.”

Chuck went over to the wet bar and filled up two glasses with ice and Poland Spring.

When he turned around, Serena was already asleep. Her head had fallen back against the cushions, and her long legs twitched. Chuck sank onto the couch beside her, grabbed the remote, and changed the channel. To be honest, he hated slasher films, and oh look, his favorite show:
Glee
.

“Hi,” Blair said, opening the door a crack.

“Hi,” Nate said, panting. His hair was wet from the rain and the cold sweat of fear.

“I’m naked,” Blair told him. “Sort of.”

“Really?” Nate said, barely absorbing the information. He couldn’t wait to get inside and away from the vultures. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Blair said, opening the door wide.

Nate stared at her, frozen in the doorway. She looked like a map of the London Underground.

Blair blushed and hugged her painted arms around herself. “I told you I was naked.” She grabbed Nate’s hand and pulled him inside.

“I’m all wet,” he said shakily, kicking off his shoes.

Blair laughed. Nate sounded nervous, even more nervous than she.

“Hurry up and take your clothes off then.” She started toward her bedroom, the red
NO PARKING
sign on her butt waggling with each step.

Nate followed, not doing any of the things a boy would normally have done under the circumstances. Like throw Blair down on the bed, or worry about condoms or bad breath. He was barely thinking at all.

Blair’s room was a blaze of red candles. Weird Hawaiian ukulele music played softly from her iPod. A bottle of red wine was open on the floor, with two glasses beside it. Blair knelt down and poured each of them a glass. She felt more comfortable naked in the darkness of her room.

“Do you want me to paint you too?” she asked, handing him a glass.

Nate gulped the wine, swallowing noisily. “Paint me?” he repeated. “Sure.”

Blair had made and remade the movie of this moment in her head so many times she felt like an actress who was finally getting her big break, playing the role of her career.

“Take off your shirt.”

Nate took off his shirt and tossed it on the floor.