<em>"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone." -Orson Welles<em>
<a href="http://i1231.photobucket.com/albums/ee504/stfu_stupid/Blairwaldorf.jpg">She</a> glared at the message on her phone. She sighed dramatically, as if part of a performance.
Her companion shifted, studying her, and she could feel the smirk on his face. The smirk she usually liked wiping off.
"Where's fair Nathaniel?" <a href="http://i1231.photobucket.com/albums/ee504/stfu_stupid/BRZY_28.png">He</a> leered.
Ugh. She disliked him at times like these. Oftentimes, she asked herself why she put up for him and for so long. Perhaps it was out of habit. I mean, she had known him since he used to cry and hold onto his nanny's skirts.
She remembered the first time she saw him. Red-faced and sobbing. His nanny had attempted to pry him off her skirt, but Charles held on tight, refusing to go to school. She stared him down, very annoyed at the horrible noise he was making.
"Stop crying!" Six year-old Blair snapped at him. He had instantly stopped. "You look silly."
He glared at her. "We-well, at least I don't have a bow on my head!"
"My bow is pretty, Stupid," she had countered just as easily.
He had followed her then – that's how he had met Nathaniel. Now, years later, Blair was still snapping at Charles, only he had learned to defend himself and even better than she did. Which was probably why she kept him around; she could be the b**** she enjoyed being around him.
"He's meeting us there," she said stiffly.
"What?" She asked, annoyed and rolling her eyes.
"I don't know, Waldorf – if I had a girl with legs like yours waiting on a plane for me, I would do everything possible to get to her. Heiresses couldn't keep me away." He stretched out on his seat.
She glared at him and his outfit. He looked like someone had slipped him out of the Copacabana with his white linen suit and white Panama hat. The only color in his outfit was his annoyingly bright orange ascot. Leave it to Charles to dress for the occasion. She looked down at herself. Okay. So she had dressed for the occasion herself. Her floral Alexander McQueen dress fit her curves perfectly, as did her Channel straw hat and matching purse. Nate would be the only one wearing Aeropostale.
"Yeah, right – I'm sure you're one to leave a girl, anywhere, at any time," she countered, unable to think of a better reply.
"And I have," he nodded, never defending his degrading behavior. Always proud of his womanizing ways and never apologizing to anyone – not even her, his oldest friend.
"I suppose you should go on ahead. I'll wait for him," she said, ignoring his lascivious comment.
"And fly commercial?" He asked, studying his hat with a smirk firmly placed on his Roman face.
She hated that he knew her so well. He knew she was as shallow as he was and enjoyed the luxury of the Bass private plane. She huffed, looking around the plane. She always did love riding on the plane. And Charles knew it – even when they were little, she proclaimed she was riding with Charles because of the plane.
"Fine," she snapped finally. "But I feel really bad about this."
"Sure you do, Waldorf," he sneered, placing the hat over his head and smirking at the flight attendant as she brought him his customary scotch.
She watched Charles as he exchanged five words with the girl and the slut was practically bearing his babies. She rolled her eyes and took out her I-pod, intent on getting through her next audio book, undisturbed by Charles and his promiscuous actions. In three hours, she would be in sunny St. Delacroix, housed in the best room money could buy, provided by the he-slut himself. She would be sipping mojitos as she worked on her perfect tan. While Charles chased the natives and Nate braved commercial flights to be with her.
"Waldorf!" She was snapped out of her reverie and placed Dostoevsky on pause. She slowly turned to look at him.
"What?" She demanded.
Charles pointed to the stewardess; the young blonde was waiting to ask her what she wanted.
"Club soda, wedge of lime," she said and continued her audio, then stopped when she noticed him watching her.
"What?" She snapped, pausing the Russian once more.
"What are you listening to?" He asked.
"Charles," she began patiently. "I did not agree to come on this flight with you in order to be your entertainment. I did it to relax and get away from the mess my life is at the moment."
He raised his brow, and she knew she had given him ammunition. She cursed internally.
"Any of this mess caused by our dear Nathaniel?" He asked, playing with his hat while he eyed the blond waitress and her short skirt.
Her answer was a Waldorf glare. She plugged her I-pod back in as he chuckled, amused by her reaction. She rolled her eyes as he followed the blonde to the back to do God-knows-what in God-knows-where.
She closed her eyes, and the feel of the plane combined with the droning words lulled her to sleep. She dimly felt someone place a blanket over her.
He came back after he made the blonde scream four times and four times only. He left her nearly passed out and with a happy smile on her face. He was Charles Bass, after all.
"Make sure you get her the club soda," he said calmly as he zipped up his pants. The girl did a gurgling noise in the back of her throat and nodded, eyes crossed.
He chuckled and calmly washed his hands, then walked out.
There was slight turbulence as he walked back to Blair so he held onto some of the seats. It was a rarity that he was able to get the plane all to himself and his friends. For the most part, he had to share it with either the marketing team or his father's investors. Once in a while they would get a celebrity and he would always volunteer as an escort, especially for models and young actresses. He smiled, remembering the flight to L.A. a few months ago. Just him, the butler, and Megan Fox. What a night.