Nobody Does It Better Page 11

  Or pre-chewed Oreos.

  “I need to take a shower,” Nate yawned.

  “Well, you can't do it here.” Blair insisted. She readjusted her bathrobe to insinuate that she was naked underneath. Then she took a step backward so Nate could see into the room. “I'm busy.”

  She watched as Nate's gaze traveled from the gold-and-white-painted door across the golden beige carpet to the bed. Two nights ago she would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him on top of the covers so she could ravage his ridiculously hot body and he could ravage hers, just like they'd been doing since she decided to go all the way. But he hadn't called her in two whole days and he really needed to brush his teeth. He'd missed his chance.

  From beneath the covers, Serena did her best imitation of a studly postsex snore. Blair clenched her teeth to keep from smiling. Actually she didn't much feel like smiling. She was too pissed off at Nate.

  Nate pressed his palms against his cheeks like he was trying to hold his face together. He'd been counting on staying with Blair tonight a) because she was in a hotel suite and it would be awesome to take a nice hot shower, have lots of sex, take a bubble bath, order tons of room service, and watch movies until they fell asleep in each other's arms; b) because he really didn't want to go home and endure the wrath of Admiral Archibald. He'd definitely be grounded, which meant he wouldn't be able to go out at all for the rest of his life, and he'd probably never see Blair again; and c) because while he was fooling around with Lexie he'd realized that he really didn't enjoy kissing any-one but Blair anymore.

  Well, maybe he should have thought of that, like, yesterday.

  Serena kicked her foot and bellowed through her nose like a sleeping elephant.

  Who the fuck is that anyway? Nate was dying to ask, but the thought of knowing who it was made him press his hands against his face even harder. His gaze shifted back to Blair, who looked like she was already bored with whatever game they were playing.

  “I was on the boat,” he started to explain. “I lost my phone.” Then he realized that didn't really explain anything.

  Sometimes it just sucks to be you, doesn't it?

  “Go home, Nate,” Blair dismissed him. “Your parents are looking for you.”

  Nate let go of his face, stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a step backwards toward the elevators. Chocolate Oreo gunk was smeared on the crotch of his pants. He was a mess. “You haven't heard anything from Yale yet, have you?” he asked in a lame effort to find some common ground.

  “No,” she responded coldly.

  Nate waited for her to say something more but she didn't. Instead, Blair stretched her arms over her head and yawned lazily, like she'd been having so much sex with the big, hot, studly man in her bed she couldn't even talk.

  “Why don't you e-mail me or something?” she told Nate, and reached for the door handle.

  As if she and Nate had ever communicated by e-mail. When you saw someone naked every day for hours after school, it was hardly necessary to e-mail them.

  The corners of Nate's mouth drooped like he was about to cry. Blair wasn't breaking up with him officially—she never did, which was why they'd been breaking up and getting back together on and off for the last three years. But that was before they'd become as intimate as you can be with someone, and now there was some random guy in Blair's bed. “Okay. Have a good day at school tomorrow.”

  “See you,” Blair closed the door and leaned against it. “He's gone,” she whispered.

  Serena lifted her head and her pale blond hair cascaded all over the bed. “That was fun,” she observed, but the way she said it made it sound like a question.

  Blair went over and sat down on the end of the bed. “Really fun,” she agreed hollowly. The girls' eyes met. Neither of them was smiling.

  Then Serena giggled. “I guess it would have been more fun if I'd really been Stan 5.”

  Blair didn't say anything. She'd basically just broken up with Nate—again—after passing up a perfectly good opportunity to fool around with a boy who could very well get her into Yale. Well, one thing was for sure: She wasn't about to let Stan 5 get away.

  Serena threw back the covers and grabbed the leather-bound room service menu from the bedside table. “Let's order filet mignons and French fries and beer and watch old movies!”

  She'd always been an expert at changing the subject.

  Blair scooted her feet up underneath her and reached for the TV remote. There might be an Audrey Hepburn movie on TCM or AMC. She flicked through the channels hopefully. Aha! My Fair Lady. Well, at least that was something.

  Serena lit a Merit Ultra Light, took a puff, and then stuck it in Blair's mouth. Then she picked up the phone, massaging Blair's shoulders as she ordered nearly everything on the Plaza Hotel's room service menu.

  Maybe life sucked for some people, but Serena wouldn't allow it to suck for them.

  Two Doors Down, a Suite Gets Trashed

  Just down the hall, in an even bigger suite, Dan, Jenny, two members of the Raves, and a very tan French girl were lounging around smoking cigars that had been FedExed to the room from Cuba that day. The whole room was filled with ripped-open FedEx boxes: peaches from Georgia, candles from France, vodka from Finland, strong brown ale from Ireland, breadsticks from Italy, shower gel from LA, and extra-sharp cheddar cheese from Vermont.

  As if you couldn't buy all of the above in the city that has everything.

  Lloyd asked the concierge to send up more bathrobes, and one by one they all removed their clothes and donned robes. Jenny wasn't quite sure what to do with her pants and shirt, and it was nearly impossible to hide her bra, because the bathrobe had the troublesome habit of popping outward in the cleavage area. She decided to stuff her clothes into the gold-and-white vanity cupboard under the bathroom sink and cinched the belt of the bathrobe as tight as it would go before stepping out into the suite once more.

  “Have a peach,” Damian offered in his adorable Irish accent. He pulled one of the perfectly ripened fruits out of the box and held it up. He'd changed into a robe, and Jenny wondered if he was still wearing his underwear. The thought made her cheeks turn red and her bathrobe pop open once more. Damian patted the seat cushion of the gold damask loveseat he was sitting on. “Come, sit down. Eat one of these and then show me how badly you can kick my ass at Terminator.”

  Jenny glanced at the selection of PlayStation games on the coffee table. Kick his ass? She'd never played a video game in her life.

  “Or would you prefer something more refined, like a fine Italian breadstick?” Lloyd asked from the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. He drummed two breadsticks on his knees. “They're excellent with ale. Just dunk,” he explained, dipping an entire breadstick into a bottle of Irish ale, “and munch.” Then he patted the seat cushion next to him just like Damian had done. “Try it.”

  Unable to decide which guy was cuter, Jenny sliced a tiny piece of cheddar cheese off the huge brick of it on the coffee table and then knelt down on the floor. Monique was sitting on the floor too, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and reading a French fashion magazine and looking bored because Dan had gone into the bathroom to shower and change into his robe.

  “Ooh la la, I just realized who you are!” Monique squealed, ashing on the floor in her excitement. “You're zee model in zee fantastique W pages. I love zohze photos. And zat blond girl—so beautiful, non?”

  “Well, you're even prettier,” Jenny responded shyly, thrilled to be recognized. She wished she had a cool French accent like Monique's. Everything sounded so much cooler with an accent.

  Dan came out of the bathroom with his hip-hop clothes all wadded up under his arm. Now that he was de-puked and had sobered up a little, he was tempted to chuck the clothes out the window.

  “Hey man, you never told us your sister was a bloody fashion model,” Damian said.

  “If bloody Monique is impressed, she must be pretty fucking huge,” Lloyd agreed.

  Bo
ys. Give them some strong Irish ale and all of a sudden they all have British accents.

  Dan was so ashamed of his performance that night, he could barely look at his bandmates. “She's done some modeling,” he mumbled.

  Marc, the Raves' bassist, opened the door of the suite, back from a walk with his Bernese mountain dog, Trish. Trish was huge and black with a sweet brown-and-white face like a St. Bernard. He'd named the dog after his ex-girlfriend—the love of his life, who'd broken up with him back in ninth grade—and he never went anywhere without her.

  How sweet. And how creepy.

  Dan sat on the floor next to his sister. Trish lay down next to him and put her head in his lap. She had terrible breath, like she'd been eating canned mackerel and spoiled milk.

  “Hey Marc. Turns out Jenny is, like, this hugely famous supermodel,” Lloyd announced.

  Marc glanced shyly at Jenny, then picked up one of the Plaza Hotel bathrobes from the stack and put it on over his clothes. He looked like a modern-day vampire, with curly black hair, pale skin, and nearly black eyes.

  Jenny giggled, reveling in all the attention. It was one o'clock in the morning and she was at the Plaza Hotel, wearing only a bathrobe and underwear, with the members of the coolest band ever! It was kind of weird being there with her brother, but kind of reassuring, too.

  Monique sat up on her knees and stroked Trish's ears. Then she slipped her hand down the back of Dan's bathrobe. “Come into zee bedroom,” she mouthed against his ear.

  Jenny could hear every word Monique said—not that she really wanted to. Boldly, she stood up and went over to the sofa to sit next to Lloyd. After all, she was a famous model— she could sit wherever she liked.

  Lloyd handed her a breadstick. “In southern Italy these are considered an aphrodisiac.”

  “Liar!” Damian threw a ripe, juicy peach at Lloyd's head. It missed and splattered all over the pristine white wall behind him.

  You're not a real rock star unless you know how to trash a hotel room.

  “Don't listen to that butthead, he's full of it,” Damian warned, suddenly losing his Irish accent. He dragged three PlayStation joysticks over to the sofa and sat down, so that Jenny was wedged between him and Lloyd.

  As if she minded.

  Jenny's feet were tingling and her ears were buzzing. It was a school night and she was a supermodel hanging out in a hotel room with three famous rock stars. If only Serena could see her now.

  Monique dragged Dan into a standing position. Damian's foot flew up and kicked her in the butt, but Monique pretended not to notice. She pulled Dan into the adjacent bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

  “Don't make too much noise!” Damian shouted after them.

  Marc lay down where Dan and Monique had been sitting and rested his head on his dog. Trish licked his pale cheek and wrapped an enormous black paw around his neck.

  Aw. What a cute couple.

  Jenny had never felt so famous in her life, and she owed it all to her brother. He deserved to hook up with some random French girl. And she deserved to be wedged between the two cutest guys ever to grace the cover of Rolling Stone. If only some reporter would knock on the door and take their picture. She kind of wanted the world to find out about this—it was too good not to be known, even if she got into major trouble.

  No worries, darling—the world has a funny way of finding out nearly everything.

  Gossipgirl.net

  Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

  hey people!

  And you thought the Tribeca Star was so cool

  The Plaza Hotel is having a revival, a big one. Some of our favorite people were suite-wrecking at the Plaza last night. It happened too late to make it into today's papers, but log onto the New York Post's Page Six online, and it's all there. A whole black-and-white photomontage of adorable little J getting kissed good-bye on the lips by the lead guitarist of the Raves right on the Plaza's red-carpeted steps and getting spanked on her bottom by the drummer with his drumsticks before he swept her into a bear hug. She even wore her Plaza Hotel bathrobe home, carelessly leaving her clothes behind, and blew kisses from the taxi, like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe.

  J wasn't the only budding model to hook up with the Raves' lead guitarist. A hotel staff member actually recorded him singing to S over a Plaza house phone. S finished the phone call saying, “I love you, Daddy.” Oh does she?

  But what about his marriage to a mysterious French girl a year or so back, in an exclusive ceremony in St. Barts? If you study the photograph of him kissing J, he is wearing a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand … and there was a beautiful French girl on the scene as well, although she was totally preoccupied with D, the band's raging new front man. His debut public performance was actually kind of embarrassing, but, like a typical French girl, she's probably too horny to care.

  The confusing part is that S was staying with B in her suite, bringing to mind those old stories about S and B in a hot tub together, engaging in what is best described as a little girl-on-girl. As if things weren't juicy and complicated enough already!!

  There's something about those French girls

  I know I've ranted about this before, but why is it that the girls who go to L'École Française look twenty-five when they're only fourteen? And how come all the guys we know secretly or not so secretly lust after them? And how positively infuriating to hear a group of L'École girls talking about you at a party—in Franglish, so that you can hardly understand a word they're saying. They eat only hot chocolate and pommel frites, they chain smoke, and you never see them jogging or playing field hockey in Central Park. Yet none of them are fat or zit-ridden. It's as thought their meres and grandmères introduced them to Lancôme and Chanel when they were only babes, and the alpha hydroxy acids or whatever permeated their systems, leaving them with perfect skin, perfect bodies, and feet that are most comfortable in three-inch heels. Their school even allows heels—unlike all the other girls, schools on the Upper East Side—which basically proves my point. When it comes to educating girls, the French seem follow a completely different curriculum. Not that we're jealous or anything.

  Other sightings

  B's mom at the Italian Consulate waving her checkbook around—what exactly is she up to now? K and I getting matching bikini waxes at Maria Bonita, a tiny NoLita salon, conveniently located near Sigerson Morrison, which happened to be having a sale. C (who dropped off the radar for a while there after getting rejected at every college he applied to) taking his white monkey to be er… fixed … at a discreet Chelsea clinic. It seems the monkey had inherited its owner's penchant for flirtation and has been throwing itself at every dog, cat, and ferret in the neighborhood.

  Your e-mail

  Q: Dear GG,

  I know it was you who made the film everyone's so excited about at Cannes. What are you waiting for? Get your ass over here and collect your reward!

  —mogl

  A: Dear mogl,

  You might think the lady doth protest too much, but I'm saying this for the last time: I have no f—ing clue what you're talking about! Enjoy Cannes.

  —GG

  Q: Dear GG,

  What are we supposed to do the rest of the year now that we know where we're going to college?

  —bord

  A: Dear bord,

  Please—isn't this what we've all been waiting for? Time to shop, drink, eat, and be merry? Time to be all we can be? If you don't have your own pool and can't get into the SoHo House rooftop pool, make it your mission to befriend someone with pool access and spend the rest of May rotating Eres bikinis!

  —GG

  Q: Dear GG,

  If you really really like a girl but she keeps ignoring you, what should you do?

  —2bummed

  A: Dear 2bummed,

  First, change your screen name to something more upbeat and attractive like “superhot.” Second, make
sure your deodorant works and that your outfit isn't completely hopeless. Then ask her to hang out, preferably where there are other people she knows and feels comfortable with, so she can have fun even if she decides you're a self-effacing loser and she's not interested. Good luck!

  —GG

  It's Monday, the start of the school week—I know: yawn. Realistically, though, after a weekend like this, how boring can things be? Like wolves in sheep's clothing, we all look so innocent in our school uniforms, but this weekend won't go without repercussions.

  I'll be the first to report when the shit hits!

  You know you love me,

  gossip girl

  J, B, and S are Totally Getting Expelled

  “I heard that freshman slut had, like, group sex with every member of the band—even the new lead singer, who's like, her brother,” Kati Farkas whispered to her best friend and Constance Billard School Senior Spa Weekend co-planner, Isabel Coates. Kati reparted her long, strawberry blond hair with a pink tortoiseshell comb, smoothing it down with her hands. “Did you see those pictures of her in the Post online? She didn't even bother to get dressed before she left the hotel!”

  The two girls were peering out the third-floor windows of the Constance Billard School library, pretending to memorize their lines for the girls-in-bikinis-and-mud-masks skit they were supposed to put on in the senior lounge tomorrow to promote Senior Spa Weekend. Not that it needed promoting. Everyone would take home gift bags full of fabulous new Origins products, and their skin would absolutely glow until graduation. It was going to be the coolest Senior Cut Day ever.

  Isabel grabbed the comb out of Kati's hands and combed her sleek dark hair back into a ponytail. “I heard Nate and his friends almost died in a shipwreck, but Blair was too busy hooking up with Serena again to even notice. Can you imagine finding out your girlfriend was cheating on you with, like, another girl?”

  Kati made a face and shuddered in agreement. “Gross.”