Nobody Does It Better Page 9

  Good question.

  Blair didn't want to have to explain to Stan 5 who Nate was, and she didn't want Nate's mom to think she couldn't keep track of her own boyfriend. But she also didn't want her to suspect that she was hiding something. After all, she was dying to find out where Nate was too—so she could kick the shit out of him.

  “I've been staying at the Plaza, so I haven't had a chance to check my messages at home,” she responded vaguely. “I think maybe his cell phone broke or something, because he never answers.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Archibald pursed her fiery red lipsticked lips. “The gardener found his cell phone on the roof.” She raised her severely penciled eyebrows suspiciously. “You are sure he is not staying at the Plaza with you?”

  Blair glanced self-consciously at Stan 5 and then shook her head, refusing to answer the question out loud. How embarrassing to have to admit to your boyfriend's mom that actually no, you hadn't managed to lock him up in a hotel room for days of wild, passionate sex. In fact, that plan had totally backfired.

  “Well then.” Mrs. Archibald kissed her on both cheeks and smiled tightly as if to say, “I don't believe a word you're saying, but I'm late for the opera, so c'est la vie.”

  “If you do see him, darling, tell him his mother and father are quite cross with him, and have gone to La Bohème.”

  Blair clasped her hands behind her back and nodded dutifully. Where the fuck was Nate anyway? She watched Nate's father help Mrs. Archibald on with her beaded silk Oscar de la Renta capelet and then escort her to the elevator. She thought of going over to say hello, but Admiral Archibald was famous for his bad temper, and if he was angry with Nate, it was probably best to stay out of his way.

  Besides, she had more important things to do. Like flirt with Mr. I-Can-Get-You-Into-Yale the Fifth.

  Blair noticed that he was wearing what looked like an antique Yale insignia ring. “It's my granddad's,” Stan 5 explained. “He gave it to me when I got in. Yale is like Granddad's whole life. I'd introduce you, but he disappeared into his study with this beautiful blond girl, and who knows when they'll come out. Not that he's a pervert or anything. He's probably just boring her to death with his Yale stories.”

  Blair's eyes swept the room. The “beautiful blond girl” sounded suspiciously like Serena. Old Mr. Parris was an actual trustee of Yale, and far more influential than his grandson. How typical of Serena to monopolize the one person in the room who could probably get her into Yale once and for all.

  A man in a catering uniform took their empty champagne glasses and handed them each a fresh one.

  “To Yale,” Stan 5 said, before clinking his glass against hers.

  Blair fingered the pendant around her neck and downed her drink, wondering if she should demand an introduction to his grandfather. Stan 5 took a step toward her and lowered his aristocratic chin. “Don't worry,” he murmured reassuringly, as if reading her mind. “Granddad and I are very close.”

  Blair clutched the stem of her champagne flute and batted her eyelashes, willing her face not to flush too retardedly red. How lucky she was to have nabbed the younger, hotter Stanford Parris while Serena was stuck with the old moldy one!

  “I kissed my Yale interviewer,” she confided before she could stop herself. It wasn't exactly something she was proud of. But she wanted Stan 5 to know what he was up against.

  Stan 5 smiled delightedly. “Granddad keeps a room for me down the hall. I've got his whole collection of vintage Yale catalogs in there. Want to take a look?”

  Blair giggled giddily. How wonderful to meet a boy who was as crazily enthusiastic about Yale as she was. Eagerly, she followed Stan 5 into his room. She couldn't wait to kiss his catalogs.

  Kiss?

  Why not, when she had more in common with Stanford Parris V than she did with any other boy she'd ever met, including her lame-ass, no-show boyfriend, who was already into Yale anyway and was totally unsympathetic and useless?

  Well, then. Guess she meant kiss after all.

  N Abandons Ship

  “Oops, I think I'm winning.” Lexie giggled and popped another Oreo half into her mouth.

  “Nice one,” Nate responded, not even trying to fend off her chocolaty lips.

  It had been Lexie's idea to smoke another joint and play checkers with Oreos, so she'd made up the rules: Every time she nabbed one of Nate's white-faced Oreo halves with her whole Oreos, she got to eat the Oreo half and kiss Nate on the lips.

  Nate really wasn't that into the game, which meant he was sort of letting Lexie win, but kissing her on deck where everyone else was hanging out seemed safer than sitting alone with her up in the crow's nest where one thing could have led to another and …

  Not that he would have actually let anything major happen. Right?

  As usual, Nate was suffering from the Curse of Blair. Whenever he fooled around with another girl, all he could think about was Blair and fooling around with Blair, making him feel sort of guilty and horny at the same time, which made it simultaneously kind of hard to take and kind of hard to stop.

  He kept his eyes open as Lexie kissed him, making eye contact with Jeremy on the other side of the deck, who was kissing some girl with long brown hair and fat arms whom Nate had never seen before. All of a sudden Nate felt like he was in seventh grade at one of those parties where everyone just lay around kissing because they thought that was what they were supposed to do, even though it was kind of nasty to suck on some girl's tongue for like, an hour, without having a drink of water or anything. Except for that time with Blair in Serena's closet at a party back in eighth grade—or was it sixth? They'd kissed and talked for so long Serena had had to drag them out so they wouldn't miss the entire party. If only Blair would suddenly draw up alongside the Charlotte in a little dingy and shout up at him to grow the fuck up in that sexy, bitchy tone she used when she was only mildly infuriated with him. Where was Blair anyway? he wondered in stoned, sleepless confusion. Why wasn't she with him?

  Hello? Anyone home? Wake up!!!

  Lexie had her eyes closed and was breathing heavily as she sucked on his lips. Her tongue tasted like chocolate and beer, which was kind of a bad combination. Nate could hardly wait to push her off his lap and head belowdecks to gulp a few glasses of cold water. He could also hardly wait to tell Blair that despite this bumpy little interlude everything would turn out all right once he got back from Bermuda, or New Jersey, or wherever the fuck they were headed.

  His gaze shifted to the starboard side of the boat. The sun was going down, and they'd finally made it into the ocean. The dark water was quiet and a few fishing boats twinkled on the horizon. Nate hadn't checked the boat's navigational system in a few hours. The Charlotte had been cruising on autopilot ever since they'd headed out, but since he was the only one who knew how to sail her and was kind of responsible for the safety of everyone onboard, he thought maybe he'd better check it out.

  Yeah, maybe.

  He pulled away from Lexie and whispered hoarsely into her ear. “I gotta go steer the boat.”

  She slid off his lap, popped another Oreo into her mouth, and gave his bicep a squeeze. “Vhat a stud. You know, I always vanted to go to Ber-mooda.”

  Nate headed aft to the captain's cabin, stepping over the prone bodies of his stoned, drunk, and half-asleep shipmates. Some kid from his world religion class was wearing one of the Charlotte's orange life vests while he played the harmonica and sang an old Neil Young tune:

  Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.

  Nate was creepily reminded of the movie Titanic—which Blair had made him watch not once but four times—right before the boat sinks.

  Charlie and Anthony had locked themselves into the cabin and were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharing a bong. They'd taken off their shirts and were trying to see who could stick his stomach out the farthest—a ridiculous contest, since both their stomachs were so flat they verged on concave.

  “Hey,” Anthony greeted Nate. “We were wondering—
is there surfing in Bermuda?”

  “Because we should have brought our boards,” Charlie added.

  Nate shook his head, ignoring them. The air in the cabin was so full of smoke he could barely read the monitors. From what he could tell, though, they were nearing Cape May, which meant that if they traveled at a normal cruising speed instead of .5 miles an hour, it would only take a little over three hours to get back to New York Harbor. He'd dock the boat and head straight for the Plaza.

  Only a whole day late.

  Nate checked the incoming messages screen where the Charlotte picked up text messages—mostly communication from other boats or ports. There were thirty-seven text messages from AdArch@nextel.net, his father's cell phone.

  NATHANIEL, YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE AT THE OPERA.

  NATHANIEL, TURN THE BOAT AROUND.

  I'VE ALERTED THE COAST GUARD AND THEY'VE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO ARREST YOU.

  NATHANIEL, YOUR MOTHER IS VERY UPSET.

  TURN THE BOAT AROUND, SON.

  And so on.

  “Shit.” Nate could imagine his mother crying in her black evening attire in their box at the Metropolitan Opera while his father stabbed furiously at his cell phone. Then again, his mother always cried at the opera; it was part of her whole dramatic-French-princess act.

  The messages had all been sent within the last two hours, so it wasn't like his parents had been freaking out for that long. Normally his father's surly tone would have scared the crap out of him, but he'd been looking for an excuse to abort the mission and get back to Blair. Now here it was.

  He went back to the navigation screen and punched in the longitudinal and latitudinal points for the harbor at Battery Park City, which were written on the blackboard on the wall of the cabin in yellow chalk. He hit enter and immediately the boat's motor shifted into neutral. Then the bow dipped and swung around until the boat had done a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree turn back in the direction of New York Harbor. He typed the command to increase speed to thirty-three miles per hour and glanced at the clock: 8:29 P.M. He'd be back in bed with Blair by midnight.

  “Yo, what up, dude?” Anthony demanded from his spot on the cabin floor. “Are you doing homework or something?”

  Nate grinned and shook his head, enjoying the buzz from their secondhand smoke. Blair would be so thrilled to see him again she'd have to forgive him. And he wouldn't have any trouble making her forget.

  Presuming she was there waiting for him. And presuming she was alone …

  Twisted Little Sister

  “Remove your shoes! Remove your shoes! Ree-moove your shoo-oo-ooes!” Damian screeched into the mike. It was the final chorus of “Japanese Restaurant,” the latest hit single written by Dan Humphrey and the last song on the Raves' playlist.

  “If we slip out now,” Elise murmured, “we can probably get a cab before anyone else.”

  Who said anything about leaving?

  Jenny lit another cigarette, ignoring her. She wanted to hang out until the crowd thinned, and get a better look at Damian. See if his red-blond hair stood up on end all on its own or if it was crusty with hair gel. See if his teeth were really as perfectly white and straight as they looked from where she sat. Hear that Irish twang he was so famous for. And those arm muscles! The Raves' drummer was still cute, but she had to admit Damian was totally hot. He had this incredible energy about him, like he'd been wound up. If she stuck around, maybe Dan would even introduce them, and she could casually slip in that she was friends with Serena, and find out if they were actually together or not.

  That is, if Dan was still alive.

  Zoing! Damian struck the last chord on his guitar and threw his instrument into the crowd, as he was known to do. Then he climbed up the fireman's pole hand-over-hand, flexing those fantastic arm muscles, and disappeared.

  “Show-off,” the drummer scoffed. He stood up stiffly, grabbed a bottle of beer from beneath his drum set, and chugged it. Then he set the bottle down and craned his neck, like he was looking for someone in the crowd.

  Jenny's skin tingled. Her?

  Wait, wasn't she over him already?

  “We should get going,” Elise repeated. She stood up and tugged on her shirt. “Everyone's going to be fighting for cabs.”

  The bassist started unplugging things and breaking down the equipment. The drummer burped irreverently into one of the mikes.

  Gross.

  Jenny giggled like this was the handsomest, most adorable thing she'd ever heard.

  “You can go if you want, but I'm not leaving,” she told her friend. She was supposed spend the rest of the weekend at Elise's house, but opportunities like this didn't present themselves very often.

  Opportunities to meet the famous rock stars, or opportunities to be as naughty as possible?

  The crowd began to disperse. Some headed to the bathrooms; others spilled out the exit doors and onto the street. Elise hovered next to the table, unsure. Jenny took another awkward puff on her cigarette and jiggled her foot. And then all of a sudden he was there, in front of them—the drummer.

  He wasn't Damian, but he was almost as good.

  “Hey. I'm Lloyd.” His knuckles were wrapped in frayed surgical tape like a boxer's, and his dark, neatly cut hair and preppy pink-and-green Lacoste shirt were soaked with perspiration. “You're Dan's sister, Jennifer, right?”

  Jenny nodded. She loved it when people called her Jennifer. Although she would have preferred it if he'd said, “You're Jennifer, that stunning model in the W spread this month, right?”

  “How'd you know?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. Despite the fact that she dressed better than Dan did and was nearly nine inches shorter and had a much bigger chest, they could almost have been fraternal twins.

  Except that she was also three years younger than Dan. Not that she was about to tell Mr. Drummer Boy that.

  “Your brother said his gorgeous sister was coming,” Lloyd replied with a completely straight face. He glanced at Elise, who was still standing there, fidgeting with the zipper on her Banana Republic purse like a total geek. “Marc, our bassist? He's got this thing about big old hotels,” Lloyd continued. “Anyway, he's booked some big suite up at the Plaza Hotel. We're having a little get-together there if you want to come.”

  Jenny let her cigarette fall to the floor. She'd almost forgotten she was holding it. “Totally!” she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than she'd intended. “I mean, my brother's going, right?” Not that she really cared if Dan was going. She just didn't want to sound like the type of girl who partied in hotel rooms with strange guys from rock bands all the time.

  Right.

  “It's ten minutes till my curfew. I have to get home,” Elise insisted. She gave Jenny a look as if to say, “This is your last chance.”

  “Okay. Well, I'll call you tomorrow,” Jenny responded. She handed Elise the pack of cigarettes, but Elise waved them away.

  “You might need them,” she said, before turning to go.

  Jenny knew she ought to have felt a twinge of guilt for not leaving with her friend, but how could she pass up a chance like this? The worst thing that could happen was that her father would find out, but he'd never been very good at punishments, and besides, Elise would never tell. She squeezed her knees together and smiled up at Lloyd with nervous excitement. He held out a bandaged hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “Come on. I'll introduce you around.”

  The club had returned to a state of normalcy. People chatted quietly over their beers while the new Franz Ferdinand album played on the stereo. Dan was sitting on the edge of the stage now, next to a very pretty tanned girl with honey-colored hair, cradling a bottle of Schweppes tonic water. He looked completely spent, but the girl was chattering away, laughing and smiling like Dan was the most entertaining guy she'd ever met.

  “Fucking hell, Yoko's back,” Lloyd hissed under his breath as they approached.

  “Who?” Jenny asked curiously. The girl was wearing a supershort tiered ja
de green miniskirt, and her bare legs were luxuriously long and tanned, like those of a Bain de Soleil sunscreen model.

  A giant fake smile spread across Lloyd's face. “Never mind,” he responded between gleaming white teeth. “You'll see.”

  The tanned girl shimmied off the stage and kissed Jenny on both cheeks. “Dan says you are his seeez-stirrh,” she said in a thick French accent. “I am so jealous of doz gorgeous bresssts!” She reached out with both hands and gave each of Jenny's boobs a good hard squeeze.

  Honk, honk!

  “So womanly, non?”

  “Monique, I wouldn't—” Dan started to warn her.

  “Thanks,” Jenny interrupted, surprising everyone including herself. She'd always been extremely sensitive about her chest, with good reason, but Monique's little outburst seemed like a genuine French compliment. Besides, she didn't really mind that Damian and Lloyd were now well aware that her boobs were the largest in the room.

  “Jennifer, this is Monique. Monique, Jennifer.” Lloyd introduced them. “Monique is Dam—”

  “Visiting from St. Tropez,” Monique cut him off, her eyes burning with a look that had, “Shut up, you idiot!” written all over it. “Are you coming to zee Plaza ’otel wid us?” she asked Jenny.

  “No, she has to go home,” Dan slurred. “It's late.” He glanced around the club with bleary eyes. “Isn't it?”

  Well, his outfit was definitely tired.

  Little sister lesson number two: Don't even think about telling her what to do.

  “No way,” Jenny corrected her brother. “I am so coming.”

  Damian slid down the fireman's pole and bounded up to them. He'd changed into an olive green tracksuit with the words JUICE ME smeared on the butt in white paint. “Ready to ruckus, yeah?” he demanded, clapping Dan and Lloyd on their backs.

  Monique flashed him a sweet I'm-only-tolerating-you-because-you're-famous sort of smile and hooked her arm possessively through Dan's.