Serena made her way through the lobby of the hotel, the echo of her heels loud and clear against the marble floor. She was trying to prepare herself for facing her mother. Lily basse, bass would not handle the news of one plus jour spent without locating her stepson very well. Cursing at Chuck under her breath she pressed the button of the elevator, why did he have to make everyone so damn worried? Why couldn’t he just act like a normal person and be with his family? After all that is what they are right? His family; herself, her mother, Eric, Nate, BLAIR. Thinking of her best friend and her sad, worried expression in the cab Serena let out a sigh of frustration.
“Excuse me, miss van der Woodsen?” It was the hotel manager walking up to her with an apologetic expression on his face. Serena stopped and turned around to face him
“Yes?”
“I know it is not my place miss, but…” His voice trailed off and he shifted his weight looking utterly uncomfortable with the situation
“But what?” Serena snapped, wanting to get facing her mother out of the way.
“It is just that I got a question from the cuisine miss”. The man continued; “seems they keep getting orders for room service from room 1812”.
“What?” Serena looked at the manager, she couldn’t believe what she was being told? Was Chuck in his own suite?
“Orders for what?” She asked the man, sensing that he still had something plus to say
“Liqueur, miss van der Woodsen, mostly scotch, whole bottles worth”, the man a dit and then clearing his throat he continued. “I know it is not our place and I am very sorry of toi feel I have overstepped my boundaries", he was close to ranting now, "but it is the seconde bottle ordered today and within mere hours. And donné the circumstances…” his voice trailed off once more, not knowing how to complete the sentence.
Serena sighed once more. So they had just spent the entire jour looking for him, and Chuck has been in his suite all along knocking down scotch? She was angry now.
“Thank you”, she a dit to the manager still at her side, forcing a smile. “Don’t send the last bottle up, I will talk to him”. And she would damn well tell him exactly what she thought of him, she thought, dialling Blair’s number.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
Chuck basse, bass was sitting on the canapé of his suite nursing the last drops of scotch he had been able to drain from the bottled he had ordered earlier. He was drunk – drunk on the verge of passing out – and he intended on staying so. His sight becoming plus and plus blurred with every sip from the glass. He drank with determination now. Determination not to give in to the feeling of chaos that raged his insides during the few moments too close to sobriety. And after all - he was a basse, bass – and when a basse, bass wants something he makes sure he succeeds.
He cherished the burn of the scotch sliding down his throat - slowly building a layer around the pain and panic but still not enough to completely numb the feeling he had been fighting for days. Days – he didn’t know what jour it was anymore. How long had it been? He frowned, trying to collect himself, but his drunken mind not being able to sort through the shattered memories of the vast amount of bars and bartenders he’d encountered during his attempts to drown out the world.
He downed the last drops of his drink and in the very seconde he put the glass down on to the now sulky surface of the wooden table, there was a knock on the door.
Perfect timing he thought with and ironic smirk and made an effort to get up from his position on the couch. On his seconde attempt he finally made it to his feet, holding on to the table, tableau to steady himself and cursing as the person at the door knocked once more.
“I am COMING!” He shouted at the door and muttering under his breath he let go of the table, tableau and made his way to the door on unsteady legs. Still muttering and cursing he squinted his eyes and managed to grab a hold of the door handle just in time to prevent himself from falling over.
“What took toi so damn long, I…” He cursed while opening the door, then stopping at once – all colour draining from his face at the sight of Serena van der Woodsen and Blair Waldorf standing outside his door.
“Excuse me, miss van der Woodsen?” It was the hotel manager walking up to her with an apologetic expression on his face. Serena stopped and turned around to face him
“Yes?”
“I know it is not my place miss, but…” His voice trailed off and he shifted his weight looking utterly uncomfortable with the situation
“But what?” Serena snapped, wanting to get facing her mother out of the way.
“It is just that I got a question from the cuisine miss”. The man continued; “seems they keep getting orders for room service from room 1812”.
“What?” Serena looked at the manager, she couldn’t believe what she was being told? Was Chuck in his own suite?
“Orders for what?” She asked the man, sensing that he still had something plus to say
“Liqueur, miss van der Woodsen, mostly scotch, whole bottles worth”, the man a dit and then clearing his throat he continued. “I know it is not our place and I am very sorry of toi feel I have overstepped my boundaries", he was close to ranting now, "but it is the seconde bottle ordered today and within mere hours. And donné the circumstances…” his voice trailed off once more, not knowing how to complete the sentence.
Serena sighed once more. So they had just spent the entire jour looking for him, and Chuck has been in his suite all along knocking down scotch? She was angry now.
“Thank you”, she a dit to the manager still at her side, forcing a smile. “Don’t send the last bottle up, I will talk to him”. And she would damn well tell him exactly what she thought of him, she thought, dialling Blair’s number.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
Chuck basse, bass was sitting on the canapé of his suite nursing the last drops of scotch he had been able to drain from the bottled he had ordered earlier. He was drunk – drunk on the verge of passing out – and he intended on staying so. His sight becoming plus and plus blurred with every sip from the glass. He drank with determination now. Determination not to give in to the feeling of chaos that raged his insides during the few moments too close to sobriety. And after all - he was a basse, bass – and when a basse, bass wants something he makes sure he succeeds.
He cherished the burn of the scotch sliding down his throat - slowly building a layer around the pain and panic but still not enough to completely numb the feeling he had been fighting for days. Days – he didn’t know what jour it was anymore. How long had it been? He frowned, trying to collect himself, but his drunken mind not being able to sort through the shattered memories of the vast amount of bars and bartenders he’d encountered during his attempts to drown out the world.
He downed the last drops of his drink and in the very seconde he put the glass down on to the now sulky surface of the wooden table, there was a knock on the door.
Perfect timing he thought with and ironic smirk and made an effort to get up from his position on the couch. On his seconde attempt he finally made it to his feet, holding on to the table, tableau to steady himself and cursing as the person at the door knocked once more.
“I am COMING!” He shouted at the door and muttering under his breath he let go of the table, tableau and made his way to the door on unsteady legs. Still muttering and cursing he squinted his eyes and managed to grab a hold of the door handle just in time to prevent himself from falling over.
“What took toi so damn long, I…” He cursed while opening the door, then stopping at once – all colour draining from his face at the sight of Serena van der Woodsen and Blair Waldorf standing outside his door.
