Read Between the Lies : Chapter 3
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1, 2,
Previously,
She doesn’t have to look up to know her plan is working, that his eyes are fixed on her. He clears his throat, and she resists the urge to look up, to admit that she’s read the same sentence ten times already, and grin. She suppresses the feeling and after a moment caves in, glancing up to find him already seated at the counter, croning over Steinbeck. She hates how fascinating the author is, and makes a point of emitting a soft sigh as she moves her position, flipping onto her stomach, kicking her legs in the air, crossing them. Ignoring that this poetry is nothing compared to his.
*
“Humphrey, it’s so quiet,” she comments. She can hear the smile in his voice as he responds.
“Keep reading Blair,”
She tries. She really does. Thinking that reading poetry should fill her with a billion words and ways to describe what she’s feeling, but she can’t take the words in. His presence demands her attention, at the end of every line, and she just looks at him, watching him read. Forcing herself not to smile as he leans over the book, his eyes darting over the words at a rapid fire pace.
“Blair, read,” he comments, one time, when he catches her looking in his peripheral vision. She notices the grin on his features, even though he tries to hide it.
“This is boring,” she comments.
“You wanted quiet,” he reminds.
“Not this quiet,” she complains, when really, her only complaint is that they are both dressed. That she’s even still pretending to read. She approaches his record collection and puts one of the older ones on. She can tell he’s trying not to watch her, as she skips around his apartment in her short skirt.
“Billie Holiday? Really?” he comments, as I’ll Be Seeing You floods the apartment. She grins at the mood music. He looks up from his book to frown at her, but she can tell she takes his breath away, crossing her legs on the couch. She groans, feigning discomfort, just so she can watch him squirm as she uncrosses and recrosses her legs. She sighs softly, flipping the poetry book open once more.
“Much better,” she comments.
“Isn’t it a bit romantic?” he asks, and she hates how he avoids her gaze.
“No!” she feigns outrage, before smirking. She says the words slowly, savoring them as she emits another soft sigh. She lets her fingers fall into her lap, crossing her legs over them.
“Do you want it to be romantic Humphrey?” she asks, raising an eye brow. When really her whole body, her posture, every signal is screaming just get over here already. I can’t control how much I want you.
He glances back to her, and gulps, she can cut the tension in the room with a knife. His eyes dart away just as suddenly, as he tries desperately to find his voice.
“No! I uh.......it’s fine!” he stammers, focused at a spot on the opposite wall, as if in a staring contest. She smirks as his gaze drifts back to her, as he forces himself to look away and get drawn back into the book. He involuntarily glances up at her three more times before he returns to the pretense of reading. He shakes his head, trying desperately to focus and she smirks, knowing that she is winning.
“Sure,” she teases, before she pretends, once more, to read.
Somehow, as the moments pass, he gets himself wrapped up in the book again. He starts ignoring her again and she must remedy it, not wanting all her hard work to slip away. Maybe he needs to get over his nerves, she thinks, but she’s not waiting.
“Your book is boring,” she replies, getting up. She feels slightly cheated, as Steinbeck holds more attention than she does. He doesn’t even look up from his book, back in the zone of reading the good literature. She adjusts her skirt, trying to get his attention away from the 600 page long novel. She can tell he is actively resisting.
“Am I allowed to go into your room unsupervised?” she teases. “Do you trust me?” he smirks at that, and she cherishes it before she continues.
“Not that I’d spend time trying to dig through your room to try to find your poems, you’d need a whole archaeological team to find anything in there” she thinks of mentioning that his poems are better, and worth the search.
“Give me a page,” he responds, perhaps as a joke, but his voice is a weird monotone as he reads. She groans, rolling her eyes at how much more important the book is than her. She hates this plan, she thinks. How he keeps getting so close and then backing off, how he’s practically undressing her with his eyes, but doesn’t even do anything. She hates how Steinbeck can make all her hard work vanish in an instant.
She can’t even give him half a page, before:
“Humphrey!”
“Blair, I’m 20 pages from the end!”
“And I’m in Brooklyn,” she specifies. He laughs without looking up and it infuriates her, drives her crazy. She hates that she suggested this. She wants to stamp her foot, demand his attention, or rather, approach him and slide the counter clean, hop up onto it, until he’s staring at her tights, her skirt, and until he finally gets that this is all for him.
“Fine,” he comments, but he doesn’t see her light up, still too enthralled in the book.
She thinks that she’ll get his attention now, that he’ll drop the story of Cal and Aron to look at her, but instead;
“I guess you can go into my room without me, as long as you don’t mock it again,”
“Fine, a truce, I won’t mention that a tornado hit that thing you call a room-”
“Blair-” his tone is teasing, a side smirk appearing as he rolls his eyes. She sees him shake his head, as he tries to get back into the book. She wonders if he’s been rereading the same line a billion times. If he is, she wonders why he is even pretending.
She intends to go straight into his room, she really does. She plans to rummage, perhaps even clean it ( maybe alphabetize the books) and find something better than the poetry she’s reading. Just to bide the time until he’s done Steinbeck. But, it’s not until she’s right beside him, on her way to his room that she changes her mind. She slips the poetry book onto the counter and approaches him, setting her hands on his shoulder, she practically leans into him, until she can read the words.
“Control what? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she reads over his shoulder, and thinks that it’s oddly fitting.
“What are you doing?” he snaps, his back rigid at her sudden touch. The movement, ironically, brings them closer together, as his back presses against her. She can hear his breathing pick up. She smiles. He’s hers now, game over Steinbeck.
“I wanted to know what was so interesting,” she samples the lie.
He’s still pretending he’s trying to read. Pointless, but a valiant effort, she thinks. That gives her time to let her eyes wander all over him, to smile without worrying about hiding it. She glances down and lets her eyes take in his neck, the place where his hair curls at the back, his ears, how his hair folds over them, and she thinks she could just lean down, and kiss him, the most tempting is a spot under his jaw, or perhaps she could wing her fingers in the back of his hair and kiss his neck. She could just spin him around on the chair and make it all very obvious, thrust her hands in his hair, undress him, pull his lips against hers, until he finally gets it. The waiting is driving her insane, making her hotter, and the game is far from over, and there’s no way she’s going to give in first. No way. She can’t handle being rejected, not from him, and if he does want her. He has to kiss her first this time, he has to. But it doesn’t mean she can’t touch him.
“Blair,” he’s annoyed, or at least he’s making it sound like he is. He makes no effort to move, as if he thinks he can just sit there and pretend that she’s not breathing next to his ear, near his neck, that her body isn’t half pressed into his. As if she’s a bee and if he just stays still, eventually she’ll fly away. The metaphor is all too fitting, but then again, she knows; Of course he doesn’t mind.
“What?” she asks innocently, winning.
“What are you.....” his fingers let go of the book and the pages flutter closed, loosing his page. He groans, but whether that’s her effect or the book’s, she cannot tell.
“Blair,” his voice is full of a terror she should recognize in herself.
“What are you doing?” his words are soft, a bit slower, as if he’s finally getting it. Or maybe ( ideally, she hopes) his wanting her is getting in the way of being articulate.
His head moves to the side and he locks eyes with her, Steinbeck long forgotten as their gaze meets. Her heart races as his arm slips in between them, hand gravitating to her waist. There’s no denying this moment, she realizes, with a surprising nervousness. He breaks her gaze, to focus on her lips and suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been squeezed out of the room. Then, he grins, almost laughing.
“What are you doing?” it’s more teasing than the other times. Less frightening, more in control, and it makes her blood race. She resists the urge to pull him against her, because she can feel it coming, confident Humphrey is back. It’s seconds away, she hopes, unable to control how much she wants him to kiss her. If he doesn’t hurry up, she swears she’ll forfeit the game and do it herself.
“Why are you all over me today?” he asks, his breathing slow. She parts her lips, the beginning of a smile peaking on her features as she prepares herself to say something, what, she doesn’t know, but this moment is so perfect, she doesn’t actually care if it goes on forever, completely silent. Even if she’s nervous, and terrified and words have left her mind just as the oxygen left moments before.
***
They can’t hear anything. She’s guessing sounds went out the window with all her words and oxygen, they can’t even hear the sound of the keys in the lock, or their own breathing. She wants to say something like I think you know Humphrey, or even an exasperated figure it out. But there’s a smile suspended on his lips, a deliciously smug expression and she hates him for it. She knows he can tell that her breathing is slow, that she wants this and she thinks, it’s just a matter of seconds now.
She doesn’t think to rush him, because they don’t see anything, not Lily and Rufus coming in through the door, not the groceries in Rufus’ arms. It’s not until Lily cries out, that they even process anyone else is there at all.
“DANIEL we brought -!” Lily’s jubilant voice calls. She stops suddenly when she sees them, but the damage is done. It successfully breaks the moment and Dan’s hand slips off of her waist. Lily stops short at looks at the scene in front of her.
Dan’s out of the chair before Blair can even blink, or focus on what’s happened. She forces herself to life, as all the sound, and oxygen and all her words come back into the world, burying her. She wants to scream, but there is nothing left to say.
“Blair!” Rufus says, carrying groceries. Dan abandons her to help his father with the bags of fruit ( that helpful little bastard!)
By the time she looks up, Lilly and Rufus are already by the kitchen. Her closeness with Dan dissolved in a matter of seconds. She tries to smile, sinking into the chair that Dan has just abandoned.
“What are you doing here? Nice to see you!” Rufus asks, hollering from the fridge. Lily hasn’t stopped staring her down, and Dan is hiding his face from Blair’s eyesight, probably from embarrassment, or maybe because he thinks she’ll steal his soul if she’s allowed to look at him again.
“Just picking up Dan,” she fibs. “We’ve got a big day planned,” she smiles.
“Oh,” Rufus doesn’t sound happy, for some reason. “I thought you had that meeting with-”
“Nope!” Dan cuts him off before Blair even finds out what it is. He meets Rufus’ gaze and shakes his head, as if to say Don’t mention it, dad! For, if Blair knew what he was missing to be with her, it would simply make her sink deeper into the dreadful state of love.
“Well, have fun,” Lily seems to say with a false smile.
“Lily and I are going to be enjoying our time away from the Upper East Side, a night at the loft”
“No more society dinners,” Lily rolls her eyes, the only thing she is vocal about. Blair smiles politely, accordingly before she crosses over towards the couch to pick up her jacket and scarf.
“Salmon bisque, asparagus, raspberry gravy, and fine wine, we’ll be staying in tonight, unless you had plans here, ” Rufus tells them. Blair wonders why he’s advertising, and then she clicks in, it’s a warning, to stay away from the loft.
“No, that’s fine!” Dan stammers, turning red. She wants to grin at the sheer idea of Rufus helping them get together. She nods and smiles to Rufus.
“Sounds lovely, you both need a break,” she comments. Lily raises an eyebrow at her sweet comment, as if she thinks this is another scheme. Maybe Lily has never seen Blair this nice.
“Right,” Dan nods, not letting on if he knows that it’s a warning to stay away from the loft, or if the comment is even appreciated. Blair groans, wishing he was more transparent sometimes, but then she figures, he said it himself, Henry Fucking Miller. You write to get over a woman, and she got a book. Which meant, sure, he was in love with her, probably desperately, but she’s missed the boat. All she can hope to get is to wear him down until he has to have her, and when he kisses her ( he will kiss her!) she’ll pretend he loves her still.
***
“Where exactly are we going?” he asks, once they are on the street. Effectively kicked out of the house. She hates how she’ll have to start from scratch again, and how it is infinitely more impossible to create a romantic scene on the sidewalk. Mostly, she hates that he is exactly two feet to her left, and his hands are thrust deep into his pockets. ( It’s not even that cold out!)
“There’s always Palais Waldorf,” she offers, and stumbles over her words when he cocks his eyebrow. “I could give you a haircut,” she offers. She turns her head to the opposite side, as if to look for taxis, but really she’s just grinning. His mind is definitely on the subject of sleeping with her, and if they did go to her place, and if Serena wasn’t there, and if Dorota wasn’t snooping around, then she realizes there are too many variables for that to work. She’s past the point of caring though, Serena can walk in on them for all she cares, she just needs to be alone with him again.
“I wasn’t aware you’re a hairdresser now,”
“I don’t deny it would take a real master to tame that hair of yours, any hair cut would be better than what you have now, so what do you say?” she smiles.
“NO!”
“Come on,” she tries, hailing a cab.
“What part of no don’t you understand?” he says, half joking.
“Live on the edge,” she replies before she gets into the taxi. Of course, he follows.
She gives the cab driver directions to her house and imagines hacking at his hair with scissors, running her hands through it to make sure it’s even, and then, of course he’ll have no choice but to kiss her, to run his tongue all down her body and... She gets excited just thinking about it, and had to touch him again.
“Take off this bit,” she can’t last 2 minutes before she grabs at his hair, scooting closer to him, crossing her legs, her skirt hikes up and she makes no attempt to adjust it. Her fingers slip into his soft hair and she looks at it, not able to keep out the thought that wonders: would he like it if I grabbed this in bed?
“You’re not serious, no!” he’s laughing because she’s so ridiculous, but she takes it as encouragement.
“You would just have to take off a few bits here,” her fingers slide to the left and she revels in the touch of the soft curls. “Or here,” she comments, messing up his hair as she picks and pulls at other parts. He grabs her hands in his and their eyes meet.
“5th avenue,” he says to the cabbie, redirecting from Blair’s house, without taking his eyes off hers.
“What are you up to today?” he asks, a trace of fear in his voice.
“Perfect!” she says, ignoring him. She pulls her arms out of his grip and grins. “There’s tons of salons along Fifth,” she comments, before “Someone’s handsy today, God Humphrey!” She smiles, knowing how hypocritical it is. He sighs, exasperated, and he’s at a loss for words, a grin suspended on his lips.
“Blair-”
“Shhh!” she silences him, closing her eyes, she leans against the seat. “I’m envisioning you with good hair,” she explains. She actually is, she thinks, though in her mind he’s wearing a lot less.
“Fine,” he grumbles, and somehow, he produces a small paperback from his jacket, and begins reading. She can feel the weight of his gaze every couple of seconds, staring at her legs, where the skirt hiked up, if not everything else as well.
The salon is high class, more high class than he ever thought a salon could be. They are offered drinks and appetizers the second they get in. An aged red, or a smooth white, the finest Italian espresso, or sparkling water. She orders for both of them, even at his outbursts of “Blair” or “No, we’re not staying,” not even listening to the whisper of “150 for a haircut?!”
“Oh please, take care of yourself. The whole grunge look is so college,”
“Speaking of, heard from Yale?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” she snaps, sipping her wine.
“And I don’t want to talk about my hair, what are we even doing here?” he asks, looking around the posh place, that would kick him out if he wasn’t with her.
“Oh my god...what do I have to work with,” the hair dresser is a male in his 30s, wearing skinny jeans, a low cut vneck, and a vest over top.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Blair apologizes on behalf of Dan’s hair. Dan rolls his eyes, and before he has time to set down his drink, she’s pushed him into a chair.
“Nothing too fancy, I mean of course he could do bangs-”
“I’M NOT NATE!” he interjects, watching her in the mirror. He shoots her a look, but she’s distracted, talking to the hairdresser, while her hands still sit on his shoulders, holding him into the chair.
As if by magnetic force, her fingers slip from his shoulders into the curls at the back of his hair. She sees him sink into the touch, closing his eyes before he forces them open, praying she didn’t spot the action in the mirror. She looks away just in time, keeping it as a secret, torturing him as she combs her fingers through his hair. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, or his reflection, talking to the hairdresser, until he has to ask,
“Shouldn’t I get a say in this?” sipping his wine, before he places it on the chair beside him.
She smiles at the sudden comment, because now she can move past the subconscious playing with his hair, to the full on massaging, to meeting every hair with her fingers. She can make him electric to her touch, she thinks.
“Well ideally,” she’s now addressing both Dan and the hairdresser. She delves her fingers into his hair, practically massaging his scalp as she points out all sorts of things they could do with the hair. She’s driving him insane, she can tell with the way his eyes half close at her touch. Or how in the mirror she can see his facial expressions when she strokes his ear, and lets her fingers carry down along his neck. Wear him down. She repeats the mantra, and she knows she is so close. Again.
“Enough!” he says, leaning forward so her fingers are forced to retreat from his lusciously soft locks.
“We haven’t started,” she points out.
“Nope, No. Blair I tried to do this, but I don’t want to look like- I can get my hair done myself. It’s my HAIR!”
“I’m trying to help,” she points out, as he stands.
“It’s my hair, we’re leaving,” he says, adamant. “If I ever need wine and a haircut, I will come here, but not today.” She rolls her eyes at his reaction, feeling bad for having a few sips of wine.
“Humphrey!” she follows him, not even bothering to apologize as they drift out of the salon.
“I can’t do this Blair!”
“It’s just a hair cut!”
“No it’s .....fine...but it’s my hair!” she can’t read what he’s not saying and it’s driving her insane.
“Fine, don’t blame me when you don’t get a date,” she yells, suddenly furious. Three times she’s failed today, she realizes, and there’s only one thing left to do, if she can even pull that off, she wonders.
He laughs at her, indignant.
“I’m not the one that’s feeling up all her friends,” he points out, a smirk on his face. She thinks of yelling I don’t feel up Serena, but she knows it won’t be funny, it won’t be witty or make him think of anything helpful to her. It would make him think of Serena, or worse, make him realize he is an exception, that there’s a reason she can’t stop touching him.
“Fine,” she scrunches her nose at him, furious. “Help me then,” she shouts.
“What?”
“There’s a party tomorrow. In the two story Louis building, invite only, obviously. Come help me find someone...well...tolerable, so I’ll stop having to feel you up, as you so delicately put!”
“Anyone would be a step up from Chuck,” he yells at her, anger coursing through every word. She takes the hit and keeps it in, hoping that he’s just internalizing all this wanting, hoping that he doesn’t actually mean it. Maybe he’s jealous, she almost lets herself think. Maybe he feels hurt, she speculates, thinking she’s just pinning for company, to the point where she’ll have her hands all over him. Maybe, he thinks it’s nothing personal.
“Just come Humphrey!”
“FINE!”
She knows she should be angry, she should be torn to shreds, in a puddle of tears ( she failed three times! She’s Blair Waldorf, she never fails!), but she can’t keep smiling the whole car ride back, and revels in her plan. When she had told herself that morning, You’ll invite him to the Louis Vuitton party, she had almost doubted in her confidence. Besides, she tells herself, there’s passion there, in anger, in emotions, in yelling. She knows there is, and she is wearing him down. Hopefully tomorrow, she will finally win and get Dan Humphrey to kiss her. She tells herself that she won’t get her heart broken too.
****
She can’t sleep, not for the usual reasons. Not for torments of him and Serena, or even fantasies, but she’s so damn nervous for the party. All she does all day is get ready, yoga, massage, a visit to the spa, relaxing and watching Audrey Hepburn while eating pistachio macaroons and shopping online for tights. Today is going to be perfect, she made up her mind when she woke up.
She has already planned everything, down to the outfit itself. Baby blue, studded with diamonds it falls to the floor, wrapping around her. Layered so that she looks like she’s floating when she walks. Her hair falls to her shoulders, curls twisted and perfectly in place.
“Oh my god, B!” Serena gapes at her, when they meet in the washroom to do make up. Blair smiles and doesn’t even think of an excuse to say about the dress. She’s waited for this night, she’ll finally be happy.
Dan’s reaction is a million times more satisfying. When she arrives to the party, she spots him in a hideous purple blazer ( one his father told him to wear, no doubt) dark green tie, and collared shirt. He stares at her, as if she’s a vision approaching him and she hears him nearly squeak before his words come tumbling out.
“Blair you look...incredi...you ...you look beautiful,” he seems to take in her whole appearance, and then adds, in a somber note. “You’ll find someone in no time,”
“Good,” she smirks, remembering the pretense of the night, and counting down until she can abandon it.
“And keep me away from Chuck,” she adds as his mission before she links arms with him and drags him into the busy party.
“Afraid of what you might do?” he asks, with a tone that implies he doesn’t want to know, not really.
“Just do it Humphrey!”
Since it’s in the store, the mannequins are still there, the shelves turned into displays, art work scatters the place, a bar instead of the cashier. Stunning furniture pieces seem to take over the store and there are a million candidates, but she’s only got her eye on him.
She drags him to the second floor, not surprised that he doesn’t know the layout of the store. To hide from the crowds, she yanks him by the tie into a change room.
“What is it?” his breathing is haggard, the close proximity heating him up. “Did you see Chuck?”
“No,” she responds, before her hands jump to force the hideous blazer off of him. He’s nervous against her touch, suddenly jittery.
“Then, what...why are we hiding?” his voice is low, barely a whisper.
“I cannot let you be seen in this,” she explains, throwing the blazer behind her as she closes the space between them. He edges back, panicked when he hits the wall. Her hands fly to his shoulders, pressing him back further into the wall, before she guides her fingers to his tie. He fixates on her lips and can hardly look away from the smirk that’s taking over her face. His breathing is heavy, and he’s given up trying to keep up the conversation, blinking rapidly as his heart races beneath the touch of her fingers.
“Or this,” she continues, pulling at his tie. She yanks at it, pulling him into her space, his breath is on her lips suddenly and his gulp seems to resonate in the small room. She inches forward, so their noses are nearly touching. She thinks of saying something, of torturing him further, but this is killing her too. She casts her gaze without moving, as her fingers tear the double windsor knot apart. She pulls at the tie, and it slips out of his collar easily, falling to the ground, before she pays attention to his neck.
“And you really should-” she fills in the words with her motions, unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt, she focuses on his neck before she redirects her gaze to his eyes. She can tell he’s boiling up, and she’s making it harder and harder to resist her.
“There,” she doesn’t know why she’s bothering with talking, when her hands are filling all the words. She adjusts his collar, letting her fingers fold over the fabric, just glaze his bare skin. The movement is subtle, and she retreats from touching his skin, leading her hands back onto his shoulders. She wants to say something else, parting her lips to let the words come out, but really, just to invite him.
That’s when something within him snaps, she can see the change in his eyes. Suddenly in focus, a quick blink and he's overcome, he cannot resist. His hands move suddenly, on her hips to close the space between them. She doesn't have time to register that he’s moved, before his lips are against hers. She smiles against the frantic kiss, reveling in her win. She thinks of saying the word finally, but can’t manage to do anything but yank him towards her.
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