Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(55)

“Really? I know the girl singing. Her name’s Jenny. We went to high school together. Wait, I think she might have dated your friend, the drummer, what’s his name ...?”

“No.” Thaddeus laughed. “I don’t think she’s quite his type.”

Oh? And what type is that?

Serena wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but she hadn’t come there to discuss Jenny Humphrey’s romantic life. She sipped her sugary drink and batted her eyelashes at the crowd of girls that had assembled just beyond the velvet rope bordering the VIP area. The girls, all boasting hideous blowouts and way too much eyeliner, were giggling and taking pictures of her and Thaddeus with their cell phones.

They’re probably going to e-mail them to some gossip Web site, thought Serena with annoyance.

Oh, don’t be such a ninny.

A massive round of fireworks erupted with a violent bang, and Serena gave a frightened little yelp, burying herself in Thaddeus Smith’s warm, muscular embrace.

“Don’t worry.” He laughed. “It’s just noise.”

“I think our cover is blown,” Serena told him, gesturing with her eyes toward the gaggle of girls.

“I’ll never quite get used to it.” Thaddeus frowned. “I mean, no doubt some fuzzy little camera phone picture of us will end up in the papers.”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Serena whispered, accidentally grazing Thaddeus’s ear with the tip of her nose.

“Do me a favor?”Thaddeus asked.

Before Serena could open her mouth to answer, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. The timing was perfect: over the Hudson a massive explosion of fireworks resounded with a bang, their lights twinkling and then fading in an instant. It was totally cheesy but totally romantic: a totally Hollywood moment.

Like, whoa.





Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams

n’s woman trouble

“Dude! Nate!” Anthony Avuldsen leaned out the window of his black BMW M3, honking the horn.

Nate was locking his bike to a PRIVATE PROPERTY ,NO TRESPASSING sign on the edge of Main Beach’s dirt parking lot. He was supposed to meet Tawny but Anthony’s appearance was a welcome surprise. After talking to Blair on the phone . . . he just couldn’t help but feel like he was with the wrong girl. Plus, he was about twenty minutes early.

There’s a first time for everything.

“Hey,” Nate called, strolling over to the driver’s side of the car. “What’s going on?”

“Not much.” Anthony grinned. “I was just on my way home from the beach, but why don’t you get in and we’ll go for a ride?” He reached into the car’s ashtray and plucked out a freshly rolled joint, waving it in the air. “Just a quick drive, you know?”

That was all the invitation Nate needed. He walked around the car and hopped into the passenger side, settling into the soft, cream-colored leather seat.

Anthony turned down the stereo and pressed a button so that Nate’s window lowered quickly. He circled the car around the parking lot and out onto the street. “Go ahead and start it up,” he urged.

Nate grabbed the joint, pulled his trusty Bic from his sock, and lit it.

“Good time the other night at Isabel’s.” Anthony reached over to take the joint from Nate. “Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

Nate exhaled a long plume of smoke out the window. He studied his reflection in the windshield: he hadn’t had time to shave that morning and was looking kind of stubbly. His T-shirt was filthy and his deodorant had given out hours ago: his jeans were grass-stained and dingy. He was sporting an incredible tan but still looked a bit unhealthy, probably because he hadn’t been sleeping much, and his eyes were a little bloodshot.

Is lack of sleep really the culprit here?

He turned to take the joint back from Anthony and studied his friend more closely: Anthony was wearing a pair of crazy printed Vilebrequin board shorts, some beat-up old flip-flops, and a pair of sunglasses. He had a tan to rival Nate’s but no bags under his crystal-clear eyes and he looked like a million other guys in the Hamptons: like a guy on vacation, driving home from the beach, having a quick smoke. Nate exhaled unhappily. The pot was great but it didn’t change the fact that he was tired, he was bummed out, he was . . . jealous. Why did Anthony get to chill at the beach all day while he had to work like a dog?

Maybe because Anthony didn’t steal performance-enhancing drugs from his lax coach?

Nate drummed on the windowsill in time with the old Dylan disc on the stereo and drifted off for a moment, imagining the ideal summer: he’d be at the beach, of course, surfing at Montauk or just lazing around on the sand, tooling around in his dad’s Aston Martin convertible, smoking with Anthony and his other friends from the lacrosse team, staying in bed with Blair until the early afternoon. Or maybe he’d take Blair sailing for a couple of weeks along the coast of Maine. Teach her how to fish. Eat lobster. Have lots of sex. Sleep. Have more sex. Go for a swim. Sex again.

“Dude, you there?” Anthony asked.

“Sorry,” Nate mumbled, coming back to reality.

“It’s cool.” Anthony pulled up to a red light. Three girls sauntered by in bikini tops and surf shorts. They were only about thirteen but they were still cute. “So what’s the deal with that Tawny chick, man? She’s hot.”