Psycho Killer Read Online Free Page A

day.
    Suddenly Blair was starving, and she knew just what she wanted: a hot dog. She wanted one
right now
—a warm Sabrett hot dog with mustard and ketchup and onions and sauerkraut. If Cyrus could stick his tongue down her mother’s throat in front of all of her friends, then she could eat a stupid hot dog.
    “I’ll be right back,” Blair told Kati and Isabel.
    She whirled around and began to walk across the room to the front hall. She was going to put on her coat, go outside, get a hot dog from the vendor, eat it in three bites, borrow his knife, come back, burp in her mother’s face, amputate Cyrus’s gross tongue, have another drink, and then have sex with Nate.
    “Where are you going?” Kati called after her. But Blair didn’t stop. She headed straight for the door.
    Nate saw Blair coming and extricated himself from Cyrus and Blair’s mother just in time.
    “Blair?” he said. “What’s up?”
    Blair stopped and looked up into Nate’s sexy green eyes. They were like the emeralds in the cufflinks her father wore with his tux when he went to the opera. One look into those adoring gems calmed the killer inside her every time.
    Well, almost every time.
    He’s wearing your heart on his sleeve
, she reminded herself, forgetting all about the hot dog. In the movie of her life, Nate would pick her up and carry her away to the bedroom and ravish her.
    But real life is stranger than fiction.
    “I have to talk to you,” Blair said. She held out her glass. “Fill me up first?”
    Nate loved it when Blair bossed him around. He took her glass and let her lead him over to the marble-topped wet bar by the French doors that opened onto the dining room. He poured them each a tumblerful of scotch and then followed Blair across the living room once more. She didn’t stop walking. She was headed for her bedroom.
    “Hey, where are you two going?” Chuck Bass asked as they walked by. He raised his eyebrows, leering at them suggestively.
    Blair rolled her eyes at Chuck and kept walking, drinking as she went. Nate followed her, ignoring Chuck completely.
    Chuck Bass, the oldest son of Misty and Bartholomew Bass, was handsome—aftershave commercial handsome. In fact, he’d starred in a British Drakkar Noir commercial, much to his parents’ public dismay and secret pride. Chuck was also the horniest boy in Blair and Nate’s group of friends. Once, at a party in ninth grade, Chuck had hidden in a guest bedroom closet for two hours, waiting to crawl into bed with Kati Farkas, who was so drunk she kept throwing up pizza and vodka Jell-O shots in her sleep. Chuck didn’t mind the vomit-stained covers, as long as there was a seminaked body underneath them. He was the worst kind of predator, the kind everyone would kill if they could stand to be around him for that long.
    Of course, the only way to deal with a guy like Chuck is to laugh in his face while secretly plotting his demise, which is exactly what all the girls who knew him did. In other circles, Chuck might have been banished as a slimeball of the highest order, but these families had been friends for generations. Chuck was a Bass, and so they were stuck with him. They had evengotten used to his gold monogrammed pinky ring, his trademark cream-colored monogrammed cashmere scarf, and the copies of his headshot that littered his parents’ many houses and apartments and spilled out of his locker at the Riverside Preparatory School for Boys. Girls threw darts at them and blacked out the eyes with Sharpies.
    “Don’t forget to use protection!” Chuck called, raising his glass at Blair and Nate as they turned down the long, red-carpeted hallway to Blair’s bedroom.
    Blair grasped the glass doorknob and turned it, surprising her Russian Blue cat, Kitty Minky, who was curled up on the red silk bedspread. Blair paused at the threshold and leaned back against Nate, pressing her body into his. She reached down to take his hand.
    At that moment, Nate’s hopes perked up.