Aside from the whole flesh-eating monsters thing, Carter really couldn't have planned this better. Here he was, comfortably ensconced in Manhattan's most luxurious hotel surrounded by its wealthiest residents and visitors. Frightened, desperate rich people? The playbook practically wrote itself. He could sniff opporunity in the air. Carter still felt shaken by the night's horrific events--he never would have imagined needing to be rescued from a monster by Serena van der Woodsen--but there was nothing like a ride in a private helicopter to restore a man's greed and sense of purpose.
It seemed he was not the only one weathering the night's events with a degree of self-assurance. As the elevator doors parted, Chuck Bass himself came into view, looking unruffled and perfectly styled and coifed. The bastard even had that damn trademark scarf of his donned proudly around his neck. How had he managed it? Carter knew he'd seen him at the party talking to Serena's pretty friend, he'd expected a few bruises to be on display at least. But here Chuck was, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
"Chuck Bass," he greeted loudly, laying a heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Glad to see you weren't eaten. Hell, you look better than any of us."