A/N: Picking up from the last chapter, we discovered that Lizzie and Edwin did, in fact, form Lizwin for some unspecified amount of time. Two years, maybe?

We got to the club right before midnight. It turned out that Angelina's friend Finna used to date the manager, so instead of standing in the ever-growing line, we were escorted in by the muscle-bound bouncer and told to order whatever we wanted, first drinks on the house. I tried to order a beer, but Angelina waved my hand away and asked for a Vodka Red Bull instead.

"You're a hot girl, Mickey," she said, screaming to be heard over the music, "and hot girls don't drink beer in clubs. This is more like it." She gestured at the golden drinks that the bartender handed us.

I accepted my drink and turned to observe the scene. The club pulsed, heaving to the rhythm of the over-pumped bass. It was dark, illuminated only by strategically placed spotlights, running lights on the floor that led to the exits and bathrooms, and fluorescents in the well of the bar. The spacious dance floor was flanked on three sides by tall tables and barstools; the fourth side boasted an elevated DJ booth crammed full of expensive stereo equipment. There were two raised stages on the dance floor with bars protecting the sides, and two scantily-clad club goers were gyrating on the poles protruding from the centers.

"Have you been here before?" I asked Angelina, taking a sip of my drink through the stirrer and leaning against the bar.

"No," she answered, shaking her head, "but like I said, Finna said that a lot of junior people hang out here.

"Like there," she said, inclining her head towards a table in the far corner of the room. "See them? Scruffy and tired, but a little smug and surrounded by beautiful girls? Those are industry guys." She put her drink back on the bar and adjusted her boobs. "And I'm going to meet them. Come on."

I followed Angelina across the crowded dance floor as she wound her way through the sweaty bodies. There were three of them: two were classically good-looking, with blond, sun-streaked hair and tanned bodies. The third one, though, caught my attention. His eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion, and he had over-long, shaggy brown hair that he tied back in a short, natty ponytail. He wore a holy t-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops; he was dressed more for a day at the beach than a night at the club. Compared to the crisp Polo shirts and khaki shorts of his companions, he looked like someone in a game of "Which One Doesn't Belong?"

One of the men saw us coming. He nudged his friend, who was in conversation with a tall, slim girl-who would have been gorgeous if not for her slightly bucked teeth—and flashed a wide, white smile at us. Classic American Man. The third man, the one that I inexplicably found myself drawn to, was leaning his back against the table and resting his elbows on top of it. He had a bored look on his face, and was absentmindedly nodding at something that another tall, slim, beautiful girl was saying to him.

I saw Angelina plaster on a bright, flirtatious smile and stick out her ample chest in their direction. The two Classic American Men obviously reacted—they straightened their backs and ran long, strong fingers through their hair—but the third man took no notice of us. I followed Angelina's lead, hoping to catch the third man's attention, but he didn't notice us in the slightest.

This guy was pissing me off. After years of sexing up my image, I started to enjoy—no, expect—male attention, and this guy was behaving as if we didn't exist

When we arrived at their table, we spent a full five seconds looking at each other. Angelina's eyes darted between the two Classic American Men, I lasered my gaze on the third guy, and the three model wannabes hanging around the edge of the table shot daggers at us. Finally, Angelina broke the loaded silence

"Hey," she said, flashing a mega-watt smile at one of the California twins, "you gotta light?"

Classic American Man #2 pointed across the dance floor at a small, unobtrusive glass door. "You have to go out there," he said. "That's the smoker's patio."

"That's not what I asked," she said, smiling at him and ignoring the icy glare of the buck-toothed girl. "I asked if you had a light. You can give it to me somewhere else." As she spoke, Angelina leaned forward ever-so-slightly, giving Classic American Man #2 a glimpse of her girls, and grinned naughtily. A red flush crept up his neck, and I have to say, I was impressed. She could have easily landed a role in an adult film with that line and that move right there.

Maybe that's what she's going for, I mused. These guys are supposed to be industry types, but she didn't say what industry.

"I-I don't," he stammered, "but my boy Easy here smokes sometimes. E, you gotta light for the pretty lady?"

"Nope," the third man muttered, not looking at Classic American Man #2, "all out."

"That's okay," Angelina said, giggling coyly and throwing her dark, coppery hair over her shoulder, "I have. I just, like, wanted an excuse to come talk to you. Come with?"

As Angelina and Classic American Man #2—Josh, I later found out—disappeared out onto the smoker's patio, I stayed behind and made small talk with Classic American Man #1. Mark was his name, and he was a junior executive assistant at Columbia Pictures.

"We all are," Mark said, gesturing around the table. "Josh, Easy, me, we all work there. Easy's been there the longest. Right, E?" Mark punched the mysterious third man in the arm playfully.

He gave Mark a look of disdainful irritation, the same look that I found myself giving Nora and the rest of the McDonald-Venturi clan. Easy rolled his eyes, then grabbed his empty bottle and headed towards the bar, leaving the girl that had been talking to him in mid-sentence.

"Easy's a little sensitive," Mark said, turning back to me. "We think that he's pissed because he keeps getting passed over for promotion. He's good at our job, but he could do so much more if he just gave a shit, ya know? It's weird—rumor has it that he was by-name recommended for this job by some director while shooting up in BC. Golden boy who was willing to work his way up the ladder and some shit like that. Then he shows up, and he's good, but it's like he doesn't care about anything but doing the job and getting wasted every night. Most of us, we work late if we need to and try to suck up to the muckety-mucks so we can get promoted, but E? He leaves at 6 every night, collects his paycheck, and spends most of it at the bar until he's too tanked to drive home. He usually goes by himself, but Josh and I tagged along tonight just to see what the hell he does. We still haven't figured it out, really.

"It's weird," he said again. "We don't even know his name. We all just call him Easy or E."

I barely registered what Mark was saying. When Easy looked up, my heart stopped in my chest, and it took all of my strength to force air into my lungs. They may have not known who Easy was, but I couldn't forget those chocolate brown eyes flecked through with green and gold.

Derek.

A/N: Dun dun dun! We found Derek! So now what's in store for our heroes? Keep reading (and reviewing, kthxbai) to find out!