Author's Note: Drama, drama. I just love messing up Derrick's life. Sigh. This chapter is dedicated to SeeminglyAngelic. 'Cause she wanted crack pairings, so here's one.

chapter eight. mrs. harrington?

--

"All good is hard, all evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity are easy. Stay away from easy."

- Scott Alexander

--

"Gosh, Layne! Hi!" Claire grinned from ear-to-ear. It was like a light switch had been turned on - all of a sudden she was jovial and upbeat.

Layne shot her former BFF a matching grin. "Lovely to see you again, Claire."

Lovely?

She was suspicious of angst-ridden outsider Layne Abeley's choice of words but didn't question them. Lots of things had changed since her accident.

"I'll just be going now." Kristen smiled nervously, heading towards the door. "Have fun. I'll be back later."

"Okay. Seeya Kris." Claire turned her attention back to her old friend. That was when she noticed Layne's outfit: a calf-length ivory brocade coat overtop of a little black dress. Layne's now-smooth and glossy hair was tucked behind her ears, which were adorned with four-carat gold earrings. "You look…wowie."

"Thanks. You look 'wowie,' too."

Claire blushed, sometimes she forgot she was a twentysomething rather than a loyal, mindless, tweenage follower of Massie. "What happened? What do you do, Layne?"

"I wrote a bestselling memoir. Reluctantly Rich. About my life as a loser in school and my blossoming into a Kappa Kappa Kappa at uni." Layne flashed a laser-whitened smile. "You ought to check it out sometime."

--

"Oh, Derrington...!"

Still in a sweat-soaked Nike tee and soccer shorts, he turned at the trilling sound of his wife's voice. Derrick Harrington hadn't wanted to get married. But she'd been pregnant and she was gorgeous, too, so, what was he supposed to do? Even if his father was kind of a major ass, he'd still told his son that under no circumstances did he leave a girl pregnant and alone. After all, Derrick's own creation had been an accident, but he'd turned out alright.

There she was.

Gorgeous as ever.

Her pale blond hair hung in twin stubby ponytails. She was in exercise gear, too - hers courtesy of Stella McCartney for Adidas. Her face was flawless - a pert nose, full lips and not a blemish to be seen. She wore a tight, cleavage-enhancing sports bra and Capri pants that looked like they'd been painted on.

"Olivia, you look great."

She smiled sweetly and placed her manicured hand on one of his broad shoulders. "Thanks, honey pie." Annoying pet names were Olivia Ryan-Harrington's speciality.

Derrick had just come back from the gym. As far as he knew, he was the only member of the Tomahawks who went pro with the sport. For everyone else it was a hobby. For him? It was his life.

"Where's Leah?"

"Asleep," Olivia answered contently. She placed her other hand - the one not on her husband's shoulder - on the slight curve of her stomach. She was only eight weeks along. In addition to five-year-old Leah, she had a two-year-old daughter, Summer, with him.

"Good." His lips curled into something that was half-smile, half-smirk. "And Sum?"

"Don't you remember?" Olivia's Botox-aided smooth forehead creased. "She has a play date with her school friends."

Derrick shook his head. "'Course I do, Liv. I was just double-checking."

"Alright." She didn't look so sure, but she shrugged her shoulders and skipped out the door to God knows where.

--

It was late at night in California time when Olivia Ryan-Harrington's Razr rang. She effortlessly pushed her sweat-matted bangs away from her plastic-makes-perfect face and scooted off the bed. The shift in weight pushed the gold-threaded duvet of Derrick's body. He groaned and muttered something that deserved a 14-A rating.

"Y'ello?" she whispered into her phone sleepily.

"Yes, is this…" an equally tired man's voice trailed off. "Olivia Ryan?"

She nodded her head before realizing no one - save for Derrick - could see her. "Uh-huh," she added, for his benefit.

"Good. This is Jay Lyons. I'm Claire and Todd Lyons' father. You went to middle school with them?"

"Nope," she answered dopily. "Never heard of them. Please don't call this number again. Kay, thanks, bye." She clicked 'End.'

--

"Idiot," Jay told the bimbo on the phone long after she'd hung up. In front of him lay the OCD yearbook, circa 2008. His fingernail rested on the name "OLIVIA RYAN." Above the name and quote (Which, for the record, was: "'By day, I play the part in every way. Of simple, sweet, calm and collected.' - Hannah Montana.") was a picture of a stunned-looking blonde.

--

"Champagne, miss?"

Alicia nodded curtly, doubling the effect of her natural beauty by throwing in a toothy smile for the flight attendant. He was somewhat handsome - but not half as nice-looking as Luis. Cheating had never crossed her mind, not even when he was halfway across the country scouting locations or attending auditions.

"Thaaankkk youuu," she drawled as she accepted the clear glass flute of bubbly.

"Are you…visiting your husband in Westchester?" the flight attendant asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"That will be all, thanks," she coolly dismissed. "I prefer not to divulge the details of my life to perfect strangers."

--

Massie couldn't quit smiling at work the next day. Finally, she'd given in to Cam's constant proposals. He didn't see a reason why they couldn't get married straight after high school - or, hell, during high school. It wasn't like Massie was going to college or anything. When she was fifteen, she started acting professionally - mostly little parts in daytime soaps or guest appearances on the latest Law & Order spin-off. It wasn't until she got the script for Game-Set-Match that she finally committed to something.

She loved her job, but sometimes it was annoying reliving her high school life at work.

"This came in for you, Massie." Her still-nervous assistant, a fidgety woman named Ginger, handed the starlet a thick script. The title page read "Through The Dark." Apparently it was written, directed and co-produced by one man: Luis Martinez.

She only had a couple scenes to reshoot that day. She'd already visited the hair and makeup place where Vivi, the hair stylist, teased Massie's brunette locks into a cheerleader-esque high ponytail. Samuel, the makeup artist, had gone for the 'natural look' which made her look about ten years younger.

Not that she wanted to. Massie hated it when people assumed she was as young as her plucky character Serenity Harper.

Fresh from the wardrobe trailer was a pair of low-riding dark-wash jeans and a silky coral-coloured tank top. Massie sighed and unlocked the door to her trailer. She hopped onto the couch and started reading the script.

--

-flashback: derrick harrington, yesterday, age twenty-two-

"You've got yourself a deal."

"I'll be over in twen-"

"Make that ten."

"Fine then. Ten minutes."

Derrick ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He blew out a breath. This shouldn't be happening again. Not again, not ever. He had a wife, two kids and one more on the way. A great career. But he was never satisfied - no. Not even with Olivia who'd spent her parents' fortune on making herself perfect.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. He immediately jumped up from the comfy couch and ran to answer it. A brunette with bottle green eyes and a Viktor & Rolf trench coat covering her sinful skin half-smirked at him.

"Layne."

"Derrick."

"Shall we?"

"We certainly shall."

--

-present day: dylan marvil and alicia rivera, both age twenty-two-

Dylan Marvil raked her fingers through her tamed curls. That morning, she'd spent longer than she had since the seventh grade prepping and primping. She was, after all, going to see her mom, the always immaculately made-up Merilee Marvil. She hadn't had time to pop by the spa, though, so her acid-green manicure was still cracked.

Sigh.

Sometimes there was just no winning.

Her outfit, at least, was a sure winner: a cream-coloured leather Rick Owens biker jacket, over a simple white Banana Republic blouse, a Couture Couture pencil skirt and matching black pumps. It was classy. A pure Massie-chist outfit.

Uh-oh. Massie.

She hadn't thought about that bitch since high school. The pills, the elixirs, it made her forget what a terrible friend Massie had been.

Would the amber-eyed brunette be lurking around a manicured hedge, waiting for a moment of surprise?

Last Dylan had heard, Massie was playing some lame-ass tennis star on this stupid CW show.

"Um, excuse me?"

Dylan whipped her head around at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice. It had a slight - and probably fake - Spanish accent. "Alicia?"

"Yes," the beta agreed, "That's me."