"You look like hell," Dax pointed out bluntly as Beca passed in front of him. The poor girl had been getting a lot of weird dreams ever since the great-turnover-slash-Nazi-occupation, not to mention how Kommissar started bossing her around like she was back to assistant-level, was more than just degrading. It even came to a point where her daily tasks helped her formed a morning mantra of 'No, no, no, no."
She had to be up by 5 o'clock, just because her new boss was always first to arrive in the office, which is usually on or before 7am and the rest of the employees would arrive three hours later. She was psyched at first, thinking, she was handpicked to collaborate with artists and produce music. Instead, she was bombarded with phone calls, paperwork, and more—Guess what? Demo CDs. On top of which, she had to make coffee for Kommissar, which was always white-no-sugar-but-with-a-little-splash-of-Jack-Daniels-every-Friday.
It wasn't that Kommissar would say things like 'where's my coffee?' or yell to get things her way. Her icy cold stare was more than enough to scare people, not to mention the rumors of her killing a person, and owning a gas chamber in the basement of her house in Germany. There was something about Kommissar that made rudeness so elegant—the way she demanded for something was so harmless, it could almost pass for begging. Then again, her dignity was intact—always poised and never awkward. If she wanted a bottle of water, all she had to do was simply give Beca a hypnotic gaze and purse her lips until the girl squirmed. If she wanted a cookie, she could take a piece from Beca's hand and just mutter a sweet 'dankjewel', which Beca thought was German for 'thanks' until she Googled and discovered that it was Dutch.
Somewhere in between those days, Beca couldn't figure out if she was the next determined Kommissar Jr. or the doting girlfriend and she was getting sick of it.
"Don't—just," Beca put her hand on the intern's face. "don't even start."
"Another rough night?" Dax adjusted his eyeglasses and crossed his arms, looking at her sympathetically.
"I had a dream about being sent to a musical boot camp," Beca sighed, squeezing the empty paper cup she got from the pantry cabinet. "And being shot at while I was tied to an oak tree…naked." She still shivered at the thought of being stripped bare—to her, it was more horrifying than gunshots, which is the reason why if all else fails, she couldn't apply to be the Naked Weather Girl in Canada.
"Let me guess," Dax grabbed a bag of Cheetos and two small packets of Reese's peanut butter cups. "Blondie held the gun."
"Always the bane of my existence," said Beca humorously. "Seriously, I'm so close to putting in my two weeks notice." She eyed the peanut butter cups—she wanted to eat about twenty of those.
"You can't— contract," Dax reminded her. "Where is the boss-lady anyway?"
"In the Control Room," Beca pointed to a door with a sign that says 'DND', munching on a Snickers bar. "Probably shooting darts with Jason Derulo."
"Damn. We got Derulo?" Dax raised his eyebrow in surprise.
"And Cheryl Cole," Beca nodded, faking a British accent at the mention of the singer's name. She tried hiding her amusement over the company's quick progress, but she couldn't help but feel impressed. She wanted to be a part of it—she wanted to work with so many artists and do what she was meant to do.
"Becs, Jesse is on line 3—he says it's urgent," Her assistant waved, raising three of his fingers. This caught Beca's attention. Jesse only calls at night, she thought.
"Here," Beca handed over two cups of coffee—one was labeled 'K' for no sugar and the other was 'B' was for soymilk and honey, wearing a very perplexed expression on her face. "Can you take this to the Control Room?"
"Sure, I got it," He smiled warmly, but was soon distracted by Beca's crowning glory that he almost spilled the hot beverage in his hands. "And don't forget to brush your hair!"
"No hair, no opinion!" Beca yelled, before sticking her tongue out and running her fingers through her hair like she was in a shampoo commercial.
She sprinted her way to her desk, grabbing the telephone, and casually twisting the cables.
"What's up, boyfriend?" Beca greeted.
Her enthusiasm disappeared as soon as Jesse explained that he was going on vacation with his family to visit his sick grandmother, that it was a last minute thing.
"Oh. For how long?" she asked, quickly rummaging through the drawer for her orange Starbucks planner, but found none.
"I don't know—a month, at least. It depends on my Nana's condition," Jesse replied hesitantly.
"Right…and our trip to New York? Isn't that like this weekend?" Beca asked again, opening her laptop to check everything she had been planning for the past month—hotel rooms, tickets, reservations.
"About that," Jesse said a little too loudly, talking above the sound of his parents arguing. "I was wondering if we could call the Airlines—possibly get a refund."
There was a long uncomfortable silence between them until Beca drew a long audible breath of disappointment.
"I'll take care of it," she finally replied.
"Are you mad at me?" Jesse's voice sounded worrisome, as if he had made the biggest mistake of his life.
"No—no. Of course not. Don't be silly," Beca was never good at lying, but she tried; when these things happen, she would just sound so sarcastic. "I'll call the Airlines. Maybe I could pull up a few strings. Just call me when you get there, okay?"
"I promise," Jesse rushed through his words, convinced that nothing was wrong. "I'll call you everyday."
"Take care." Beca murmured indifferently, but Jesse was too busy to notice. She could hear his mother call his name and telling him to leave his bass guitar behind. She groaned out of frustration, deciding to listen to more demos to get stuff done, hoping it would make her feel better.
Meanwhile, Kommissar finally left the Control Room to fax a few papers for her new project. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun—a sufficient evidence that there was a long day ahead. It was complimented by her lovely pair of skinny jeans, black leather boots, and a tight-fitting Cookie Monster print t-shirt. She got caught up, listening and humming to the Daft Punk song coming from her iPod, that she wasn't aware of the arms wrapping around her slender waist. Her body froze, wondering if it was who she thought it was, not knowing how to react. Good thing, there was a lingering scent of citrus and sandalwood.
"Pieter, what are you doing here?" She turned around and smiled, giving both his shoulders a tight squeeze before kissing him on the cheek. "What a pleasant surprise!"
"I came to take you home, of course." He stated casually, picking Kommissar up her feet, carrying her to the lobby, like a prince saving a damsel in distress.
"This is ridiculous," Kommissar giggled in between her words, long legs swaying out of protest. "Mama and Papa asked me to work here for a few months—will you put me down? This is embarrassing!"
It took two turns to the right and one to the left before they plopped down the leather couch like exhausted teenagers, appreciating the fact that they were alone. Kommissar took the liberty of putting her iPod on speaker to lighten up the mood. Pieter, on the other hand, made a grab for the acoustic guitar under the table in front of them.
"Frau, you have to come back," Pieter whistled, his fingers started strumming gently. "They're all looking for you."
"Just tell them I'm on a very important business trip," Kommissar suggested nonchalantly. "Besides, they have you—everything will be okay."
"We need you, Schatz," Pieter shook his head out of disapproval—Das Sound Machine was never the same without their leader. "My voice has been sounding so flat since you were gone."
"Oh, flat my ass!" Kommissar smacked his leg jokingly. "Don't think that I'm forgetting we went to college together!"
"But you're so much better than staying in this dreadful place, with these terrible Americans," Pieter pleaded, grabbing her hand and holding it close to his. The gesture had drawn Kommissar to rest her head on his chest, just like when they shared an apartment in college.
"I'll live—my company keeps me wildly entertained," Kommissar said softly, closing her eyes. She had missed this—missed him.
"You didn't tell me that Barden Bella was working here with you." Apparently, Pieter misunderstood the word company. It was no secret that Beca Mitchell works for K Records, but she wasn't expecting anyone from her team to pry or find out—especially Pieter, who didn't seem to care back then.
"I only tell you things that are important," Kommissar, not wanting to discuss business, pulled away from his embrace, and fumbled to press the 'stop' button of her mp3 player. However, she knew that Pieter was just as persistent as she was when it comes to their affairs—whether personal or not.
"And she's what? Your new assistant?" Pieter queried.
"She's one of the producers. She needs to work on her songwriting. And her head voice—her throat needs to open up a bit more with the high notes." Kommissar replied without thought.
"Are you sure you're just here for business?" Pieter looked suspicious, like he was just about to discover a deep dark secret. In return, Kommissar felt annoyed, rolling her eyes at him.
"Don't give me that look, Pieter," she retorted, sighing. "Have I ever been so unprofessional?"
"I just don't want you to hurt yourself," Pieter mouthed a 'nein' before answering. It wasn't his intention to meddle with Kommissar's life, but they've known each other for so long that he couldn't stand there and not care.
"I'm not going to kill anyone, if that's what you mean," Kommissar joked, silently praying for him to drop the subject.
"That's not what I mean," Unfortunately, Pieter didn't buy it. He wasn't ready to let go either.
"I'll be fine," Kommissar leaned over to touch his face and fix his hair lovingly, looking straight into his eyes. "Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl." She reassured him.
Pieter was going to say something when he heard a woman clearing her throat, three feet away from them.
"The little troll," He stared at Beca, who was fidgeting, inquisitively. This made Kommissar retract both of her hands casually.
"Giant…hi," Beca just greeted him quickly and looked down at her feet, not knowing what to say, wondering if she was disturbing something.
"How are you? It's been a while—" Pieter asked insincerely.
"I'm good—hey listen, Kommissar, can I talk to you for a sec? Privately?" Beca looked at Kommissar, almost forgetting how to breathe. She couldn't remember if it was out of nervousness or admiration.
"Anything you say to me, you can say to Pieter," Kommissar motioned over to Pieter, wanting to prove that she has nothing to hide.
"Alright—okay, I want in," Beca blurted out, a little too quickly.
"I beg your pardon?" Kommissar raised her eyebrows, not understanding what the woman was trying to say. Beca, then, took a step forward and began to blabber, much to Pieter's dismay.
"I've been working here for two years and I've worked my way up to become a producer. It's time I act like one—I'm not here to bring you coffee and sign whatever you want me to sign. I want to make music. I want to produce music. I'm tired of being your personal maid."
"Is that it?" Kommissar crossed her legs, watching Beca's lips twitch. Her expression remained neutral, not revealing one trace of anger.
"Well…yeah." Beca's voice faltered, wishing she had thought of a better way to express her sentiments. She was half-expecting for Kommissar to blow up and slap her in the face, but it was more nerve-wracking when the blonde was standing up quietly and eyeing her from head to toe.
"Jason Derulo is requesting a song to give to his girlfriend as a means to propose an engagement," Kommissar spoke softly, as opposed to Beca's idea—although, every word was enunciated properly. "Submit a composition and a demo in two days. If I don't see a flash drive on my desk by then, you're fired."
"What! That's not fair! Two days is too short! Nobody can write a song in two days!" Beca almost squeaked, sounding more like a mouse than an actual person.
Pieter laughed hysterically, but he managed to stop by adding a serious tone to his voice.
"Kommissar can write a smash hit in 30 minutes. She can play 10 musical instruments, she's a Coloratura Soprano—she has a double degree in Voice & Opera and Composition—paid her dues in Juilliard and the UvA; all finished in three years, while doing her internship as an actor in a production called Der Klang der Musik."
As if Beca didn't feel so small enough, one of Kommissar's loyal posse had to brag about all of her accomplishments. Of course Kommissar went to Juilliard. Of course she can write songs that fast. Of course she's perfect—she's a robot.
The blonde took everything factually, that she didn't feel an ounce of shame or pride.
"It wasn't my deadline to make. If we don't have a song, the client will consider looking for another record label. You seem confident in your amateur skills so I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself. After all, you are a music producer, right?" She was challenging the brunette.
"Your—your butt looks nice in those jeans!" Beca couldn't do much but yell, storming out of the room breathlessly.
"She's insulting you, isn't she?" Pieter looked at Kommissar out of sheer astonishment.
"Always."