Kommissar. Kommissar? What kind of a name—? What IS that? Beca leaned forward and scanned her laptop, the covers of her bed moving around her.
Kommissar. Das Sound Machine's website says the blonde's name is Kommissar. But that can't be right, can it? What kind of nutso parents would you have to have to actually be named Kommissar?
Maybe it's a stage name, Beca reasoned.
Kommissar. She really was mesmerizing, both in person and in the online videos Beca was watching for the third time around.
Fuck, DSM is good. The Bellas were really going to have to pull something mind-blowing out for Worlds.
"Ugh, I can't think about this right now," Beca muttered, closing her browser. With the opportunity she had opened up at work, she couldn't afford to think about anything other than producing. Bellas (and DSM) would have to take a backseat.
Beca grunted with exertion. The Fat Amy of their freshman year would be dying—Chloe was working them very hard at rehearsal. She was acting more like Aubrey every day.
Beca snorted, imagining what Aubrey's reaction to DSM might have been. She would've stared Kommissar down, giving as good as she got with the ramrod sharpness of her WASP-y upbringing, shaking ever so slightly physically but Kommissar's unchallenged equal mentally.
Why was Beca, on the other hand, shaken to her core by the German's predatory stare? It was like her brain had completely stopped when Kommissar had trailed her eyes down Beca's body.
She closed her eyes and tried to re-focus on her baton twirling.
Queerballs.