No coke, no speed, no clubs. Controlled consumption of weed and alcohol twice a week. Varying doses of benzodiazepines and a handful of vitamins every day from the doctor. She will not be locked in the apartment, but Luke and Stacie would be supervising her whenever she went out. And there will definitely be no use of The Bebop.
These are the rules. Stacie wrote them, and Luke, who was staying with Beca until he found a new apartment, would be enforcing them for one month.
Beca was all up for these rules. Her friends meant well. Besides, it was obviously high time (heh) for her to focus on the one thing she had been putting off for the past month: being a legitimate New Yorker. Living like a normal civilian in the urban sprawl that perfectly suited her temperament should be a no-brainer, right? After all, LA – and California, in general – had gotten too small for her impulsive, brooding nature. Paparazzi in and out of her favorite restaurants, getting mobbed in the streets, wannabes chatting her up on the line at delis, throwing parties as an obligation, having to be nice and polite to fellow celebrities in SoCal when all she wanted was a damn quiet surf…in LA, to snub the media machinery that made her meant certain death. Here in New York, it was simply rising above.
And she, Beca fucking Mitchell, had risen above a ton of things no one could ever imagine.
Week 1, Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program
"Luke, NO!" Beca and Luke crashed to the floor, the enraged Brit hardly loosening the chokehold around Beca's neck even as she elbowed him repeatedly. Stacie hovered over them, screaming to the point of hysterics. "This is not sexy at all! STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!"
"You fucking slag! How can you fucking sleep with Kate! My bloody ex-girlfriend!"
"LET HER GO, LUKE, GODDAMNIT!"
"ARGH!"
Beca had bitten Luke's beefy upper arm. He pulled away, cursing in pain; Beca quickly rolled off him, slumping face down on the tile.
"Beca!" Stacie managed to roll her friend's body over, hoping against hope this would not end up in another trip to the emergency room. Her panic, however, was cut short when she realized that Beca wasn't gasping for breath, but wheezing with laughter.
"Bloody sicko," Luke grumbled, cradling his arm.
"This – has been fun – but I'll need my– phone back," Beca panted, in between gurgles of deranged amusement. Her eyes were still watering from the damage in her bruised throat. She tried to sit up, failed miserably, and settled on propping herself up with her elbows. "Or should I elaborate – on how much – Kate – likes getting – a rim –"
Luke pounced on her with renewed fury, but this time Stacie was able to hold him back. "God, Beca, shut the fuck up!"
"Not my fucking fault – he took away my phone –"
"He had to, asshole, you were calling your dealer!"
"I wasn't –"
Stacie's backhanded slap landed perfectly on Beca's left cheek. It sent her reeling back to the floor, face contorted from the pain.
"Bullshit," Stacie growled, towering over her with barely-concealed contempt. "You're just fucking lying to yourself." And with that, Stacie and Luke left the bedroom, leaving Beca with nothing but a stinging cheek and an overwhelming sense of guilt.
Week 2, Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program
"Two packs. Two packs a day, for the last seven days. Congratulations, Becky. Your apartment is a bloody fucking chimney."
Beca, who was trying to light another cigarette on the stove, rolled her eyes. "Then go stay with Stacie." She held the cigarette in her mouth and pushed her face closer to the fire; at this, Luke dragged her away.
"Christ, you wanna singe your eyebrows? You're a millionaire, twit. Buy a goddamn lighter!" Luke grudgingly went back to his seat at the dining table, frowning at his plate. "Great, now my eggs are cold."
"Bite me."
"Yeah, I probably should so we're even, tosser."
"What did you fucking call me?'Cause you seem to be forgetting that you're crashing on my couch."
"Screw you. I'll get a bloody hotel room then!"
Ten days into the Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program, and the cold Saturday morning was going about as swimmingly as Beca expected. Stacie had arrived to find her refusing the breakfast Luke made. Luke – proud, neat-freak, completely fucking retarded Luke – made her runny scrambled eggs. Stacie diffused the situation with the bagels she brought. But not a long while later they were fighting again about the heater, and now, about this.
"Oh my god, you dickwads!" Stacie slammed a fist on the table in annoyance. "Luke, go microwave your plate." Luke kept glaring at Beca and she glared back, ready to beat up the larger guy if she really had to. "Now. Beca, come with me."
Beca trudged sullenly after Stacie, who led her out to the terrace.
"You really need to stop acting like a brat, babe."
Beca only stared at Stacie, but let her burrow next to her in the deck chair, moving her legs aside so the taller brunette could fit.
"I may be patient, but I'm not Chloe. I am this close to punching you in the tit." Stacie plucked away the unlit cigarette in Beca's hand, flicking it over the terrace railing. "Say something."
"I feel like shit."
"Want coke?"
Now that Beca thought about it, she didn't. But this wasn't necessarily a good thing; she no longer had any idea what she fucking wanted. "No."
"Wanna go out?"
"No."
"It'll help. You haven't left your man-cave in two weeks."
"It's fucking cold."
"Beca, baby." Stacie stroked the smaller brunette's shoulder, and then flinched. "Myaaa. You stink like a junkie hooker's ass."
"How do you even know what that –"
"Curiosity sometimes leads me to unfortunate cracks," Stacie cackled. "Anyway, you have to take a shower sometime in the next hour. It's a cornerstone to getting laid."
"I'm banned from getting laid, remember?"
"You're banned from clubs where you can get coke, sure. But sex? Wouldn't dream of it." Stacie straddled her, expression clouding when Beca made no effort to push her off or even do anything about it. "Come on. I learned a few bathtub moves over the week."
"Not in the mood."
Stacie pouted even harder at that. "Look, you're in a funk, I get it. But you've been clean for at least a week. You know what will make you feel better? Rewarding yourself." She started humping Beca's hip. "Oooh, yeah. I volunteer as tribute. I was born for this moment."
Beca sighed, ignoring the other girl's pseudo-advances. "Say I feel like going out. Where would we go?"
"Bugsy's. Best damn bar in my side of town."
Stacie lived in the Meatpacking District, so that should be close. "You'll trust me to be with a girl on my own?"
"Baby, I'm a very trusting person. See, I'm thrusting into you right now." Stacie pinned Beca's wrists to the deck chair, making the worst faces. "Harder! Oh, god, harder..."
"You know what I mean."
"Not everyone downtown is a raging cokehead. We'll find you a nice hot townie, okay? Now smile." Beca finally relented, her forced grin turning into a screech when Stacie lowered her cleavage to the producer's face. "Motorboat them all you want. Don't be shy."
"Nope. Who knows where those have been?" Beca choked out, avoiding the smothering rounds of flesh. "Dude, this is so wrong."
"Shh. Let it happen." Stacie looked up to see Luke standing by the glass doors, holding his plate while staring openmouthed at them. "Like what you see, alpha dog?"
Luke approached and sat on the deck chair across them, his ears red. "Not really."
"Becs, apologize to Sir Waitrose McDouchey."
"Hey!"
Beca rolled her eyes, but she glanced at Luke. "Sorry. You're a freak."
"And you're being fake-bonked by Stacie. That should be enough punishment."
Stacie stuck her tongue out at Luke. "Whatever, you want me. I'm taking Beca out for titties."
"Yeah? Where?"
"Bugsy's."
"Yuck. Bugsy's is staph-infection dive-y."
"Why, because they don't have those fifty-dollar cocktails at The Darby with figs and blood diamonds?"
"The Darby is the finest lounge in New York."
"For pretentious frat bros like you, sure."
"I am not! And excuse me, but The Darby happens to be Leo DiCaprio's favorite –"
"Which is exactly why Beca's not going – it's a club, and no clubs, remember?"
"Fine, but seriously, Bugsy's? Nobody scores at that dump. Convents have seen more action. We're going to Clandestino."
"Guys! I'm going to Bugsy's." Stacie let out a triumphant crow at Beca's statement; Luke merely scowled. "Don't look so sad, Lukey, I'm not in the mood to fake pleasantries with Gigi Hadid or whoever."
"But you fancy Gigi Hadid."
"Yeah, so it's best she doesn't see me like this."
"You're so fucking fragile," he scoffed.
"Fuck you. I can't hear you over those very loud Paddington Bear pajamas you're wearing."
Week 3, Beca-Is-Drug-Free-and-Getting-Laid-Program
"Like it?"
"Fuck yeah." Beca leaned back on the headboard, staring appreciatively at the blonde girl astride her hip, pert breasts on full display.
They met at Bugsy's last night. It was probably noon by now, but she didn't mind spending the extra time with this girl. It helped that she was exactly Beca's type in terms of physicality. But on top of that, she couldn't tell STOKR from Adam, didn't have 'ditzy' written all over her, and, most importantly, understood this was a one-time thing.
"You'll like this even more." The girl licked Beca's collarbone, slipped a finger between her legs, palmed one of her breasts…did she already mention this girl demonstrated amazing flexibility? It didn't take long for Beca to start feeling the rush of an unstoppable orgasm; she ground herself against the girl's hand, digging her nails into the other's bared buttocks.
"Faster," she growled impatiently, and the blonde happily obliged. Beca's thighs were starting to tremble, her center was knotted up in taut anticipation – and at the very last moment, fingers squeezed firmly around her neck, sending her over the edge with an unrestrained cry, her head forcefully tipping back into the headboard as she arched her back in climax.
"Was it good for you?" the girl asked in a teasing tone, after Beca had recovered and they were laying side-by-side.
"Weren't you there?" Beca matched her smirk. "I enjoyed it."
"Me too."
Both of them jumped almost off the bed at the third voice. Glancing around frantically, Beca found Stacie leaning on the doorframe of the cavernous bedroom, with no less than a shit-eating grin on her face.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" The blonde girl screamed hysterically as she scrambled to cover herself, Beca wildly following suit. "WHO IS THIS BITCH?!"
"Hey, easy," Stacie said, raising her hands as she approached the bed. "I'm just here to –"
"IS THIS WHAT YOU STUCK-UP ASSHOLES DO ALL THE TIME?! WATCH EACH OTHER FUCK AND MAKE SEX SCANDALS AND –"
"Stace, get out!" Beca yelled.
"Baby, that's not what we do at all, okay?" Stacie took one step closer, grin positively turning more voracious by the second. "But I wouldn't object to –"
"I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER –"
An hour later
"Ow."
Beca resolutely stared on the road ahead, having ignored Stacie whining on the passenger seat for the last five minutes. Her dark red Ferrari felt out of place in the snaking traffic, not to mention it was getting resentful glares from passersby. She made a mental note to have Luke find her a less-ostentatious car.
"Ow."
Beca rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time.
"Oww." Stacie looked at her morosely as she pressed an ice pack to the bright red welt in her cheek. "Ouchie on my gorgeous face."
The word 'cold' may have been spat into Beca's face several times by several other women, but never by Stacie. This time was no different. She wasn't able to resist letting out a chuckle at the latter's ridiculousness. "You deserve it."
"You told me to pick you up at noon! How was I supposed to know that wasn't a surprise threesome you set up for me?! My birthday is in three months."
"Because I told you we're meeting up with Luke!" Luke moved out a few days ago, having found a new apartment in Upper East Side. Today they were aligning second-quarter goals and timelines for the indie division and PR division – something Beca did not look forward to at all – and then showing Stacie around the new office.
"How was I supposed to know that wasn't some respectable-sounding bait you invented so I'd come over?"
"Because I was shouting 'get out'!" Beca scoffed. "Holy shit, now that I think about it, you saw me naked?!"
Stacie's retort was a self-satisfied smirk.
"Oh, god." Beca would have put her hands up to cover her face in embarrassment, if only she wasn't driving. She shuddered in disgust, narrowed her eyes as she tried to picture her own body through Stacie's worldview, and shuddered again. "I shouldn't have fucking asked. I can't live like this. Oh, god. How long were you standing there? Argh, don't answer –"
"Long enough to know you like this." Stacie choked herself with her free hand, smug expression hardly wavering.
"Jesus." Beca fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat. "I fucking hate you. I hate myself. Fuck, I've never loathed myself this much."
"Don't, baby. It makes our relationship so much healthier."
"How?!"
"Well, communication is key and all that bullshit, and now that I know what you want in the bedroom –"
"Please stop talking."
It was Stacie's turn to roll her eyes. "At least we know she's not The One."
"Goddamnit, Stacie, she's the seventh bimbo I picked up from Bugsy's. Did I look like I wanted to date her? Or were you belted so hard that wasn't clear to you?"
"Yeah, about that," Stacie began indignantly, "why didn't you hold her back? Bros before hos, dude. You disappoint me."
"I disappoint you? I wasn't the one who went full sex predator!"
"Again, I thought you were gifting me a threesome."
"I would never –"
"A little Threesome 101, though: girl, girl, guy is the perfect ratio." Stacie unconsciously began groping her own breast as she dispensed this sage wisdom, and Beca slapped away the offending hand. "And I can't believe I've noticed before: your tits are –"
"– never to be mentioned ever again. I mean it."
"But –"
"Yeah, that too."
"You're late!" Luke snarled when they finally got to Residual Heat Record's brand-spanking-new NYC headquarters. It was a converted two-storey warehouse in Broadway, designed by Gerard Cohler to have the same airy vibe as the LA branch. While a tad smaller, the second office was just as functional: it had two recording studios, another studio for performance and rehearsal space, a decent-sized office, seven employees Beca poached from RHR LA, and eight new hires.
"Someone was busy getting busy –" Stacie sang, before being interrupted by a light smack in the face from Beca. "Dammit, babe, you used to worship me."
"Can't you ever be arsed to respect my fucking time?" Luke asked loudly as he led them to her office on the second floor, passing blown-up album cover posters and little pots of aloe and cacti along the way. "I told you to be here at ten, you arrive at twelve-thirty, and now we're morally obliged to take her to lunch. The economy is going belly-up, guys! I could have bought myself new hair chutney with that money. Tigi Bed Head Stick, that's the one – Chris Hemsworth's favorite, lightweight, semi-matte, gives softness and texture with no build-up –"
"Shut your sexy spornosexual mouth," Stacie muttered.
"What's this business about taking her to lunch?" Beca wasn't feeling particularly up for social interaction today; she thought she'd be spending the entire afternoon with only Stacie and Luke. "Who's 'her'?"
"Read. Your. Emails!" Luke barked, throwing the door to the corner office open. They all filed in, Beca leading the way. The next moment, Stacie promptly walked into her.
"The fuck?" Stacie glanced around to see what made her friend stop suddenly on her tracks. A blonde woman in a pinstriped dark suit waited for them on the couch, rising and giving them a casual yet calculated nod as Beca ventured forward.
The producer has always prided herself on being good at sizing people up. However, the longer Beca studied the woman, the harder it became to figure her out. She had her hair in a tight bun, yet her perfect posture did not betray any form of insecurity or uptightness. On the contrary, she only radiated quiet confidence. Beca would have called her strikingly gorgeous if the smirk on the blonde's face didn't make her think of a prowling lynx. The blonde's eyes were icy gray marbles. They glittered as they bore into Beca's own.
This woman is a robot.
Beca only got more disconcerted when they were in front of each other, and realized that the blonde woman towered over her. Like, Beca's eye line landed exactly at the blonde's –
"...dude."
Stacie was elbowing her.
"What?"
"...she said words, man," Stacie whispered in a rapturous tone.
"Bloody hell. I'm the only bloke here who knows how to treat women right," Luke huffed irritably, sidestepping both of them. "Kommissar – this is your boss, Beca Mitchell. Never, ever, open your legs around this complete and utter twat."
"Kommissar?" Beca repeated blankly, unable to take her eyes off the woman's face. "She's working for me?"
"She's your new personal assistant."
Beca turned to Luke. "You fired Dax and hired someone I haven't even interviewed? What the fuck?"
"You lost your power to fire and interview on the seventh email I sent regarding the matter," Luke answered evenly.
"You only moved out of my apartment last week! You couldn't have talked to me all those time about this?"
"Your vacation leave clause specifically said you were to be reached via email only. And in the case of urgent work-related concerns, it was up to me and/or Keegan to act on your behalf if there are any required actions. Legally, I wasn't supposed to talk to you." Luke seemed pretty pleased with himself – of course he would be, Beca thought in annoyance, the guy got off on finding stupid loopholes out of everything. "Don't worry, mate. You'll like her."
Beca, eyebrow raised, turned back to Kommissar.
"You do not seem pleased to meet me," the blonde said in a low melodic voice, accent immediately distinguishable.
"She's German," Stacie gasped.
"You – are physically flawless." Beca looked the blonde up and down, finding no chink in the seemingly-perfect specimen. Wait, what? "But that doesn't mean I like you," she muttered, in a lame attempt to backtrack.
"Good save," Luke said sarcastically. He then addressed Kommissar with a grin. "Care to join us for lunch? She's paying."
"OW!"
"That's for picking the most fucking expensive restaurant in the entire Broadway strip," Beca snapped under her breath, watching with satisfaction as Luke dropped his menu and doubled over in his seat.
They were at Gramercy Tavern, one of those upscale farm-to-table deals with all-wood interiors and outrageously-priced prix fixe menus. Kommissar had excused herself to go to the powder room. The moment her back disappeared from view, Beca twisted one of Luke's nipples.
"I got you a cracking fanny and this is how you pay me back?" Luke wailed, massaging the spot. "It bloody fucking stings."
"This – that – she – that is not a favor! I can't work with her! She's too hot." Beca waved a hand in front of Stacie's face; the taller brunette, who was gaping fixedly at the seat Kommissar had vacated for the last thirty seconds, finally blinked at the interruption. "Look, she broke Stacie!"
"She can sit on my face all day," Stacie said dazedly.
"See how that went from zero to creepy really fast? Luke, seriously, what kind of woman gets a name like Kommissar?!"
"I really know where to get 'em, don't I?" Luke smirked.
Kommissar was making her way back to the table, and they all promptly fell quiet. After they have ordered, Kommissar, to Beca's surprise, addressed her directly:
"I didn't expect you to be so tiny. Like a – sprite? Fairy? Elf?"
"Troll," Luke unhelpfully supplied.
"Okay, lady, why would you even want to work for me?" Beca asked bluntly, irked by the observation. "I don't know anything about you, I just know you're smoking – I mean, I haven't even seen your resume, and you're already very comfortable calling me names. Why don't we get started on yours? Kommissar? What's that, a nom de sauerkraut or something?"
"Don't insult her," Stacie hissed.
Kommissar held up a regal hand and Stacie quickly stopped, glaring at Beca. "We can go through my resume right now, but I'll spare you the pain. I can assure you I'm fully qualified – if not overqualified – to be your personal assistant," the German said evenly. "Besides, I'm sure you'd rather run off with your friends than read through my numerous achievements, ja? So I'll make this brief. I want to work for you because I want you to sign me up."
This was not at all the answer Beca was expecting.
"I'm sorry – what?"
Kommissar sighed and pulled out a tablet, typing for a bit before handing it to Beca. It showed a Rolling Stone feature on Rock Am Ring Festival 2014, with photos of the event and the bands in the lineup. Beca wasn't sure what she should be seeing as the article was written in German. But she dutifully scrolled down, scanning the pictures, until she stopped at one: a photo onstage of who was unmistakably Kommissar.
She stood in the midst of fireworks and light beams, clad in some sort of black leather-and-fishnet jumpsuit and staring ahead with a triumphant smirk. There were two men standing on either side of her wearing the same outfits. Behind them the giant LED board announced, in stark black letters: DAS SOUND MACHINES.
Holy crap.
"You're in that insanely-synchronized synthwave German band?!"
"Gut, you have heard of Das Sound Machines," Kommissar sighed. "This makes things so much easier."
"I have, but only because Mike Glover won't shut up about it. You're supposedly huge in Berlin or something." Michael Glover is Miami Nights 1984, a friend and another electronic artist who made pretty good synthwave music over at Rosso Corsa Records. "And you want a contract for your band?"
"Nein. Just me." Beca raised an eyebrow at this. "Das Sound Machines is disbanding. Klaus is moving to Austria. The composer, Pieter, received a fellowship at Juilliard. And I decided it's time to build a music career here in America."
"But if you wanted to be signed to Residual Heat Records, why didn't you just send a demo –"
"Nein, not Residual Heat. Your own label."
Beca blinked, confused once again. "Lady, I'm very flattered. But I'm just the A&R executive of the indie division. I don't have my own record label."
"Why not? You already have all the skills, the accolades, the money to back it up. You do not get fired despite all the trouble you bring to your boss; you get an increase in your paycheck so you will put up with some more. It's because your label knows you can stand on your own if you leave. You are a mouse, but you are indispensable."
"...did you just call me a mouse?"
"Becky, do you hear what she's saying?" Luke said. "Kommissar has an MBA from London Business School. She knows what she's talking about."
"Et tu, Luke?" Beca looked Kommissar in the eye. "Okay, it's not like I've never had the idea of striking out on my own. But as of the moment, I'm right where I want to be. My arrangement with Keegan works fine. I was just promoted. I'm not leaving."
"Of course," Kommissar agreed – to Beca's slight surprise. "After all, these plans materialize two or three years from now, as I've estimated from your schedule last year and this year. You will need to find talents, file paperwork with the city, develop a sound business plan…all of which you can prepare for, with my business expertise."
"So what I'm hearing is this: aside from being my personal assistant…"
"I will also be your business adviser."
"And in exchange…"
"You will give me a record deal once your own label takes off."
"Which, as you said, will take two or three years from now?"
"At the very least."
Satisfied that she got the German to define the terms herself, Beca leaned forward on the table. "Wouldn't this be unfair to you? I mean, the payoff would be so long. Who knows where I'll be in three years? For all we know, I might be retired in Brazil or something."
"Things do change. But I consider it as investment. Besides, I've talked to you long enough to believe you honor your word," Kommissar answered. She was hardly patronizing, the opposite of what Beca often recognized from strangers who gave her compliments; on the contrary, Kommissar's eyes were stern, although she maintained her casual tone. "And we'll put this in writing – the exact results asked of both of us, down to the expected delivery period."
"As an added safety, her contract will officially be filed with you, not RHR," Luke was saying. "I've already cleared this with Keegan. But we'll also have the company lawyer add his agreement in writing and have him sign it off, lest RHR sue you in the future for creating your own record label –"
"So I'd have to pay her out of pocket?" Beca interrupted.
"You're loaded! Besides, she'll be your personal assistant even out of office. It's good value, believe me."
Beca glanced from Luke to Kommissar, who was smiling slightly. They had obviously thought this whole thing through.
The German's career plan was highly ambitious. Move to America. Latch on to an already-successful label executive-producer. Promise her something so ludicrous that will nonetheless appeal to her ego. It was brilliant, if Kommissar found a gullible-enough executive to buy the idea. But it was practically impossible to set up a meeting with any big name-producer. And if they did, this is the sad truth of the music industry: even talented artists like Ryan Hemsworth and Lewis del Mar would not pass an audition with Keegan. They simply would not sell. Kommissar only managed to get her foot in the door by applying as Beca's personal assistant.
But would it be so bad to at least consider the possibility of having her own record label in a few years? After all, that was the end goal. She merely deviated from it when her own fame as an artist overshadowed her popularity as a producer. She liked Residual Heat. Keegan treated her like a friend, trusted her with her own projects, even gave her an indie division where she can exercise full creative freedom. But RHR's style of acquiring talents was only limited to the next big thing. Keegan only produced for the stars – Snoop Dogg, Drake, Jay-Z – and never cultivated indie artists that showed promise. Case in point: RHR's recent crop of new artists included the daughter of a famous actor and a Youtube prick who was being groomed as the next Justin Bieber. And Keegan just spent a ridiculous amount of money trying to establish Paris Hilton as a DJ. Beca wouldn't have these problems if she had her own music label.
"How did you meet Luke?"
"A headhunter agency placed me."
"And before this, did you know him? Are you related in any way? Have you slept with him?"
"Jesus, Beca, will you stop offending Kommissar?" Stacie intervened.
"Nah, this is alright." Luke winked at Beca. "Art of War, Sun Tsu. I schooled her on this. Always be suspicious, dawg."
"I did not know him before," Kommissar said. "I merely impressed him during the interview, like I am doing with you now."
"It doesn't help when you come to them looking like a fucking vision." Beca shook her head at the stupid words inadvertently coming out of her mouth. "Ah, fuck."
"Danke."
"So, why me?" Beca asked warily. "You could have gone to, I dunno, Flume or Jamie XX with this offer. Maybe even Hot Chip. Hell, Robin Schulz is German."
"Because I go for – what's the American idiom? The big fish. Fleeting Pleasures is a shoo-in for album of the year."
"Ambitious."
"It works for me. I also read about your work with Emily Junk in her feature with Harper's Bazaar. She, among many others you've mentored, reports you are impressively patient and talented."
Beca tried to recall the aforementioned article. Luke compiled electronic and printed copies of Emily and Beca's magazine features; Beca occasionally thumbed through them with an equal mix of vanity and self-loathing. The Brit immediately came to her rescue. "Em said something along the lines of being so grateful you waited around for ages, letting her finish college and all, before starting work on her first album."
She quickly registered which feature they were talking about. It was Emily's first major-league magazine photo shoot. She had been in a red dress on the cover, girlish but sufficiently poised even though she was bouncing nervously between takes.
"How d'you remember all this stuff?" Luke only grinned, but it quickly turned into a scowl when Beca reached over to ruffle his hair.
"Sod it! I am a grown-ass chap –"
"The fact that you have done a capella is a factor as well," Kommissar continued. "That was how Das Sound Machines began. And we would have continued professionally had the Barden Bellas not soundly beaten us during our final year, with Emily Junk at the helm. Needless to say, I have tremendous respect for her. And you, by association."
"I'm a Barden Bella too," Stacie chimed in excitedly.
"Liebchen, I know." Kommissar's responding smirk for Stacie was so self-assured the other could only gawk back stupidly. Beca rolled her eyes.
"Good sell."
"I am in?"
"No. But only because I haven't seen if this proposal sounds just as good on paper." Beca made her first work-related mental note in months: hire a new NYC-based law firm. "And one more thing."
"That is?"
"Are you any good without Das Sound Machines backing you up? I need a demo tape."Beca finally cracked her first smile since she sat down at the table; Kommissar's face relaxed as well.
"Of course."
"Now that I think about it, we're testing out the new studio equipment before we officially open for business. If you can spare an hour after lunch, would you like to come back to the office and do a live audition instead?"
"Ja. I am free the entire afternoon."
"What just happened?" Stacie whispered to Luke bemusedly, as Beca and Kommissar finally started on their meals and fell into a spirited conversation on their common German acquaintances.
Luke's smile was pompous as he tucked into his oysters. "She's less likely to skive off work now, huh?"
Week 4, Beca-Is-Drug-Free-and-Goes-To-See-Chloe
"Beca?" Chloe answered the call, sounding mildly concerned. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah. Um, you're at work?"
"Yep, why?"
"I'm in town." Beca stamped her foot in a vain effort to keep herself warm; Philly somehow felt nippier than downtown Manhattan. She ducked into the nearest coffee shop before her parked car could get attention. "A few blocks away from Children's Hospital, actually."
"Really?" Chloe chirped, already excited. "This is a surprise! My shift ends in a couple of hours. What do you want to do?"
"Steak and a lot of alcohol."
"You're such a dude. There's a serviceable Irish bar nearby – Finnigan's. We always go there after work."
"They have steak?"
"Yes, it's pretty good. Andy gets it every time."
Andy was Chloe's boyfriend, a fellow intern at Children's Hospital. "Feel free to bring Andy."
"Nope. I want you all to myself."
"I know, but I don't want him to get jealous or anything."
"Darling, of course he's going to be jealous. You're the big B.M.," Chloe laughed. "Lucky for you, he's in surgery the entire evening. See you at Finnigan's in two hours?"
"I'll be there."
"Oh god, I haven't seen you in forever!" Chloe gushed, once they finished ordering at Finnigan's and the redhead had exhausted all of her hugs for Beca. "What brings you to Pennsylvania? Where's your entourage?"
"I don't go around with an entourage," Beca said indignantly.
"Kidding." Chloe kissed her on the cheek. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why are you here?"
"I had to get away from Luke and Stacie. We spend almost every waking hour together. I swear, if Luke was here he'd be complaining about how there's only six beers on tap."
Chloe, thankfully, left it at that. They fell into an easy conversation once their steaks arrived, and pretty soon they had mostly discussed their major milestones since the past year. Chloe's second year of internship was grueling, she and Andy had just passed the eighth-month mark, and her parents had retired to New Hampshire. Beca, meanwhile, explained that she had been on a four-month tour for Fleeting Pleasures, got signed as an Adidas ambassador, and was currently on a two-month vacation – or at least, up until she returned to New York to 'sort out some personal issues'.
"Are these 'personal issues' difficult to talk about without whiskey?"
Beca only nodded.
"Then I'll buy our first round."
That was one of Beca's favorite things about Chloe: no matter how much time had passed between them, she could always count on the compassionate redhead to be a wonderful friend.
"Seriously," Chloe asked, watching Beca down another shot of whiskey. "Why did you come visit me?"
Beca sighed. "I'm going back to work in a couple of days. I kinda need a cheerleader."
"Aww, Becs."
"No. Not 'aww'. I need tough love, Beale. Say 'I should think bigger', 'I'm being complacent', shit like that."
"But that's why you have Luke."
"I've had enough motivation from that douche. He lived with me for almost a month, just moved out last week."
"Really? Stacie said he was staying in LA." Chloe noticed her faltering. "Becs?"
"…I was fucking up." Beca's jaw tightened. "He had to step in."
She ended up telling Chloe everything, beginning from the disillusionment even before her two-month vacation. She left nothing out: the jet-setting from Barcelona to St. Tropez, snorting copious amounts of coke, fucking in and out of clubs, coming back to New York, the near-overdose on amphetamines, the confrontations with Stacie and Luke, the difficulty of getting back on track.
By the end of her rambling, Chloe was in tears.
"Oh, Beca. I'm sorry. I…I never knew."
"It's cool," Beca answered, her voice thick as she accepted Chloe's one-armed hug. "I was trying to hide it from everybody."
"I know. You've always been this very strong person, Becs." Chloe pressed her cheek against Beca's shoulder. "I also know this is utterly cheesy, but I'm here for you."
"I know."
They were silent for a few moments. Beca felt drained and relieved all at once; but she let Chloe comfort her, even letting the redhead run a hand through her hair.
"Beca?"
"Yeah?"
"If it happens again, would you let me know?"
"Of course. I wanted to tell you earlier, believe me. But honestly? Nothing occupied my mind for the first few weeks except getting a fix. I didn't want to eat, I didn't want to do shit, and I would have cut Luke just to get back my phone and call my dealer."
"I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you. How is it now?"
"Fine, I guess. This is the first time Luke and Stacie let me out unsupervised. They're probably worried I ran straight to my dealer, so will you vouch for me?"
"I will."
Past midnight, one of the bartenders approached them. "Hey. Any of you own a red Ferrari in the lot? There are paps by your car."
"Shit." Her new car – a less-ostentatious Audi A5 in sensible black – was just being delivered tomorrow, and so she carelessly brought the 2002 Enzo along. "I'll have someone pick it up tomorrow," she finally told the bartender decisively.
"You can't leave your car in the lot overnight. I mean, you could, but imagine the parking fees –"
"I'm sure I can manage." She turned to Chloe. "Sorry, Beale. We have to go."
The bartender blinked, finally recognizing her. "Shit, you're STOKR!"
"No, I'm from the Hill." Chloe laughed at Beca's acerbic response, but she gathered her things and stood. Beca left more cash for the bill and bartender, bundled her oversized olive coat tighter around herself, and led the way out.
The paparazzi were waiting by the exit. Beca quickly singled them out from the idlers – shifty-eyed men with bulked-up jackets, raising their heads with malicious anticipation every time someone stepped out. Hopefully they weren't able to I.D. her car. She walked past them as calmly as she could, her one arm looped with Chloe's. The key to evading paparazzi was to look like she belonged here instead. They couldn't see ordinary people; they could bump into Chloe five times in the street and never remember her.
It worked until they were at the curb. Then Beca raised a hand to call for a cab, and almost instantaneously, flashes started to go off behind them. Chloe's eyes widened when she realized what was happening.
"I forgot how famous you are."
Beca rolled her eyes, but all she got was a mischievous grin from the redhead. Chloe then whistled so shrilly it echoed down the bustling street; less than thirty seconds later, a taxi skidded to a stop beside them.
"How did you do that?!" Beca asked breathlessly as they jumped in.
Chloe only shrugged nonchalantly. "Where do you want to go?"
"Don't you have work tomorrow?"
"Off-duty." Chloe beamed. "I don't think you can take the train back to New York. Wanna go to another bar?"
Beca sighed. She'd be recognized too easily on the train. Besides, she'd have an easier time staying overnight in Philly – she could retrieve the car herself the next morning. "We could. Hold on though, I just need to check into, uh, Marriot."
"What?! No, you're staying with me."
"It's really nice of you to offer, but –"
"Come on. My house isn't four-star, but it has bidets. And overhead showers. And history!" Chloe winked, and only then did Beca realize that Chloe barely aged – she looked not a day older than twenty-two, when Beca left Barden. "It's a hundred and fifty years old. And I just vacuumed. Think of it as Airbnb with glorious margaritas."
"Wow. That sounds enticing, really, but don't you want to invite Andy over? I don't wanna cockblock you."
"Andy gets me six days a week. He'll live."
"Okay then." Chloe squealed, and Beca could only grin at her friend's excitement. "But promise you won't wake me up early. And I better see those margaritas."
"You buy the tequila. I don't think the swill at my house would pass your standards."
"You calling me snooty?"
"What do you drink at home?"
"...1800," Beca muttered grudgingly. "Fine, I'll get it."
"That's what I thought."
The Beale townhouse in the outskirts of Pennsylvania was really a hundred and fifty years old – a beautiful pre-war home, with an iconic walkup and inviting hardwood floors. Beca found herself admiring the warm, tasteful interiors. It was exactly the kind of house she pictured Chloe growing up in.
"Come to the kitchen," Chloe called, flicking light switches on as she walked. Beca followed, clutching a paper-wrapped bottle of Patron Reposado. Chloe showed no signs of slowing down at one in the morning: she measured triple sec and sliced limes with ease, telling story after story without missing a beat as she poured out cloudy white liquid in chilled glasses.
The margarita tasted delicious – fresh and tart. Beca was only able to tell Chloe on their fourth glass, when they had moved to the couch and exhausted their laughter over a wide range of topics.
"Aw, mister," Chloe slurred, her smile fond. "You're at it again."
Beca grinned back. "At what?"
"That thing you do! You and your casual compliments."
"What?! That's not my thing."
"It totally is! It's like the opposite of humble-bragging." Chloe set down her glass. "When are you going back to work again?"
"Two days."
"Do you feel like you're ready?"
"No. Not really." Beca let Chloe thread their fingers together, her other hand swirling the ice on her glass. "Business-wise, I can manage. But music-wise, I don't even know if I want to have a third album."
"Of course you do! Your music is incredible. It would be a shame not to."
"It's not like I want to stop, don't get me wrong. But my new material is just...uninspired."
"Maybe don't rush it? You just moved cross-country, get used to the swing of things first. Build new habits until they become so routine you can meditate while washing dishes."
"...go on."
"You get to de-clutter your mind the longer you get used to routine. Eventually you'd have idle time to think up something new. Think of it like this: I come up with the best ideas whenever I scrub in before surgery. Ever heard of 'don't rush art'?"
Beca snickered. "Which rom-com did you pull that shit from?"
"Toy Story?" Chloe grinned. "Hey, you also need a muse! I can totes be your muse."
"Aren't you supposed to be, like, banging your muse?"
"Oooh, are you hinting at something?"Chloe thrust her face dangerously close to Beca's.
"I wasn't –"
The rest of her words were cut off by Chloe's lips.
She tasted of lime and salt. Ultimately, it was what sobered Beca up.
"...Chloe."
"Mmm?"
Beca reluctantly extricated herself from the kiss, shifting backwards to create a decent gap between them. "We're drunk."
Chloe only watched her retreat.
"And you have a boyfriend."
"I know." Chloe leaned back on the couch, eyes still on Beca. Her smile was both reassuring and wistful. "But I was curious."
They did not speak of it until the next morning. Beca adamantly declined brunch, saying she had to drive back to New York to avoid the traffic; she was also desperate to put the kiss behind them.
"Don't be a stranger," Chloe chided as she saw Beca through the door.
"'Course not." Beca took a deep breath before initiating a rather-awkward hug with the redhead. But Chloe hugged her back, and then it was comfortable. "Come up to Manhattan sometime. Luke and Stace would love to fight over where to take you."
That earned a light chuckle from Chloe. A moment later, her blue eyes turned serious. "Beca, about last night."
Beca swallowed. "Yeah?"
"Can we please just...forget it happened?"
She sighed internally in relief – she could not bear to tell Chloe, for the second time, that their brief liplock meant nothing to her. "Okay."
"Thank you."
They smiled warmly at each other, and Chloe gave her hand one last squeeze.
Week 1, RHR Broadway
Chloe's advice on routine had been spot-on. The problem was, Beca couldn't live with this routine.
Her first day back to work had been mild enough. There was a brusque call from Keegan scolding her for not agreeing to a joint appearance with Paris Hilton. Beca spent most of the day painstakingly answering business emails (what's your rate, PALACE POOL CLUB TURNS 3, re: bass too low in track 2, the works), while Kommissar accumulated meetings and events for her in the next few months. She and Stacie even hit up Clandestino by nine, and Stacie huffily admitted that Luke was right about the lounge.
Tuesday, the real horror began. She had meetings for most of the day. Back in LA, she would have enjoyed driving across town with the hood popped open. But in New York, meetings were fucking miserable – most of them conference calls, with droning voices in her laptop detailing one problem after another for over an hour. On her way to the one non-virtual meeting, she almost collided with a rogue taxi in Fifth. And if she had known the meeting would run until 2 a.m., with a bunch of bohemian twats who only drank small-batch cocktails and 'made music from urban wilderness', she would have rather crashed the Audi.
Wednesday, back to the desk. Office cooler gossip reported management issues between the transfer employees from LA and the snooty new hires from New York. What did she have to do with this? Nonetheless, she ordered Kommissar to plan a casual label party on Friday – just the indie division, preferably at Black Flamingo in Williamsburg, with unlimited hors d'oeuvres and champagne. "Think Leo DiCaprio," she said of the theme, before running off to more meetings. Two artists, one producer, and one band; only one of them was promising enough, and she signed him for six months. Dinner with Stacie and Luke had to be moved up by 11 p.m. Asleep at home by 3:40, she got a frazzled call from the new sound engineers: they need an edit on the Christina Aguilera record. Shaking her head, Beca drove downtown. She did not leave the studio until Thursday at 10 p.m., after two grueling studio sessions with Christina and then Carly Rae Jepsen.
Friday, another call from Keegan, this time exuberant: her Vanity Fair cover, two months later, is still this year's highest-selling issue. Before lunch she had to berate the under-performing A&R coordinators at Keegan's behest. Then she had to sit in on auditions from one to six, which, as usual, stretched until nine. At this point, all Beca wanted to do was pack up and take some goddamned rest.
Unfortunately it was not to be. As soon as auditions were over Luke whisked her back to her apartment, where her stylist James Karr and MUA Marion Mizuhara awaited. She had completely forgotten about the label party. An hour later, made-up and resplendent in a mix of all-new Adidas, AMI and Burberry, she stepped into a company limo with Luke and Kommissar.
"All right?" Luke asked, surveying her. "You look knackered."
"American –"
"You look stressed."
"Haha, yeah, it's the stress."
Luke, who was used to his nine-to-nine daily slog, only shrugged. "Fancy a granola? Might sort you out."
"How 'bout TV and some scotch?" She yawned and turned to Kommissar. "Can't you just tell them I ate a bad oyster at dinner or something?" Kommissar shook her head. "Rats. I'll just sit in the bar with charcuterie while glaring at everybody."
"You dressed up like a million quid just for charcuterie? You're fucking daft," Luke scoffed. "Think of it this way. You may be making an appearance against your will, but no one's stopping you from having a grand time. Might as well shag."
Beca glanced thoughtfully at Kommissar, recalling the dark circles underneath the German's eyes when she brought Beca coffee this morning. Tonight Kommissar was dressed in a voluptuous black satin pantsuit, simple and yet more glamorous the longer she stared. Well, Beca thought, she's definitely shagging.
"Might as well shag," Beca seconded, stifling another yawn.
As soon as the shoulder-rubbing and fake-smiling part of the program was over, Beca set out for the dance floors of Black Flamingo, losing herself to scotch cocktails and techno music.
By midnight Luke and Kommissar had paired off on their own. Beca, meanwhile, was getting pretty hot and heavy on the dance floor with a blonde model. Just when she eagerly pressed herself against the girl's gyrating front, Stacie lithely positioned herself behind the girl, moving effortlessly like she wasn't interrupting anything.
Beca was drunk to the gills and didn't recognize her. "Hey, lady, do you mind? She's with me."
"Well, now she's not." Stacie smirked at her brash reaction. "You dummy. It's me."
"Stacie? What the hell?!"
"Have you seen the tabloids this morning? From the expression on your face, I guess you haven't. Bugsy's in ten?"
"Go away. I'm not interested in the Kardashians or whatever right now." Beca pulled the model closer, snaking a possessive hand over her ass.
"You'll be." Stacie, with one quick motion, flipped around the model so that they were now facing each other. "Hi, I can't leave without dancing with you. I'm Stacie Conrad. Sex columnist for Dazed and Confused."
"Oh my god," the girl gasped, too surprised to even be mad about being yanked away from Beca all of a sudden. "A sex columnist? For real?"
"You're right – sex columnist doesn't even begin to describe it. Try God." Stacie winked and shook the model's hand. "Would you like to sleep with me?"
"Stacie, not cool," Beca protested.
"Are you crazy?!" the model cried, looking Stacie up and down. "Fuck yes!"
Beca glared at Stacie, who only shrugged and nonchalantly wrote her number on the girl's palm. "Call me." With a last seductive smile, Stacie took Beca by the back of her collar and dragged her out.
"I can't believe you stole a girl from me. Again."
They were at the usual booth in Bugsy's. Beca knocked back bourbon to soothe her annoyance while Stacie sat opposite her, clearly amused.
"So far she hasn't called. Meaning I haven't stolen her yet."
"She was half-Hungarian!"
Stacie licked her lips. "Oy. What's her name?"
"Carlie."
"You couldn't have handled that anyway, bruh. She's as tall as your bedroom door. You'd have to skip the sixty-nine, your face would've been in her tits the whole time –"
"Pig. I don't know which is worse – your knack for stealing girls right under my nose, or your stupid pick-up line working on them, for fuck's sake." The first was at Provocateur in Meatpacking District two weeks ago.
"It works with the right amount of alcohol, like I told you a hundred times before."
"Can you please just fucking stick to men?"
"If you're that desperate to get laid, why don't you come to my house –"
"Shut up."
Stacie rolled her eyes affectionately. "Tough customer." She took out a bunch of tabloids from her handbag, flicking through before setting them on the table. "So why don't we talk about Alana Mason?"
Beca groaned and put her head in her hands upon seeing the headlines. "Oh, not again."
Alana Mason was, for a lack of a better description, Beca's crazy ex-girlfriend. They had met at a party three years ago in LA and Alana had been following her around since. Beca, who was starting to play bigger events at that time, was flattered by the attention coming from the gorgeous pop singer. Then followed a tumultuous four-month relationship that made Beca realize the two of them had nothing in common.
After she apologized and broke up with her, Alana started doing all sorts of revengeful shenanigans to get her attention. It didn't help that Alana recently won Viewers' Choice Award. The girl simply used the attention to land Beca on Page Six or Perez Hilton, even when Beca went and politely asked her to stop.
"Alana's New Single Written for STOKR," Stacie read, frowning. "My. Are you that good in bed?"
"Damn it. I'm sure this is about..." Beca skimmed the story and groaned again. "'You'll Never Have Anyone Better'. That is so dumb."
"Bad in bed, then." Stacie flipped through some of the other tabloids. "Alana Disses Producer Ex-GF! Alana Mason Channels Taylor Swift in Latest Single. Alana Calls STOKR 'A Sorry Loser'. Alana: STOKR Will Never Have Anyone Better. Wow, she's not at all angry with you, huh?" She flung the tabloids back to Beca with a grin. "I better sleep with her!"
Beca fought the urge to flip the table. "How the fuck did you get to that conclusion?"
"Have you not learned anything from me, my little va-genius? Angry chicks are the best at banging! Give me one night with Alana Mason and the next thing you know, her latest single would be 'I'll Never Have Anybody Better than Stacie' –"
"It would be 'Stacie Conrad is a Lecherous Dick'."
Stacie laughed. "That's doesn't even rhyme." Her phone rang. "You've reached Stacie Conrad," she greeted suavely, in the honeyed tone she often used with women. "Hey, girl. Of course. I'm flattered you picked me over that scrawny goth midget you were dancing with..."
Beca rolled her eyes. "Fuck off."
"Yeah, off I fuck," Stacie mouthed, blowing her a lewd kiss.
Beca buried her head further into her arms, tuning out another one of Stacie's mostly-absurd conversations with whoever she decided to sink her claws in. Their trio knew how shallow her ploys were, but they occasionally shared a good laugh at how often they seemed to work. Out in the bars, when Stacie turned on the seduction, sometimes she didn't even have to talk.
Beca's gaze fell to the offending tabloids. In her normal state she couldn't care less about the lives of wealthy stars. But it was 2 am, she was honestly tired, and she couldn't stop her own eyes from roaming the pages with exhausted detachment. Alana Badmouths STOKR – What Else Is New? Sandy Rivers on 3rd DUI. Workers' Suit Filed Against Hotel Magnate Bartholomew Bass. Nothing Left Unsaid: Gloria Vanderbilt and Anderson Cooper Documentary Premieres in SoHo Gallery. And then she saw it.
Accompanying the headline was a flash-ridden color photo of Gloria Vanderbilt and Anderson Cooper, holding glasses of champagne as they posed with several other impeccably-dressed socialites. Beca turned away in disinterest.
And then alarms started going off in her head. She quickly looked back. The woman on the rightmost –
She'd know those sharp hazel eyes and elegantly coiffed blonde curls anywhere.
"Aubrey," she breathed out.
Stacie heard. She dramatically tossed her phone away and stared at Beca, her gray eyes suddenly excited and knowing. "Aubrey? Did you say Aubrey?"
Aubrey. Still so fucking breathtaking even on cheap tabloid paper. In a gossamer white sheath dress and nude lipstick, she looked like a Greek goddess. The tall man beside her, obviously a moneybag, had his arm wrapped around her waist. Beca's heart was sinking as she read the caption. Fuck fuck fuck she can't be married god damn fuck –
L-R: Portia Hilfiger and fiancée William Leslie Winthrop, sisters Arabella and Madeleine Seymour, Gloria Vanderbilt, Anderson Cooper, Nicholas Branson-Clark and wife Athena Avery Clark, Laurence Avery Clark, Aubrey Danielle Posen.
"…Beca?"
But Beca was already rising purposefully from the booth. "I have to go," she said hoarsely, gathering her coat and leaving Stacie to look after her, bewildered.
Author's Note: Yes, I swear I will work on Sometimes I Wish For Falling now. Calm your tits. But expect my next update for this fanfic in, I dunno, three months.
Also, poll question: would you be interested in a chapter that's written from Aubrey's perspective?
