“Leave it to you to attract the only American guy in a German bar,” Fat Amy said, nudging Beca in the ribs until Beca slapped her away. “He wants your Taco Bell, my friend.”
“Gross,” Beca said, lip curling at the guy in Adidas flip-flops and honest-to-god frosted tips who’d been making wiggly-eyebrows at her from across the pub ever since the Bellas stepped inside. “My Taco Bell is closed for the night. And we’re barring the door if he gets any closer.”
“I’m outtie,” Stacie said, licking her lips as she made a beeline towards the tall guy slamming back another shot at the end of the bar. “Auf Wiedersehen, my loves!”
Emily patted Beca gently on the arm giving her an encouraging smile. “I said I’d call Benji before I went to bed. Good luck!”
Beca threw her arms in the air, almost knocking over her half-drunk beer boot. “What, you’re all leaving now? Right in my time of need?”
“You still have Chloe,” Emily supplied. “And Amy.”
“Nix that last one,” Amy said, letting out a belch that earned her a round of applause from the table of businessmen behind them. “I’ve got my Menschen here for perusal and I’m planning on taking my pick. Bumper gave me an international pass.”
“And I’m taking this one back to the hotel,” Cynthia Rose said, arm thrown around Chloe’s tiny, drunk bird body on the way out the door. “Want to walk home with us, Bex?”
Beca waved her off, staring forlornly at her beer and checking her silent phone for the umpteenth time that night. “No, I’ll be fine. I still have my rape whistle Aubrey gave us last year, the one shaped like the pitch pipe.”
It wasn’t like Beca was being stubborn…well, she was, and she knew it. But the whole point of their post-grad (plus Emily) trip to Germany was to broaden their horizons and be independent, to have new experiences and throw caution to the wind. And Beca wasn’t about to go moping back to her hotel room because of a creeper across the bar or the fact that her ex-boyfriend didn’t seem to miss her at all.
“Hey, sweetie pie, looking for some good company?”
Beca didn’t even have to look up to know who was there. Mr. Flip-Flop Spray Tan seemed to be drenched in a bucket of Axe body spray and just as much bong-water, and his fingers were nicotine-stained. “No, I’m actually just fine, thanks.”
“Aw, come on,” the dude said, stumbling a little so his beer sloshed onto the table, narrowly missing Beca’s phone. “Us Americans need to stick together!”
Right as Beca was about to get up and call the whole shit-show of a night off, a familiar, smooth voice came from her left, saying, “Actually, Herr Arschloch, when American girls come to Germany, they often want to meet Germans. Strange, but true.”
Beca squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before opening them to see the last person she’d expected, even when on her home turf. “This is not happening.”
The guy puffed his chest, which made him look like more of a weird squirrel than the tough guy he wanted to be. “Hey, honey, let the girl speak for herself.” He reached out to grab Beca’s bicep, but before his grimy hand could make contact, Kommissar swept a slim arm around Beca’s waist and tugged her close so their hips bumped—or, most like Kommissar’s hip bumped somewhere around Beca’s waist.
“I suggest you leave my Freundin and I alone before I start being rude,” Kommissar said, voice like honey but words like acid. She flicked a lazy hand at the guy, her long acrylic nails like tiny, individual flyswatters. “Goodbye.”
Beca barely noticed the dude leaving in a huff. She turned halfway, trying to meet Kommissar’s eyes, but only getting an eyeful of amazing breasts in a perfectly-fitted black tank top. “Out of all the gin joints,” Beca joked, wanting to slap herself for picking up Jesse’s movie humor.
Kommissar’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she shook her head, letting it go. “Oh, tiny maus, we meet again. And with me saving your pert little arse, no less.”
Damn right I have a pert little ass, Beca thought indignantly but swallowed her pride. “Are you here to, like, sabotage us? Because we’re literally just drinking and partying our way through your beautiful country. No harmonizing happening here.”
Kommissar rolled her eyes. “You forget, you’re in my country. Perhaps you are here to sabotage us?” She sat down across from Beca, and instead of leaving, Beca slowly sat back down as well. Kommissar crossed her legs in a fluid, catlike motion, her entire body encased in black and denim, a pair of sky-high pumps enclosing her feet. “Or perhaps my maus missed me a bit.”
“Shut up,” Beca said, feeling her face burn red. “How can you sound like you’re flirting even when you’re insulting me?”
“Because,” Kommissar said, taking Beca’s beer. “I am flirting with you. Simple as that.” She downed the beer in a smooth gulp, throat working in a way that made Beca’s mouth dry up. Kommissar slammed the glass down and wiped the foam off with her wrist, not even smudging her wine-colored lipstick. “Oh, come now. We meet again. It must be fate.”
“I don’t really believe in fate,” Beca said, eyes still on Kommissar’s gorgeous neck.
“Hm,” Kommissar hummed, tilting her head, looking at Beca like she was trying to figure her out and possibly succeeding. “Come back to my flat with me. Let’s drink wine and Ficken all night.” She paused, considering. “No, I believe you Americans say ‘make love.’”
Much to her own surprise, Beca laughed, the sound feeling good bubbling up in her throat. She leaned in, letting her hair fall around her face. “Actually, the word you’re looking for is fuck.”
Kommissar’s mouth quirked into a pleased smile, her pupils blown. “Well, I do know that word,” she said, and stood, tall and effortless even in her heels. She held out a hand. “Let’s be friends, shall we?”
“Let’s,” Beca said, hoping she sounded as debonair as Kommissar. She took her hand and gathered her purse.
“Now,” Kommissar said, hand immediately sliding into Beca’s back pocket, making Beca squeak like the world’s most embarrassing hamster. “Explain to be this ‘gin joint’ idiom.”
“Casablanca,” Beca said. “Come on, it’s a classic.”
“Perhaps we can watch it after we fuck,” Kommissar quipped, voice clean and crisp, turning heads as they walked out of the bar and into the dark Berlin streets.
“Yeah, B, get it,” Amy yelled as they left, entertaining her German businessmen, and all Beca could do was return her enthusiastic fist-pump and lean into Kommissar’s warmth.