For my dedicated readers: Thank you so much for your support and enthusiasm. It means a lot. I will finish some other stories eventually. It's just how my brain works, and I love testing the waters. I also welcome any PM's or Tumblr messages.
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Be careful what you ask for. It can get you tied in knots.
Los Angeles, California: 8:35 p.m., June 1, Thursday
"Client Book"
Bulma walked around the spacious clothing showroom snapping her fingers. Each rhythmic, delicate "pop" of her thumb and forefinger had become a metronome for timing the sales team's efforts to tidy and rearrange the shoe and garment displays. They had twenty-five minutes left before closing, thankfully, and the area was almost spotless. Customers had come and gone, and everyone was exhausted from a long week of "special discount" promotions in the men's and women's departments. The showroom made a lot of money on this day, and while she was pleased with everyone's efforts, the overall results were dissatisfying. In fact, she believed having too many promotions without a vision for what they were selling weakened the store's exclusivity and credibility. The company that owned the department store where she worked was having an identity crisis, hurting its profits, but Bulma didn't manage the decisions from the top and had no desire to. Never again. She was a buyer, a designer, and a coach. She tried to instill in the staff that no matter what they sold, they were managing more than merchandise. Their job was to excite customers. Identity, longevity, artistry, and loyalty mattered.
8:45 p.m.
"Crystal, has that customer been helped over there in menswear?" Squinting, Bulma placed her clipboard on the purchasing counter. "We haven't much time left."
"Ms. Brief, I politely tried for more than an hour, until he said point blank to leave him alone – and not very nicely. I'm not sure he's in the right place anyway. I mean, look at him. He appears rather… scruffy."
Annoyed by the young woman's dismissal, Bulma clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Oh, hells bells, girl! Now you're making excuses. You're six-feet-tall with your heels off. Don't tell me that guy hurt your sensitive feelings. This business is not for whiners, and looks can be deceiving."
Flipping her frosted blonde locks, Crystal continued straightening scarves on a rack nearby. "That's unfair," she sniffed. "I sold more than anyone else on the floor today. Give me some credit. I learned all of my best tricks from you, too, so perhaps you should consider my failure to win his business to be yours as well."
"Oh, dear." Bulma slowly removed her glasses – a genteel warning sign of irritation. "I may have heard you incorrectly. Did you just mock the generous advice offered from my lifetime of experience? You must not have high hopes for your career – or any career."
Realizing her blunder, Crystal straightened her posture as if she were addressing a military general. "Oh, Ms. Brief. I'm so, so sorry! I got ahead of myself. I really appreciate what you've taught me."
"As you should, sugar, if you ever want to work at a major fashion house by your twentieth birthday," Bulma replied, patting the woman's hand soothingly. "You know I adore you. Now finish up and tell the others to leave. I'm satisfied with clean up. You, though, will stay for however long it takes while I help our loitering guest."
"Yes, ma'am."
8:55 p.m.
Bulma's sunny grin dissolved into a taut, reserved smile as she turned around. Her expression was welcoming yet communicated seriousness, just like her classic attire: pearl earrings, tailored white shirt, stiletto heels, black pencil skirt, and a stainless-steel Tiffany watch. The man was standing several inches back from one of the shoe displays, with his eyes trained on a particular pair. Bulma walked next to him, raising her chin as a polite greeting. He said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed on the shoes.
She softly cleared her throat. "Sir, that shoe is made by…"
"Givenchy – I know – but thanks for trying," he replied brusquely. "It certainly took you long enough to serve me. Do you typically ignore customers at this hour to make them leave? Is everyone that desperate to get to the wine bars around here?"
Bulma's jaw stiffened. What did I do to deserve this pint-sized son of a bitch tonight?
She was battle-hardened after many years dressing and designing for spoiled, clueless, and occasionally narcissistic rich people, but this smoky-voiced man appeared to be the inverse: a "serial looker" with little money to spend and no intention of buying anything. Bulma prided herself on treating all guests with dignity, but he wasn't was worth more valuable time - not with his bad attitude. She had to redirect their discussion.
"Sir, from my understanding, my associate tried to help you earlier. I am sorry that didn't work out favorably. It seems like you're ready now, though, so I will be happy to…"
"Save it," he said, glancing at his watch with annoyance. "I don't plan on buying anything now."
Bulma's eyes locked onto the $50,000 Audemars Piguet timepiece wrapped around his impeccably tanned wrist. "Scruffy" was wealthy – perhaps extraordinarily wealthy.
Indeed, looks could be deceiving.
9:10 p.m.
He's wearing that gorgeous watch, but he looks like he just left a building construction site. Are those tar stains on his shirt and jeans? Wait - is that crap on his neck too?! Who the hell is this guy?
In her younger days, Bulma had dated men from humble backgrounds who later became moderately wealthy after starting their own businesses. They were cautious with the finances, and one rarely saw them be so careless with expensive items. Her guest definitely came from "old money," and he was spoiled – and now he was hers to manage, whether she liked it or not.
He walked forward to face her. "So, Ms. Brief, have your unspoken questions about my ability to purchase anything in the store been answered adequately?"
"Actually, that fancy Swiss watch proves nothing," Bulma said. She paused, staring icily into his eyes. "You could be a jewelry thief for all I know – or a trashy drug dealer. We have plenty of them in Los Angeles. Now if you will excuse me, the store has officially closed. Good evening, sir."
Amused, the man leaned back and removed his jacket. Bulma sensed his hard observation of her backside as she returned to the payment station. She wanted to slap the taste out his mouth.
"Madame, I will pay your sales associate $2,000 to stay here while you advise me on a new wardrobe," he shouted. "Does that sound fair to you, Crystal - that's your name, right? You see, I'm traveling to Switzerland later this month on business. Everyone who matters seems to believe Ms. Brief is one of the best personal stylists in North America. If I'm impressed tonight, you'll have my business permanently."
Tilting her head sideways, Bulma stopped abruptly and exhaled. Alarmed, Crystal crouched behind the counter like a frightened deer. Her mentor didn't anger easily, but the woman knew Bulma never tolerated anyone going over her head. No one client would ever have that much power over her.
Bulma turned on one heel, placing her hands on her hips. "How dare you," she said through clenched teeth. "You have no right to solicit this employee to do your bidding on my behalf! And everyone who matters is right. I am the best, and my client book is full, so I don't need your business. This store will do fine without it, too. Now leave. You won't be asked again."
"Hn. I am sure you will be fine, Ms. Brief - but the last time I checked, these stores are losing market share, which you already know. Sales are down. Olivier, the chief executive officer, is my old mate from Oxford. He will be disappointed to hear how poorly you have treated me."
Bulma looked curiously at him. "Oxford?"
"Yes."
"That means you're…"
"In the flesh, madame."
The two women looked at each other, blinking simultaneously. "I'll be damned," Bulma replied with restrained astonishment. "Don't you have other late-night toys to play with, Prince Vegeta?"
9:30 p.m.
"I have never been the most patient man."
Bulma stepped on the floor switch, shutting off the lights above him. "And I am not your psychotherapist. Your personality defects are not my concern, and it appears you have several to work on. Let's go, Crystal."
"Why are you wasting precious time prancing around in floor sales like a low-class intern? This is clearly beneath your level," Vegeta said, looking up at the ceiling. "Tell me something, woman. Did you just end a stressful romantic relationship?"
"Oh, isn't that cute." Laughing, Bulma stomped on another switch, extinguishing floor lights on his left and right. "Listen to him carefully, Crystal. This miniature emperor-in-training is teaching how sexism - with a healthy dose of being a pompous ass - can ruin potentially valuable business partnerships."
"Yes, ma'am," Crystal said dutifully.
By this time Vegeta stood in front of them holding a bulging money clip. "It is a shame that your pride prevents this lady from receiving extra pay tonight, especially after I snapped at her."
"Rubbish," Bulma retorted. She tied a scarf around her head and turned toward the stairs. "Then give her the money anyway to apologize. Oh yes. See that night guard over there? He will escort you out - for your protection, of course. I'm sure your entourage is waiting. Please tell my cousin Olivier hello for me, too."
"Of course," the prince replied, throwing his jacket over his shoulder.
Santa Monica, California: 7:30 a.m., June 3, Saturday
"Weekend Getaway and Not Giving a Damn"
Bulma felt like she was talking to herself. Frustrated, she banged the phone receiver on the kitchen counter. Earlier that morning, her older sister Tights read on a gossip website that the prince was spotted leaving the store. The writers speculated that he met with Bulma for business or, perhaps, a romantic tryst, giving her sister a reason to be nosy.
"Look, big sis, I've worked here almost two years and enjoyed it," Bulma said as she grabbed a glass of orange juice. "Some of my best clients have even visited, and it's good for the younger employees to see what they could achieve. I started working in sales when I was 16 before starting design school."
"I remember your halcyon days," Tights said, snickering noisily. "I just don't understand why you moved out there. It's time to come back. New York City is full of neurotic divorced people. It's one big extended family. Everybody takes medicine for anxiety attacks after their fortieth birthdays, too. Join us!"
Bulma laughed out loud. Her sister had a way with words, even when she was overbearing. They were close, although Bulma didn't share everything.
"Sugar, I wouldn't be successful now had I not learned from the ground up. I'm not 'slumming' by working modestly in this store. I'm giving back to others, and Olivier hasn't bothered me because he doesn't want to hear my thoughts about the company's direction. Beyond that, I don't care what people think of me, and I'm surprised you brought this up since you knew what my response would be. And I certainly don't give a shit about that stupid website's interest in the little prince and me. "
"Tell me more about him," Tights said.
Bulma approached the bay window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. "There's nothing to tell. He's a dick. It's too bad. I have to admit, he is good looking. Women probably throw their panties at him regularly."
Tights was glad Bulma couldn't see her grin. "Interesting."
New York City: 8 p.m., August 16, Thursday
"Aphrodite on Mount Olympus"
Pouting dramatically, Bulma dropped her magazine to take pills neatly stacked on her lap. Her mouth puckered from their terrible taste.
"Damn it, Zeus Brickey! I can't be on bed rest for two weeks. We have a month left before fashion week and I just started designing the first lady's dress for the November dinner at the White House."
Zeus, a soft-hearted photojournalist, was one of Bulma's oldest friends and her toughest critic. Standing at six feet five inches tall, with blazing red hair, most people didn't mess with him though.
"And you're griping at me because?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Bulma, please. You came here sick as a dog and passed out at the airport, scaring the hell out of everyone - and every nosy writer in town is stalking your friends for details. Now, out of the kindness of my heart, you're recovering from a nasty lung infection in my gorgeous home studio. You will lie in that bed if I have to chain you to it."
Bulma shook her fist at him. "You aren't the boss of me!"
"La, la, la!" Zeus put his fingers in his ears. "I can't hear you!"
"I'm… I'm… getting up." Shaking her head slowly, Bulma reclined on the pillows and coughed. "I have to get up."
Zeus sat at the foot of the bed. He hesitated at first to say more but couldn't help himself. "See what I mean? Honey, you're 42 years old. Just rest. You're way too young to become a beautiful corpse. I hoped we could at least make it past the century mark together."
Bulma covered her face with both hands. "Zeus, there's no way I want to live that long - unless I'm having sex with a cute and lusty 100-year-old man. You will probably have two. Just bring more of this tea you keep raving about."
"Sure," he said, looking down at his phone. "Oh, the video camera is paging me. Let me answer this."
Within fifteen minutes he returned with a vase of orange tiger lilies.
"Wake up, sweetie."
Bulma's eyes brightened as she observed the bouquet. "Did you get those for me? They're absolutely lovely."
"They are gorgeous, but I can't take credit," Zeus replied. "Here's the envelope. See the parchment paper and wax seal? Very classy. I wonder how anyone discovered you were here."
Still feeling sleepy, Bulma waved her hand. "You open it for me."
"Oh my." He rubbed his beard. "It says, 'Whatever has the nature of arising has the nature of ceasing. Best wishes on your recovery, madame.'"
Sighing, Bulma pushed herself up. "Does it have a signature?"
"Yes, but I don't recognize the language," Zeus said, placing the envelope on the bed. "I'm fascinated."
"I'm sure you are," Bulma said sarcastically. "I, however, am not fond of mysteries."
Zeus squeezed her hand. "Bullshit. You prefer being the mystery, because you're a control freak. But I know enough about your, um, special tastes. Someone is curious about you. Maybe it's time to pull out the leather for a lesson. It's been a while, yes?"
Turning on her side, Bulma pulled the bed sheets over her shoulder. "The almighty Saiyan prince sent those flowers, so you can stop being charmed. I told you he just wants me to work for him. I'm the designer's equivalent of vintage Mercedes-Benz that he wants to show off. If he hadn't acted like such an ass in front of Crystal, we probably could have worked out a deal."
"Seriously?" Zeus stood and examined himself in the floor mirror. "Hmm. I wonder what it would be like to shag a prince. Perhaps he's adventurous?"
Bulma pulled the covers over her head. "Go away, Zeus."
A hulk of a man stood briefly on the sidewalk, looking up, until the lights dimmed in the studio. He then walked around the corner, approaching a black Cadillac limousine with tinted windows. Before entering the car, he opened his jacket to check his gun holster.
"How did everything go, Nappa?"
"Just fine, Prince Vegeta, although I just can't understand how people can be so trusting in this country, even in New York City. I would be suspicious of anyone delivering flowers at this time of evening. Ms. Brief's friend could've been shot point-blank... had I wanted to."
"Maybe so," Vegeta said, pouring a small glass of Russian vodka, "but there are such things as hidden metal detectors."
Stroking his large bald head, Nappa looked out the car window. "Which reminds me, sir. I know you want to come and go as you please, but your safety…"
"That's enough!" the prince barked. He shoved a glass into the man's hand. "This is the only alcohol you get tonight. Take advantage of my reasonable mood unless you want to be dumped on the street."
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