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Last chapter: Bulma and Vegeta reunite after Cricket's death.

Vegeta removed her jacket, unzipping the matching bodice. Bulma's placid breaths reassured him as their kissing intensified. Vegeta's lips swept across her neck and collarbone, moving toward her breasts. His eyes rose, obtaining her permission. Bulma unlatched her bra, putting a nipple in his mouth. Tasting her after so many years alone straight went to Vegeta's head, yet his cautious mind demanded control. He had legitimate reasons for staying away while Bulma lived her life as she wanted, or so he believed.

For the moment, Bulma's fondness for hand jobs was unchanged. Vegeta stopped her tornado strike on his dick before their backseat romp went from romantic comedy to triple-X porn. Yet he could have kept his hands to himself from the start. Why, why, why did he get in the car?

"Oh no, no, no!" he implored. "We can't ruin my pants before I get home. I still have a kid, remember?"

Bulma's flawlessly aligned teeth clamped on his bottom lip like a frustrated badger. "You're shitting me, Vegeta. You just played tongue hockey with my tits and now I can't get a feel? We may have to ride around for another hour before your dick and my kitty cat lose interest in each other."

Vegeta wiped sweat from his brow, laughing. "That dirty mouth of yours could set wet grass on fire, governor."

Bulma shoved him. "Oh please. There are no angels back here, buddy."

"We're about five minutes away from Vegeta's home," Krillin said through the intercom. "Do y'all need more time to talk?"

Bulma slapped a stack of craft-store-fabric napkins over Vegeta's mouth. He didn't take kindly to being muzzled, but she remained the take-charge woman who stole his heart. "Yes, we do, Krillin. Just take the scenic route through that lovely park. We'll let you know."

"Yes, ma'am," Krillin said, feeling joyful. He didn't want to imagine what those two were doing back there but hoped someone hit a home run.

Vegeta held Bulma's hands, rubbing her thumbs. "We're done. I crossed boundaries in here that I shouldn't have."

Bulma held up his chin. "So did I, Vegeta. As I said, there are no angels here. At least we can really be friends again. We just got caught up in the moment together. When you're hurting, it just… happens sometimes."

"What are you hurting over?" Bulma's momentary melancholy troubled Vegeta. Who crossed that line to make her feel that way?

Bulma touched his leg, appreciating the wilderness. "It's been such a hard day for you. My problems take a back seat."

Vegeta kissed her temple to say goodbye. "Not for me, but I respect your privacy. Good luck with the campaign. I should call my daughter so she won't worry."

Bulma resumed her beauty regimen as Vegeta jump-started his phone. He really needed a new one, she thought. "Go on. I'm thinking creatively about pissing off my chief of staff."

"Ambrose wanders into the store every so often. One of my workers says it's like watching a confused ant."

Bulma laughed. "He's not handy with tools. His daughter Tammi is, though. I have an idea. You and Bulla should have dinner with me at the mansion and stay the night, kind of like a mini-vacation. You two can stay the connected bedrooms on the floor below the governor's suites. Tarble and Gure are welcome too. I'll have Ambrose and Tammi join us to keep his yelping at bay."

"Hold on now, Martha Stewart." Vegeta's index finger shot up to object. "You're getting ahead of yourself. Gure Yardley Rutledge can stay right where she is - at her parents' farm. She converted it to a vacation property for a reason, and it's full of guests this week. She'll get her dose of luxury and bargain-store social status there."

Bulma didn't pay him any mind. "I'm aware that being around Gure is like eating moldy fruit, but I'm still the esteemed politician. Though the mansion isn't the White House, she'll have a gossip-starter because it's the governor's personal invitation, and she missed attending my inauguration with Beau."

Vegeta hoped a crate of antacids wouldn't be necessary by the end. At least Bulla would have a non-adult to make friends with.

"Hey, it's dad. I'm all right, princess. Yes, I'm still with the governor. She's invited us to dinner and stay overnight at the mansion. You OK with that? Yes, Bulma can be very generous. It might be good to take a break after what we went through with mama. Good, good. Gather your things. We'll be there soon to get you. Yeah, I know you love me, brat."

Bulma peered over her mirror. "And what about your belongings? Also, let's hope no boy gives Bulla any trouble, because I can't bail you out of jail for murder."

Vegeta's thick eyebrows furrowed. "I always have a bag packed for emergencies. Now quiet down. I must brace myself before speaking with Medusa of the Ozarks and my brother. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Later, as the governor bustled about the mansion's main floors before dinner, Krillin further settled into his role as spectator. Vegeta and Bulma left the car with that "we'll just be friends" vibe. Ostensibly, Bulma had convinced herself that having more people around, including the teenagers, would preserve this noble intention. Shortly before the other guests arrived, Krillin prepared a few plates of food for himself and left the scene. Though they were a loyal bunch, sharing little information with outsiders, the mansion's workers gossiped freely among themselves. Krillin would stop by the kitchen in the morning for his daily briefing.

Remarkably, everyone found dinner and conversation pleasurable – even Gure. Bulma graciously credited the caterers for their spectacular dishes. Everyone had wine and after-dinner drinks except Vegeta and the girls. Ambrose, a gifted storyteller and hobbyist political historian, captivated the table with the tale of a state representative who, in 1907, broke out with smallpox on the Capitol floor. The man's fellow legislators scattered like mice, abandoning him.

"There's a morality lesson in there somewhere," Bulma told Ambrose. "What's your take?"

"I'm a political animal, governor," an increasingly bleary-eyed Ambrose said. "Not a good question to ask me, especially after a few drinks."

Ambrose was nursing his fourth old-fashioned, made with his favorite Tennessee whiskey. Tammi picked at her clothing, feeling awkward about her father's behavior. Vegeta whistled twice – faintly – to catch Bulla's attention. The girl's intuition was on par with her dad's. She invited Tammi to return inside, while Vegeta wandered to the dimmer end of the mansion's veranda.

No one questioned Ambrose's ardent loyalty to Bulma, but Vegeta had reservations about the man's probity. Loyalty doesn't mean a damn if a lack of decency endangers those close to you. After her turtle-lipped farewell, Gure announced her plan to return to the Yardley resort instead of staying overnight.

"Go on," Tarble said peacefully. "Be ready at midday for mama's wake, darlin."

"I know when to be ready," Gure said imperiously. "Make sure you're dressed properly when you pick me up." She held out her hand. "Ambrose, so lovely to get acquainted again. I promise to send Kentucky Derby tickets and a bottle of the state's finest whiskey after I return to Lexington."

Ambrose's huge palms closed over hers. "A pleasure. Thank you, madam."

Earlier, a fatigued Bulma found a reason to disappear for a stretch until her guests tired out. Gure nevertheless hunted the governor down like a German Shepherd in the twenty-five-room manse. Bulma's dainty feet rested on a circular pouffe ottoman as she penciled thoughts about the campaign. She expected at least one person to locate her before retiring for the night, preferring Vegeta or Ambrose for a quick chat. Luck could be fickle, though, and Gure's semi-pleasant smile didn't match her prying, acidic eyes.

"Always the busy bumblebee," she said, pouring a glass of gin. Asking for permission didn't cross her entitled mind. "Isn't that what Vegeta nicknamed you when we were young and full of piss and vinegar?"

Bulma closed her notebook, politely inviting her to take a seat. "He did. They're wholesome creatures that mind their own business. Can't say I fit that description to a T, but it was sweet. Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"

"I sure enough did!" Reeking of cigarettes, Gure coughed through her raspy, rattling laughter. "Ambrose is charming - and having the governor's invitation before your next barn-storming campaign will be a great discussion at the country club I joined. Those Kentucky ladies are glued to political intrigues."

"Can't say you got much intrigue," Bulma replied, sipping mint tea. "I prefer keeping my chief of staff busy to reduce his incessant text messaging."

Gure twirled the ice in her glass. "I'm surprised it took you this long to reunite with Vegeta. My goodness! You've had more contact with my dear brother Beau since jumping into the political boxing ring - and you rejected him for a proper marriage."

Ah yes, the sourpuss finally cuts loose, Bulma thought. Quiet little Tarble would be dragging his lanky, leather-skinned wife out by now if he saw this. No wonder Gure wanted to leave separately.

"I fulfilled a promise to Cricket, Gure. She expected Vegeta to take her death hard, which he is."

"So is my husband," Gure said condescendingly. "I did everything I could to pay for the best help. I…I did." She paused, showing some sadness. "Cricket and I made our peace. I donated to the church too."

"That's wonderful to hear." Bulma rose, heading to the door – usually an effective method to make someone leave. "My father would be pleased. Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish my notes."

"Of course, dear. Thanks for letting me try that delightful gin. Is that a British brand?"

"Indeed it is," Bulma said. "A college friend from London sent it recently."

Gure's arm blocked the door. "Hon, just allow me to offer a piece of advice before I go."

Bulma sighed. "No offense, hon, but I get a lot of advice - and don't listen to it all."

Gure, undeterred, pressed on. "Bulma, I know for a fact that Vegeta broke up with you – and stayed away all those years- because he believed he would drag you down. I rarely compliment him, but in that case he used good judgment and acted selflessly. As a woman, if you truly value your career, I wouldn't let sentiment over the past lead you into a quagmire. Vegeta is a bright person – probably the most out of all of us - but isn't the right man for someone like you."

"Someone like me?" Bulma almost snatched Gure's blonde bouffant wig off. "And just what the hell are you implying? You hated it when Beau and I were together. Now you just sat in my home, ate my food, had a great time, and then purposely found me to spit in my face – on the same day your mother-in-law dies?! What is your problem, woman?!"

Gure's feet stamped like a sadistic child killing grasshoppers. "You're not listening, Bulma Jean! We may not see eye-to-eye on a lot, but I…I was wrong about Beau. He still loves you! He is your match, and you're too damned wrapped up in bullshit to accept what the good lord is giving you! Don't live in the past! Cricket - may she rest in peace - didn't do you or Vegeta any favors by reuniting you when he's most vulnerable."

Bulma yanked Gure back into the room like a livestock bag, carefully closing the door. Then she threw her against the wall, pinning the stunned woman as plaster sprinkled on their heads.

Fury had come calling for a deserving victim.

Bulma Jean Brief didn't like anyone swinging her middle name around like a disciplinarian's baseball bat.

"Gure Yardley Rutledge, two-thirds of this state has suffered three lifetimes of your god-awful sanctimony! How dare you fix your mouth to say a goddamn thing about Vegeta's vulnerability? Tell me why you married his brother, then, if their bloodline is so beneath us?"

At first the woman kept her defiant glare, but Bulma's icy blue eyes won. Gure looked away. "Let go of me this instant."

The answer dawned on Bulma as her grip loosened. "You had feelings for Vegeta, didn't you? Don't you lie to me either. I too have vicious social connections – and they like me."

Gure staggered to the serving table for more gin. Bulma blocked her, cautiously taking the bottle and highball glass before the frustrated and now-embarrassed woman could.

"Tarble lets me be who I am. I love him. He's stood by me in ways that my own twin brother hasn't."

Bulma had scant sympathy for this stray hound-dog act. "Does Tarble know you had the hots for Vegeta? Wait, let me correct myself, or that you have – present tense - a twisted love-hate for him?"

"Tarble didn't care then, and doesn't now," Gure replied, sifting through her memories. "I told you that I love my husband. That's the truth. I don't love Vegeta. I tried being nice when we were kids, but he... always despised me. You remember how those other kids were unkind until they realized he wouldn't take shit from anyone?"

"How could I forget?" Bulma said.

"Then folks found out how smart he was," Gure continued. "Why do you think my father leapt at the chance to put him through college? Because he could take credit for the success! Daddy wasn't even half as excited about my education."

Bulma grumpily stuffed a heap of tissues into the crying woman's hands. "So much fire in you that could be used for good, and yet you continue to squander that energy with bitterness and self-pity."

Gure wiped her eyes. "Judge me all you want, Bulma, but everyone just loved the cherubic, overachieving middle-class preacher's daughter. Did Rev. Brief - god rest his soul - know about your not-so-sweet side?"

Bulma didn't owe another word to Gure, but her compassion summoned a more patient response.

"Of course my father knew. We battled exhaustively - starting in middle school - about the power I had to influence others, for good or ill. I became a public servant because of daddy. He also had Vegeta to thank for keeping me grounded. I didn't become a mean girl like you. Now go lick those old, infected wounds at your own home. As you implied, Tarble needs someone to focus on his pain exclusively."

Gure dug in her purse, finding a wrinkled cigarette. She jumped back after opening the door, startled by her brother-in-law. Vegeta's detached, unforgiving stare worried Bulma. His forehead creased.

"I thought you were leaving," he said tersely.

"I just…just came to compliment the governor's hospitality," Gure stammered. "I'm feeling a bit poorly, though, so I'm still leaving for the farm. Good night."

She tripped over the oak door's bottom frame, tumbling into Vegeta's arms. After noticing the gin bottle and glasses, anger filled his eyes, directed at Bulma.

Bulma looked behind her, realizing why. "Vegeta-"

"Save it, Bulma," he said abruptly. "I'll walk her outside. Gure, you best stay silent until arriving at the farm. My brother will rest here tonight without interruption. No demanding texts or calls. It's either that, or the four of us can discuss your little detour up here."

Gure nodded submissively, shoving the cigarette between her crumpled lips. "Yes."

Bulma sat down, palms covering her face. They all had history together. It wasn't perfect, but she wanted to honor Cricket and help everyone feel some tranquility. Vegeta returned after about fifteen minutes, leaning on the door. His spicy cologne entered first.

"Don't you dare say I told you so, Rutledge. Just keep it to yourself."

"I don't have to, bumblebee. You've always been hard-headed. Your good deeds will be rewarded in heaven."

"Heaven?" Bulma slumped forward, arms folding across her knees. "That felt like a scene in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I didn't think one glass of gin would crack open Gure's Hoover Dam of bile and self-pity."

"You weren't paying attention, Bulma. Children of addicts do. I shouldn't have allowed Gure to get that far down in the bottle – with Ambrose – after dinner. That won't happen again."

"You aren't her warden, Vegeta. She's an adult."

Vegeta's brows drew together. "And she's married to my brother! They're not co-dependent yet, but that could change. I realized that tonight. Tarble doesn't deserve to spend the rest his life wearing himself out like Cricket almost did with my father."

"If you think Gure is on the edge, then she needs treatment. Alcoholism an illness, and for better or worse, they love each other. She reaffirmed that tonight with me, and I believe her."

Bulma decided to keep Gure's admission about Vegeta secret. He would be infuriated, believing that Gure chose Tarble because she couldn't have him, and hurt that Tarble accepted less than he deserved.

"And I am well-acquainted with addiction illnesses," Vegeta countered. "Suggesting that my father stay in treatment usually agitated him, but he wasn't mean. I can't see Gure entering therapy without a battle, and I don't have the strength to wage that war, Bulma. I can only be there to support my brother."

"I'm not lecturing you, hon. Just let me reach out to Beau. He should know."

Vegeta moved beside Bulma, nudging her to sit upright. "What makes you think that he doesn't know? Maybe he distanced himself from her toxicity long ago. I remember seeing Baby Jane with you at the Saturday matinee. Perhaps Beau doesn't want to end up like Joan Crawford's character, waking up a paraplegic after a mysterious accident, wondering if his sister caused it."

Bulma popped the back of Vegeta's head as the room's brass-pendulum clock chimed. "Don't make me laugh like this at her troubles."

"You're laughing because there's a grain of truth in what I said. Anyway, I'm worn out. Get some sleep, governor, and thank you for tonight. Your heart… is in the right place, Bulma. The voters knew."

Bulma felt teary. She didn't need his validation, but receiving it meant so much. Vegeta's dog-hearing picked up on Bulma's sniffling not long after he left the room. After a rapid argument with himself, he returned, walking backward.

"Are you crying back there? Put your game face on before I turn around."

Bulma swatted at him, laughing. "Mind your own business. Go on now, Vegeta. Shoo! You need sleep."

"Looks like you need rest too, bumblebee." He held his hand out, helping her up from the sofa. "Come on - and put those fancified slippers on properly. I can't stand hearing them drag on the floor."

"Just don't trip over that door frame," Bulma said. "The state can't afford a frivolous lawsuit."

The last of Vegeta's self-discipline drowned in her sparkling, intrepid eyes. He believed Bulma's bravery outmatched his. Her achievements were testaments. Bulma, however, believed similarly about him.

He locked the door, taking off his shirt and belt, holding her against his abdomen. Bulma's hands pressed on his rugged shoulders as they kissed. They were sixteen again, eager to explore each other's bodies - uninterrupted. Vegeta tenderly kissed her hand like a fairy-tale prince. Bulma's willing hips rolled, stoking his desire. They still burned for each other. Grappling with the seriousness of that truth would come later. The campaign would come later. Mourning would come later.

"Those biceps still have enough fiber to carry me?"

"I'm not that ancient," Vegeta said, kissing her chin. "Carry you where?"

"Next to that oil painting."

Vegeta obeyed, awash in memories as Bulma's legs swung happily in his arms. "I guess it's too late for skinny dipping."

Bulma grabbed a large braided rope tied neatly on a brass hook. Wooden panels separated, revealing a tastefully decorated bed, which lowered to the floor electronically. Vegeta didn't find this strange, though others who didn't understand Bulma's ways would have. He lifted the blue-grey cotton duvet, laying her on the sheets.

"Who installed this for you?" he asked cheekily, removing his pants. "The gears should be checked. How well are the walls insulated? This mansion is one-hundred fifty years old."

"Damn it, man, we're not at your store!"

Vegeta unbuttoned her shirt, massaging her breasts until the nipples widened. "So what? I could have done a better job."

"Oh shut up." Bulma's arms enswathed his neck, drawing his mouth into hers. Vegeta was absorbed with unzipping her pants. "You're a chemist who loves plants."

"Thanks for wearing more-accessible clothing tonight," he teased. "Women's pantsuits are underrated."

Blood rushed to Bulma's skin before she could reply. Her head fell aside with a rapturous gasp as Vegeta entered her body, unleashing years of their unfulfilled passion. Bulma recalled the orange sunset shining behind him when they broke up. She cried for three hours on the steering wheel of her father's 1972 Chevrolet Impala until Rev. Brief found her in the garage. Unlike some parents, he didn't dismiss his eighteen-year-old daughter's loss. Vegeta was special, and it deeply saddened the widowed preacher to see such a promising young man ultimately believe he had nothing to offer.

Bulma pounded on Vegeta's back, crying out in ecstasy as his force blew fire through her core. She didn't feel the tears - her tears – as their lovemaking reached a peak. Vegeta seemed to be speaking another language, responding to her moans. A stiff thrust jolted Bulma into an open-mouthed, back-bending summit. Vegeta joined the chorus as he climaxed, calling out her name, calling and calling and calling for her.

So much lost time.

Vegeta lifted Bulma up. "It's all right," he said, holding her like fine crystal. "I...know how you feel."

Bulma's head hung low as more tears flowed. "You didn't have to leave like that. Not even talk with me anymore. We were best friends, Vegeta. We could've stayed friends. Broke my heart. That's what it did."

"I'm sorry I hurt you, bumblebee. At the time I thought I had to leave. Look at where you are now. I had to figure things out. I saw how proud your father was at our high school graduation."

"And Cricket damn near danced an Irish jig when the principal handed over your diploma. They both believed in us."

Bulma brought Vegeta's head to her chest, kissing the crown. His modest sincerity touched her. Their yearning for each other wouldn't be satiated in one night.