Prior Chapter: Bulma and Vegeta vacation together, yet Vegeta senses a problem. Later, Bulma and Ambrose argue about her relationship with Vegeta and the fate of her political career, especially versus her ambitious lieutenant governor, Josh Marley.

Nancy, thank you for the comments! I'm glad you're enjoying the characters. :)

"So, the word around these parts is the governor and her lumberjack savant boyfriend seem to be a real thing. How nauseatingly cute."

"I wouldn't go that route, Josh."

"Go where?"

"Attacking close relations is off-limits."

"Since when, dad? This is politics. They're not married yet anyway. Bulma and I clash on her policies – within reason - but I'm still second-in-charge. That's what voters wanted, checks and balances. I have official duties as lieutenant governor that she must support regardless."

"Doesn't matter - and doesn't this man have a child? What's his name again?

"Vegeta Rutledge, and yes. A teenager."

"That's a landmine. You have significant pre-campaign donors, Josh, but don't give me reasons to shut off their cash faucets - mine included."

"Yeah, but trust me on this. A ton of small cash donations will come in from the disgruntled masses. Ambrose's taste for alcohol is finally shrinking his brain too. That incident at the festival took him by surprise, I think. As for this Rutledge guy, he's not very outgoing, though he is well-liked by some voters I want on my side. He could still be a powerful tool to keep them on Bulma's end."

"Perhaps."

"Put on some jeans and drive down here tomorrow, dad. You can tour his store and buy a plant for mom. Pay in cash, though. They don't need to know who you are. Then meet me for a cigar later. Bye."

After locking the door and shutting off the security camera in his office, the lieutenant governor poured a glass of wine, feeling the need to remove his clothing. Bulma was speaking on television. By the end of her thirty-minute interview, he was panting on the floor. His right hand dripped with hot semen. This happened more often. Hiring female "escorts" to meet his physical needs had become less satisfying.

When Bulma first cracked open the gubernatorial citadel, dynamically making it hers, Josh Marley IV mustered grudging admiration. Envy was a given. Sexism he learned from his father. No matter how many women had served in office, both men believed that certain political roles were best held by men. Bulma's humble upbringing and hard work didn't matter. Yet Marley constantly sought her recognition, believing he deserved deference almost by birthright. Despite his contempt, he strived to conceal his attraction to her. If Bulma's whiskey-slurping guard dog caught wind, hell's gates would swing wide open. Marley had "protectors" who worked hard to frustrate Ambrose's underground, unbent opposition research. But like most agreements with dodgy people and lickspittles, that help came with a price, and Josh's debts to them were growing.

The scion of a Kansas City family with ties dating back to the 1800s, Marley had never known anything but wealth and privilege. As such, he possessed the mannerisms, social connections and diamond-encrusted pedigree (prep school, private college, Ivy League law degree). As the oldest of four children, his parents had expected him to eventually run the family's lucrative century-old real-estate company. Josh bristled at this expectation, starting in his teens. His great-uncle, Edward Marley, had been a U.S. representative and senator. Stories of former presidents and global leaders captivated Josh. Though deep into old age, Edward never stopped observing "the winds of change," enthusiastically schooling his relative about "political necessities." Political correctness, however, wasn't the wizened pol's strong suit.

Crass in private. Polite in public.

"That Brief gal has the whole package, doesn't she, boy? Big tits, nice ass, legs, figure and eyes – and that gorgeous head of hair! I don't think I could help myself, Josh. You're a handsome fella. Just make nice with her. She'll forgive you for winning the election. Then you'll have a middle-aged woman who'll support and maybe sleep with you. They're the best to have because they're broken in properly."

"Uncle Eddie, you realize that I will betray you like Peter denied Jesus - and not repent - if something you've said or done screws with my career."

"Of course, Josh, and that's OK. To be a good politician, you must choose your battles wisely. Though I'm long retired, I still have enough sharp teeth left to bite – with love. Keep the extremes of your ambitions and attitude in check rather than overplaying your hand."

Josh's siblings, however, couldn't stand him. They knew the real man: the pompous, forked-tonged user, casual liar, creative bully, closeted racist, and venal, all-around entitled prick. The Marley clan's lofty standing in the state's high-society hierarchy – as well as their father's iron fist – kept everyone outwardly silent about Josh's uglier qualities. As his political career soared, Josh's siblings, old classmates and even some ex-business connections leaked information anonymously to reporters that didn't go anywhere because key details – the most damning ones - couldn't be verified. But a group of diligent journalists and editors believed that Marley's house of cards would collapse eventually.

Vegeta tended to the rising stack of paperwork in Black Orchid's main office, mulling everything from the new tech system - easing everyone's workload - to reshaping his management team. Preparing two senior workers, Nappa and Kefla, to oversee day-to-day and higher-level responsibilities in his absence had turned out well so far. As much as Vegeta enjoyed roaming the shop's floor and greenhouse, calmly helping customers or playing practical jokes on his employees, becoming a more passive owner held his interest. He could spend more time with Bulla - and now Bulma, whose schedule swayed from intense to about as normal as any politician's existence could be. Opening another store in Columbia also remained an appealing option, but Vegeta had a couple of years to decide on that.

Nappa, a bald, mustachioed titan of a man, lumbered into the office, almost bumping his head on the door frame.

"We gotta get that problem fixed, boss."

Vegeta continued reading his ledger. "You have the know-how to change the dimensions, Nappa. Make that happen or practice ducking. Being a manager requires creativity and elbow grease."

"You're discriminating against those with height challenges," Nappa replied with a jolly grin. "I thought you of all people would be more sympathetic."

Vegeta stood at five feet, six inches. Nappa was six feet, four inches.

Vegeta's creaky desk chair rotated. "You get exactly one dig at me today, King Kong, and that was it. Continue down this road, and manure inventory is yours for the next two days – without help."

Nappa laughed, snorting and whacking his hips. "Just one? Wow! How merciful of you, Frodo Baggins. Everyone has noticed the pep in your step lately, even customers. Meet anyone on the internet? Gotta be ready for the Missouri Statehood Day Ball."

"Didn't I just say you get one swipe at me?!" Vegeta shouted, crossing his arms. "I see no legitimate reason for loitering, Nappa, so get out."

Nappa dragged a chair beside Vegeta's desk. "OK, OK. I'm just loosening you up. Look, I know you're vigilant about your privacy and all, but word is getting around about you and the governor."

"No shit," Vegeta said. "It's been a while. That the 'word is getting around' doesn't mean everyone cares about the details."

Ordinarily, the forever cheerful Nappa wouldn't have touched the subject with a ten-foot pole. Curious about this, Vegeta allowed their chat to continue for that reason. Nappa's smile lost some humor, replaced by purposeful reflection.

"I dunno, Vegeta. We aren't bosom buddies or anything, but I respect you a lot. I appreciate having your trust since I began working here. I also keep my ear to the ground. More of those extremist-type guys are hanging around the area. Some I grew up with. They're in the store occasionally. Worries me. The times aren't like when we were younger."

Vegeta exhaled. "Are we nearing a point here, Nappa? And let's be sensible. The times weren't all that great when we had less gray hair – or, rather, when you had hair."

"Just be careful. The governor has a lot of support and will probably win again. She's done a lot a good, but some fearful, angry termites are coming out of the woodwork. This goes beyond political-party differences, and those folks watch too much of that damn KIBZ. I hear them talking at Johnson's bar - even been recruited to meetings."

Vegeta considered the implied warning. "You think I could catch hell, given some of those guys are good customers."

Nappa's hands clamped together uncomfortably. Vegeta had to know this was about safety, not losing business, but he decided to reinforce the message differently. "Well, yes, Vegeta. They are good customers, and I will say that some of state's finest officers are protecting the governor."

After a nod, Vegeta returned to writing. "Exactly, so worry less. I handle myself just fine and keep my ears to the ground too. Don't fret about the store losing money either. Profit has doubled and debts are low. Also, have dinner at Sparks tonight with your wife. Use my account there. I'll shut down the store."

Nappa stood, knocking on Vegeta's desk. "Donna will love that. I'll make sure she whips up that lemon tart you like. Thanks so much – and for hearing me out."

"Don't ask Donna to do anything for me," Vegeta said, pointing at the door. "Now will you please leave?"

"Sure, boss. Don't stay too late." Nappa subdued smile lingered. Vegeta's reassurance – mostly from pride - didn't reassure the gentle giant much. But his gentleness could be set aside for staunch roughness when situations demanded it. Nappa hoped that wouldn't be necessary.

Vegeta didn't dismiss Nappa's concerns. He constantly weighed the benefits against the risks of every choice. Fear for himself never guided his actions. Most politicians don't give up the joys of love and marriage because of the potential for harm. Whatever Nappa thought he knew about those wannabe "freedom lovers," who probably hadn't read beyond the U.S. Constitution's preamble, Bulma's advisers likely knew that much more by now.

Ambrose bumped into Nappa leaving the office. After the perfunctory "I'm sorry" from each, Nappa, a former Navy construction electrician, blocked the door. Sometime earlier, his name tag fell into his apron's top pocket.

"Anything I can help you with, sir? We have some great deals this week."

Ambrose never forgot a name, and Nappa knew who the hell he was. "Hello, Nappa. You helped me weeks ago to find parts for my daughter's science project. Worked fabulously."

Nappa looked down, tapping on his temple. "Oh yes! Yes! Mr. Boone. Glad that worked out for you."

"Just call me Ambrose. I'm taking a long lunch before an afternoon meeting and decided to come by. Is Mr. Rutledge available? Got a few things to discuss."

Vegeta and Ambrose had to be using each other's first names by now, Nappa thought. Ambrose was up to something. "Vegeta is here but focused on administrative work today. Prefers not to be disturbed. I'll tell him you stopped over. He's punctual with returning messages."

"I see." Ambrose handed Nappa an eye-catching black-and-white business card. "Would you give this to him please? Are the house plants back there on sale too?"

"They are!" Nappa said enthusiastically, dragging the man along like a rag doll. "Please adopt one. Our intern Katie will help you. I'll make sure Vegeta receives your card."

"Uh, thanks."

Ambrose's shelved investigative dossier about Vegeta didn't contain anything shocking. Undeniably, Vegeta had abundant accomplishments: excelling academically despite having an alcoholic parent; inventing; starting a business; hiring veterans; and caring for a sick, churchgoing mother beloved by many. No money issues. Having a child out wedlock, along with Bulla being part-Mexican, could be spun into an inspiring father-daughter tale. Vegeta's encounter with prescription drugs – yes, Ambrose uncovered that too – went nowhere. Reunited high school sweethearts, of course, could be the frosting on the cake for some starry-eyed voters.

Yet none of those positives quelled Ambrose's concerns. Relationships could either strengthen or distract. Vegeta had settled well into his hard-earned prosperity and privacy. He disliked intrusions and could be perceived as too reserved, and even haughty - which would be unfair, but bad-faith TV coverage and internet trolls existed to destroy. Was Vegeta equipped for the brightening interest in Bulma's political career? Ambrose needed a one-to-one to make his final judgment.

Nappa accompanied his boss to the plant section, pointing out Ambrose's location. Vegeta shooed his protective manager away to assist a cashier. Ambrose's back straightened as the man approached.

"That little snake plant you're eyeing is a good air purifier," Vegeta said with the wryness of a Dickensian grave digger. "You can have that one for free."

Ambrose put his hands in his pockets. "Clever."

Vegeta smirked, folding his arms. "What can I do for you, Ambrose?"

"A walk on that trail behind the store would be great. You have time? Nappa said you're untangling paperwork."

"I need a break. Do you often wear trekking shoes with suit trousers - or are those just for me?"

Ambrose laughed, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. "I took a chance. Too bad I didn't wear jeans."

After silently walking about a half mile, they rested at a clearing loosely bordered by shrubs.

Vegeta sat on a gnarly tree stump. "So, have you found anything shady about me yet?"

"Nope," Ambrose replied. "I'm usually quieter when that happens."

"Yes, I'm sure - in order to fix the problem, but this dilemma with Bulma and me confounds you."

"Dilemma? If you mean deciding on a course of action - likely unpleasant - then yes. I gather that you're preparing to ask Bulma to marry you. Your confidence is quite apparent."

Vegeta unwrapped a piece of chewing gum, popping it into his mouth. "To some, maybe."

"I would never say that you don't know your own mind, Vegeta, or question your love for her."

Expressionless, Vegeta focused on the fresh air instead of breaking Ambrose's legs. "I don't recall seeking your opinion on either."

Ambrose raised an appeasing hand. "Hear me out. I've breathed politics since my teens. The spotlight is harsher these day than it's ever been. After this governor's race, which Bulma will win, Congress is next."

"If she wins, this will be her third term as governor. Thus, Congress isn't actionable unless Bulma chooses to step down midterm to run for the Senate."

"But –-"

Vegeta stood. "No, you listen. It's taken you a hell of a long time to come after me, Ambrose. Some of your Washington-lobbyist drinking buddies would probably say you're too late."

Ambrose took offense. "Come after you? That sounds adversarial. It's not like that at all."

Vegeta's eyes jumped. "Wooo, boy! I wouldn't call you a liar, but you're circling that toilet drain. Bulma and I have been together for a year. You underestimated one of us, thinking that this would pass. That's why you've kept your mouth closed."

"I just acknowledged your love for her, but that's not always enough, Vegeta."

"Maybe not for you," he replied coldly, "and you're not Bulma's daddy. You're not couth enough to shine that preacher's shoes."

This man underestimates my abrasiveness. Ambrose's lips curled inward. His Machiavellian side stayed in a do-not-touch mental safe-jacket, but politicos like him could crush malicious and innocent people with dirty tricks. "Can't disagree there, Mr. Rutledge - but just like you, I would die for her."

"I'm nearing the end of my patience, Ambrose. I have kept an open mind because Bulma trusts you so much - for good reason, I'll admit - but you're taking advantage of that confidence. Now, take my advice. Get off your high horse and lay off the drinking. At least my mistakes with Bulma are purely my own, rather than whiskey-driven."

Vegeta left swiftly, whistling with birds jumping between the trees. Ambrose reached into his back pocket, removing a thin flask. This nip of whiskey wasn't as pleasurable. Maybe he wasn't sober or emotionally distanced enough from his friendship with Bulma to make a better case. He respected Vegeta. Ambrose just didn't want to see yet another upright man eaten alive by ruthless circumstances. He had to talk some sense into Bulma before a disaster wrecked everyone involved.

Neither he nor Vegeta knew they were being watched from afar.

Back at the governor's mansion, Krillin sat next to a groundskeeper, chatting and drinking lemonade. Marley's grinning face showed up on a small TV they brought outside. Krillin's usually jovial companion soon appeared nervous and somewhat embarrassed. After careful prodding, Krillin learned that the man's brother was involved in the festival incident, adding that Marley personally met with the man later.

Nappa sat down in Vegeta's office, quietly talking his wife Donna on the phone. Vegeta disliked having pictures taken, but two medium-size framed photos had been given space. Vegeta, Tarble, Cricket and Bulla were in the first. The other showed Bulma smiling while Vegeta stood behind, looking away as they held hands. Nappa smiled, hoping for the best.

Vegeta's run-in with Ambrose that day did him a favor: He couldn't wait any longer to marry his soul mate. He made plans that weekend, choosing a location teeming of memories. Bulla squealed when she saw the engagement ring, hugging him as joyfully as Cricket would have.

"Bulla, you're going to fracture my ribs," he said, chuckling. "I still need them."

"Sorry, daddy."

Vegeta's head lowered. "I must say, I wondered if it would take more time for you to adjust. You and I have been road buddies forever. Your embrace of Bulma has been phenomenal. I...appreciate it."

Appearing wise beyond her years, Bulla's fingers joined with her dad's. "She's always been phenomenal to you. I saw it instantly at the mansion after granny died."

Krillin, who knew about the surprise, offered to drive wherever Vegeta wanted that evening. Vegeta accepted the overture with a shoulder grip and handshake. Krillin prayed for his friends' happiness. Bulma and Vegeta's avoidance of religion never insulted him, because best wishes came in all forms.

Vegeta held Bulma from behind while she pinned up her hair, leaving more of her tempting neck to kiss. Sunset's rose-hued advent made good theater, and the crickets' choir didn't overpower the show.

Vegeta tugged at her belt. "Remember when we used to skinny dip right here?"

"Yes." Bulma smacked his hands, laughing. "These fitted jeans are less than two years old, tomcat, so I'm not messing them up." She could barely breathe in the damn things, to be brutally honest. "I'm also sure that Krillin - and perhaps a couple roaming troopers - don't want to us in flagrante delicto."

"Since when have those guys disturbed our privacy, Bulma? They understand and respect its value better than some others we know."

Vegeta's comeback landed with a thud - as intended - gift-wrapped and engraved with Ambrose's name. Bulma's shoulders stiffened.

"Vegeta, it's his role to -"

He rotated her to face him. "I know Ambrose must play hardball as your adviser, but that cleverness you admire can't be as effective if it's soaked in bourbon or gin three-quarters of the time."

"You make him sound like Richard Nixon stumbling around the White House tanked-up and talking gibberish to old portraits. Don't worry, Ambrose isn't permitted to call up the state's National Guard for battle."

Unready to surrender on this subject, Bulma avoided his gaze. Vegeta didn't want this to ruin his happier plans, but if they were to be married, this predicament had to be resolved.

"Despite how I grew up, I don't resent or envy anyone who likes a good drink, including you. But if Ambrose continues like this, he will fuck up. I cannot – will not – allow you to be taken down with him."

"Vegeta, that man and I have worked our asses off, and I'm still capable of making proper decisions. Ambrose doesn't need the kind of in-your-face intervention you're implying. He wouldn't respond well - just like you said about Gure - and he's a brother to me. Stood… by me. I have my own thoughts about helping him."

Hearing that nauseated Vegeta. First his brother with Gure, and now Bulma with Ambrose. The padded velvet ring box he made, stuffed far into one of several pockets of his workman's dungarees, flipped over, colliding with the surrounding cloth and muscle.

"You…you need distance, Bulma."

"Sounds like you may need some yourself," she replied, touching his cheek. "Ambrose stupidly tried to lock antlers with you - to confirm your commitment to me - and got his broken. He crossed a line. Let me handle the aftermath."

Bulma's sureness concerned Vegeta. He had lived experience with this behavior. By his own strength, and with familial love, his mind didn't crack into a million pieces. He didn't want a war with Ambrose. He was trying to be responsible, just like when he was a boy. Marrying Bulma meant everything to him. He couldn't close off his feelings, but truth-telling was in order.

"Bulma, I love you, but I'm fighting here."

"What do you mean? Fighting what?"

"This digs up feelings -– difficult ones. You know I don't wallow in the past much. Nor do I make huge productions out of my accomplishments, and I handle my affairs responsibly. But in this case, I need you to really listen to what I'm saying, and I…I don't feel like you are."

Bulma's eyes slowly dropped as they held hands. "I'm sorry." Neither fear nor anxiety showed on Vegeta's face, but she felt their weight, evidenced by his eyes. "I didn't mean to sound dismissive. I know… some scars are permanent. I guess I don't want you believing that you must fix everything. That's your childhood talking in your ear. You took on burdens that weren't yours to bear."

Vegeta pressed Bulma's hand on his side pocket. "You've never been a burden, though. You'll never be. I wouldn't be asking you to marry me if thought so."

Bulma's head fell and then rose. How could she be surprised and not surprised? After her clumsy attempts at retrieving the ring box, Vegeta folded her shaking hand over it.

"You would pick the deepest pocket," she said, fanning herself. Vegeta successfully knocked the wind out of her without throwing a punch. "What a sneaky attempt to get felt up by me."

"Are you going to gibber or open the damn thing?" Vegeta designed the box beautifully. Its velvet exterior had a rich cranberry shade. The Great Seal of Missouri was embroidered on the satin inside, above a princess-cut diamond engagement ring.

"How…how did you make this?"

"I may be a chemist, but growing diamonds isn't my specialty, bumblebee."

Bulma stomped, making Vegeta laugh. Krillin swore that most women from their part of the state sponsored coming-of-age ceremonies to practice the art of stamping. Cricket must of have taken Bulla into the woods for her rite, Vegeta joked once, irritating his sensitive daughter. Being called sexist wasn't fun.

"Damn it, Vegeta!" Bulma said tearfully. "You know what I mean!"

"Try the ring on first, governor," he said, bending on one knee. "We can discuss my craft-making talents later."

"No, no, no! You stand up this instant, Rutledge! You don't have to be all mushy like this."

"Stop your chattering. Just humor me. Bulma Jean Brief, will you marry me?"