Chapter 3 – Tension
Chicago is by nature a cold city. Located on the shores of Lake Michigan in northern Illinois, it knows the bitter cold that soaks deep into your socks, even in May. Snow stays on the ground from November until March, brown from the salt that sprays up from the roads. This late in spring, however, the snow has long been washed away. Instead, a thick, oily rain pours from the skies, mixing with the spill on the roads in a vain attempt to clean the dark city.
A solitary figure walks briskly along the side of the road, oblivious to the heavy rain that threatens to cow his spiky black hair. Vegeta pauses mid-stride for a brief moment while squinting at a battered road sign at an intersection, and then turns to his right.
Twenty seconds pass by. Another ten. Then, more silently than the rain, a man drops from his hiding place on a deep window ledge. Two others shift from the shadows of doorways. The first abruptly nods his head to the intersection, then to the right.
Vegeta has finally reached his destination: the Hôtel Paris. Despite its posh name, the "Hôtel" is really barely more than a broken-down whorehouse. With an expression of tired disgust, he opens the front double doors, nearly taking them off their hinges in the process.
The three men smile at the ease with which they have cornered their quarry. The idiot didn't even notice he'd been followed! They go ahead with their normal routine. The man from the window ledge primes the explosive hidden in a shabby suitcase, while the others take their positions on either side of the entrance. The main hit man will go into the lobby of the hotel, taking his suitcase with him. Discovering that he has "forgotten" his keys, he will exit the building, leaving the bomb in the lobby. All local desk attendants have been "advised" to let a short man with spiky black hair cool his heels in their front lobbies. The victim should die before he hears the sound of the explosion. What happens to the building will be counted as collateral damage.
The two gunmen wait as their colleague enters the hotel. Their role here is really redundant. They always work as a team of three, as some of their victims are aging mobsters who still have a few cards to play. This one, however, shouldn't even put up a fight. They've "popped" their share of prizefighters.
After the first thirty seconds pass without a sign of their partner, the gunmen begin to get antsy. The bomb should go off in another twenty or thirty seconds! They should have left by now! For the first time since receiving the assignment, one of them breaks the silence.
"Think we should go after him?"
"Never have before. I dunno."
"Something's wrong. I'll go check. Stay here."
He enters slowly and cautiously. He recognizes his partner sitting in a chair, bag at his feet, facing a frozen clerk.
"Hey, buddy, I, uh…need help with…"
He trails off as he moves around to face his colleague. His eyes widen when he sees the blood dripping from a small hole in the center of the man's forehead.
"Who…"
"I did," replies a cold voice from the shadows, right before a silent insect drills through the gunman's heart.
Vegeta steps forward to admire his work, then checks the bomb in the bag. Five seconds left.
"Fuck." He knows that there's still one gunman outside, but he'll have to risk it. Remembering that the first man entered from the right door, he assumes that the second will be to the left of the entrance. At least fate smiles on him that much.
Protecting his vital spots with his left arm, he pushes out the right door, firing blindly to his left. Ignoring the sting in his arm, Vegeta smirks as he hears his enemy gasp, but continues running. Three, two… He dives for cover behind a parked car. One…
The explosion rocks the street, taking out two side buildings as well as the hotel. The car protecting Vegeta shakes, but he pays it no mind. Perfect…no evidence. He looks down at his arm, however, and sighs. Shit…
*****
"I hate rain," ChiChi says, picking up a towel. The women were home when the rain began. While their coats have protected their clothes, their hair has gotten fairly wet.
Bulma sighs and stretches her bare toes as ChiChi attacks her thick blue hair. "You hate any and all forms of weather that involve looking less than perfect. Rain and wind mess up your hair and clothes, sun makes you sweat…"
"Snow is just plain hideous…"
"No, it isn't, ChiChi! You've just never seen snow outside Chicago. Most places, it snows and melts, then snows and melts again, over and over. It's so pretty when it's fresh and white, not two months old and muddy."
ChiChi rolls her eyes and smiles down on the young woman who, despite being two years her senior, often acts like a daughter. "Miss Bulma, you are and forever will be a hopeless romantic."
Bulma scowls. "I'm not a romantic, I'm…"
"A modern woman," ChiChi finishes, then adds, "but, fortunately, not as modern as that girl Juuhachi."
"You do realize that not all flappers are chain-smoking alcoholics. Nor do they necessarily have attitudes."
"They're all trash," ChiChi declares, squeezing her mouth into a tiny frown of disapproval. "Especially that one," she continues as she helps Bulma out of her dress and into a long blue robe. "Completely disgusting, she was. And what an attitude! Almost as bad as that demon you've decided to sponsor."
"Come on, ChiChi," she yawns. "He's not that bad. And it's not like we really have to bother with him. I put up a little money, he fights, he wins, he fights Goku, he wins – don't say anything just yet, ChiChi – he wins, I make a total fool of Yamcha, end of story."
ChiChi sighs and throws her hands in the air, releasing the invisible burden of guilt. "As you wish, Miss Bulma, but I still say that Goku will win."
With this prophecy, ChiChi leaves to draw Bulma's bathwater in a massive bathroom found behind one of the doors in the bedroom. While her maid fusses with the rose and lily essences, Bulma pulls out her sketchpad and charcoal. There, beside drawings of the various sculptures she has studied, she traces out the basis of a body, fluidly adding muscle and torn clothes. She pays special attention to his face, especially his eyes. She breaks the charcoal twice trying to mimic the darkness of those eyes. Suddenly, she growls. "Something's wrong! But what? I have a good eye for this; I should be able to draw him from memory!" She closes her eyes, trying to picture him, but finds that she can't keep him still. Somehow, despite his static pose when she talked to him, her memory sees only a blur of motion. She sighs and crosses out the image with a sweep of charcoal. No matter; her bath is ready.
While her employer bathes, ChiChi tidies the room and turns down the lights. She notices the sketchbook on a desk and flips through it, taking the opportunity to admire Bulma's artwork. She has such talent, and she's so bright! Not every maid serves a woman who has graduated from college. She will make a wonderful wife and mother. A worry line appears as Charlotte thinks of Yamcha. She shoves the thought aside as she looks at the last filled page. She squints at the hastily obliterated figure. While most of the drawing has been destroyed, there's something about the figure's posture…
ChiChi nearly drops the sketchbook when she realizes just whom Bulma has drawn. "Why?" she whispers, her voice raw with fear. "Oh, Miss Bulma, what are you getting all of us into?"
"I'm sorry, ChiChi, did you say something?" Having finished her bath, Bulma slides into a long white nightgown with wide sleeves.
"Nothing, miss, I was just wondering who sculpted this one? And why is it scribbled out?"
Bulma blanches for a second before saying, "Oh, that's some new artist. I didn't care much for the statue, so I decided to quit."
Before ChiChi can reply, Bulma escapes to a window. She draws back the lace curtain and stares at the scene below. She loves rain. There is something both beautiful and dangerous about a dark gray storm.
ChiChi freezes while turning down the bed when she hears Bulma say in a strange tone of voice, "ChiChi, be a dear and tell me if you see what I see."
ChiChi peaks out a nearby window. "Isn't that…"
"Yes, I think it is. Doesn't it seem like he's hurt?"
"Yes, miss, he's holding his left arm funny."
Bulma watches for a moment, then suddenly says, "Well, are you going to help him or not?"
"Me? Help him, miss?"
"Of course you, silly! You don't expect me to run out there in the rain in this, do you?" she asks, gesturing at her nightgown.
"No, miss, but…"
"Go on! Hurry up, girl!"
"But what shall I do with him?"
"Bring him up here, of course!"
"And what if he shan't come?"
"I don't know, carry him or something! He's obviously badly hurt!"
ChiChi finally gives in and leaves, mumbling something about money begetting insanity.
Bulma watches from the window as her maid approaches the injured man. She must have said something to him, for he is obviously arguing with her and trying to push past her without hurting his arm. Bulma can almost hear him shout, "Out of my way, stupid girl!" or something similar. Now ChiChi's getting angry, too; Bulma can tell by the way she's flinging her hands around while she talks. He's yelling again. This time, something hits home. ChiChi turns around in disgust, and looks at Bulma through the window as if to say, "I told you so."
Vegeta follows ChiChi's eyes to Bulma's window.
Once again, the fighter and the heiress have some silent staring contest.
Once again, Bulma wins, although she isn't quite sure how.
As ChiChi returns to the door of the Briefs' mansion, she's surprised to find Vegeta following her. She sniffs audibly, but doesn't say anything.
She relaxes slightly when she sees that Bulma has put on her robe. The now perfectly decent millionaire smiles her thanks to her maid, then turns to "her" fighter.
"What on Earth have you done to yourself!"
"I really don't see how it's any of your concern, woman!"
"It's my concern because you won't beat Goku with a broken arm! Now let me see it."
He rolls his eyes, but unbuttons his shirt. "What kind of an idiot are you, woman? My arm isn't broken! I've been shot!"
She gasps as he peels the fabric away from the hole in his arm. The blood is sticky, having congealed for almost an hour, but it's still warm, like his skin. She touches it uncertainly.
"ChiChi, I'm going to need some warm washcloths."
"Fine, miss. Just as long as I don't have to touch him," she adds under her breath.
Bulma ignores the young woman as she inspects Vegeta's wound. Fortunately, the smell of his blood is overwhelmed by the smell of his skin, which she absently observes to be rather pleasant. Hopefully free from her curse of nausea, she stares at the ugly hole.
"I really think you need a doctor."
He tries to stand. "I refuse! I don't need any damned doctor!"
Then what are you doing here? "Well, all I can do is clean it. It's a pretty bad wound, and I don't have any experience with this sort of thing…"
"Fine," he says, sitting back down.
Bulma is confused beyond belief by his sudden compliance, but ChiChi arrives with the washcloths, and Bulma accepts her task. Ash she stands there, leaning over him, the irony of the situation strikes her. Here she is, a beautiful heiress, playing the servant for a common ruffian! And yet… She struggles to hide a smile. Somehow this incredible fighter reminds her of a young child in need of a mother to kiss his "booboo." She tries, and fails, to imagine him as a child.
"Damn it, woman, I think it's clean enough!"
She looks down at the bloody piece of cloth in her hands. How long have I been rubbing the wound? "Well, if you were in pain, you could have said something sooner, genius!"
He snorts. "As if the slight pressure you were exerting could possible hurt a man of my strength. You were merely annoying me."
"Liar," she mutters, squinting at the wound. "Well, it's clean for now, but it won't stay that way with the amount you're bleeding." She suddenly notices the smell of his skin again.
"Just give me something to wrap around it. Honestly, woman, you're even more stupid than you look." Strangely enough, he smells clean.
"Hmm…ChiChi, bring me some long bandages." Yamcha always smells like expensive cologne. The other men at the bar smelled like stale sweat, alcohol, and (occasionally) vomit. But this man just smells clean.
"Will this do, miss?"
"Yes, thank you." His discarded shirt reeks of smoke, as did her dress after her short stay in the bar, but he doesn't. His teeth are clean and white. "You don't smoke, do you," she says absently.
"No."
"That's odd."
"Why the Hell should it be?"
"Well, most of the other guys at that bar smoked."
He doesn't reply. He doesn't need to. The words hum in the air as loudly as if he had said them. I'm nothing like those bastards. Instead of speaking, he grabs the bandage from Bulma's fingers and attempts to wrap it around his left arm. Of course, he only has use of one arm, and tying a tight tourniquet proves to be impossible. "Who's being the idiot now, hmm?" Bulma murmurs as she takes the bandage from his hand and wraps it around his arm. She doesn't know how to tie a real tourniquet, but she understands the principle and does a decent job. Besides, it gives her another opportunity to study the texture of his skin, the shape of his muscles, and the way he moves. Her fingers subconsciously twitch as she imagines drawing him, her earlier failure still on her mind.
What she doesn't see is that he is studying her just as intensely. Her short blue hair bounces gently as she moves, following the rise and fall of her head. Her skin is pale to the point of luminescence, like that of most women of "culture," but he has never seen one of those snobby biddies act with such subtlety. Although she is obviously one of the wealthiest women in the country, she treats him with a bizarre sort of respect. She yells at him, as though aware that he hates false formality above all things, but she doesn't treat him like dirt. Her words are harsh while her hands are gentle. In all honesty, she didn't hurt him while "cleaning" his wound. Something about the softness of her fingers, combined with the light yet exotic floral scent of her hair, made him nervous. He'd finally made her stop, but here she is again. Damn. He's decidedly uncomfortable. Shit, shit, shit. I think I like her better when she's mad.
"Hurry it up, bitch."
That works even better than he expected. Her fingers don't stop, but her touch loses its softness.
"You, you…low class, ignorant, insolent, unappreciative bastard! After all I'm doing for you!" She fights the urge to slap him as she finishes tying the bandage.
"Hah! What exactly are you doing for me, woman? As you yourself said, you're only making sure that I make that idiot look even more like a fool than he does naturally!"
She finishes the knot, then looks him in the eyes. Yamcha would be kissing her feet, were he on the receiving end of her glare, but Vegeta simply stares back. She smiles dangerously.
"You're absolutely right." She punctuates her statement with a loud slap across his right cheek.
"I hope you don't think that hurt me," he says, unchanged except for the white handprint quickly turning red on his face.
"Of course not. After all, I don't want any harm to come to my investment, do I?" Her sudden rage is gone, but she still feels her heart pounding. God, how I'm beginning to hate this man!
He feels a certain tension pass. He can deal with this submerged anger. All the same, he feels that it would be wise to leave. Without saying a word, he stands and heads for the door.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"To find another hotel. Get out of my way."
Another hotel? "Wait a minute. You never did explain how you were shot in the first place."
"You never asked."
She nearly screams. Instead, she grits her teeth. "Well…?"
"I make enemies quickly." This is the most she will ever get out of him. His life outside of the fighting ring is none of her business.
She follows him to the door of her room. He ignores her as he opens the door, but stops when he feels her hand on his left arm, just inches below his wound.
"ChiChi!" she calls down the corridor in the direction of the kitchens. She didn't hear her maid escape while she was "helping" Vegeta, but there aren't many places where the young woman could be. As predicted, a dark head pops out from behind a kitchen door. "Yes, Miss Bulma?"
"Vegeta will be staying here from now on." She ignores the shocked stares of her maid and fighter as she continues, "I think the Louis XV room will suit him."
"Forget it, woman. There is absolutely no way in Hell that I'm going to live with you."
"Well, Vegeta, given that you 'make enemies quickly,' I think it would be best if your living arrangements kept you away from any factors that might impede your fighting."
She waits for a full minute while he thinks. He finally concedes for the third (and, of course, final) time. "Very well. Show me my room, girl," he says, turning to ChiChi. ChiChi stares at Bulma, waiting for some reaction, but the millionaire merely turns with a perfunctory "goodnight" and closes the door to her bedroom behind her.
Bulma grins, hearing ChiChi's grumbling even through the door. Her smile fades as she realizes that she will now have to live with a man whose personality is really starting to make her skin crawl. She shrugs, however, telling herself that at least she will have another chance to draw him. She glances at her sketchpad, but suddenly feels too tired to work. She crawls into bed, falling asleep while murmuring a single question to the roof of her canopy bed, unwittingly echoing her maid.
"What have I gotten myself into?"
