Disclaimer: Not mine.

Helpless

Chapter 1 - Trying to Fly

If there was one thing Trunks Briefs hated, it was being cooped up in the rain. It rained a lot in the Northwest. It was raining now, slanting sideways across the Zodiac River and almost obliterating the houses tucked in between the fir trees on the hills. Normally, on a day like this, Trunks would either be at the office or taking off somewhere in his red Porsche. There was always somewhere better to be than the river on a wet day. In fact, it was probably one of the worst days Trunks could remember in his twenty-nine years.

He shifted carefully on the couch and reached for the phone. The call had to be made and he wasn't looking forward to making it. There was just no point in pushing it off any longer. Scowling, he punched out the number, and then jammed the receiver to his ear.

Across town the phone rang in the plush office of Capsule Corporation. The line clicked open, and the low vibrant voice of his secretary answered.

Paresu Son had the kind of looks that belonged on the cover of a girlie magazine. She had rich, chocolate-colored hair, sparkling brown eyes and a body that could turn a man's head a hundred and eighty degrees. She was happily married to a stockbroker and her dependability, common sense and intelligence far surpassed any of Trunks' former secretaries.

He not only relied on Paresu, he genuinely liked her. He felt safe with her, secure in the knowledge that she had no designs on his money or his body. The same couldn't be said of his former secretaries.

He'd fired more women than he cared to count because of their determined efforts to seduce him. Being single and a successful architect, he'd discovered, instantly translated into highly desirable.

Women, it appeared, did not recognize the existence of a confirmed bachelor. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that as far as most of the women he met were concerned, his healthy bank account mattered more than his buns.

"It's me," he muttered in answer to Paresu's polite query. "I'm on the houseboat."

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes, something is wrong." Her concern was somewhat comforting. She was probably the only person in the world who genuinely cared what happened to him. He liked to think it wasn't solely because of her considerable paycheck.

"You had a bad weekend?"

"You could say that."

"I thought you were going skiing."

"I did. That's what's wrong."

He heard the little catch in her throat. "Trunks, you didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

"Just a little." He stared grimly at the padding of white plaster covering his right foot. "Enough to put me out of action for a little while."

This time the pause was more prolonged. "How long?"

"At least a month, give or take a week."

"What in heaven's name did you do?"

"I tried my damnedest to fly. Ended up with a broken ankle."

Oh, Trunks, no. How did you get to the houseboat?"

"Ambulance and cab."

"Do you want me to drive you down to the house?"

"No, I need to be close to the office. I can't take a whole month off and I don't want to hobble around the office like this. I'll need to work at home. Since I can't drive and it would take too long to have someone drive all the way to the beach just to drop stuff off, this makes more sense. Anyway, in a small place. I won't have to move around so much. Everything is much closer together in here." Too close, he silently added. One cramped living area, a tiny kitchen, a bedroom that was smaller than his walk-in closet at the house, and a bathroom that made getting out of his clothes a unique and sometimes painful experience - he had to be out of his mind to think he could last a month in a house smaller than a bread box.

He'd bought the River Rat for a pittance, which was all it was worth considering its rapid state of decay. He'd planned on renovating it and selling it for a significant profit. Meanwhile, the houseboat had been somewhere to crash when he was too tired to drive to his house at the beach. Little did he imagine that he'd be spending an entire month on the damned wreck.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a hotel suite?" Paresu asked, her voice heavy with doubt.

"Definitely. But hotels are noisy, inconvenient and public. I don't want anyone seeing me hobbling around like this." He could just imagine some of his female acquaintances jumping at the chance to take advantage of his vulnerability.

Paresu sighed into the phone. "All right. What do you want me to bring you?"

"A new ankle."

"Trunks, be sensible. How are you going to manage? Will Mrs. Clean be able to help you?"

"Mrs. Clean comes to the house a couple of times a week to dust, vacuum, do the laundry and cook the only home-cooked meals I eat all week. She doesn't know this place exists. She'd go into cardiac arrest if she saw it. Besides, I can't see her driving an hour and a half into town."

"How about a temporary housekeeper?"

He tried to hold down his irritation. "I don't need someone to clean house, Paresu. I'm going to be stuck here for at least four weeks. I suppose I'll be able to work from here, but I'll need someone close at hand, a gopher. Preferably someone who knows how to use a laptop. You'll have your hands full keeping things under control there. You'd better get me a temp.

"All right, I'll take care of it right away."

He gave her a list of projects he wanted her to bring over, then hung up. He wished he could have stipulated that she send a male temp. He knew what she'd say to that. He could just hear her voice rising.

Trunks, dear, it's very difficult to find a male temp. In any case, that's discrimination, and a federal offense. We don't want to be in trouble with the law now, do we?

Sometimes, Trunks thought irritably, Paresu could sound very much like a mothering hen. He shifted the lump of concrete that used to be his foot to a more comfortable position. Well, he'd just have to be on guard even more than usual. One hint that the temp wanted to get personal and she'd be off his boat so fast she wouldn't have time to blink.

Trunks shook his head in disbelief. Four miserable weeks stuck inside this peanut shell on floats. It didn't bear thinking about. He hoped his personal gopher had a sense of humor and the temperament of a saint. He had a nasty feeling he wasn't going to be very good company for a while.

So, what do you think about it? Question and comments are very much welcome. :)