. . .
DAY EIGHTEEN
. . .
It's getting late, but this is when the arena comes to life. Bulma adjusts the little felt hat that sits askance on her head and tightens the belt of her coat as cigar smoke fogs the entrance around her. She sidles through the crowd of boisterous men, sticking to the wall. They ignore her for the most part, except for some brief assessments. They're intent on the ring, on betting and arguing and hashing out whose swing arm is better than whose. There are only two kinds of women here, and both are in short supply: the brazen women yelling their own bets, and those whose sole purpose is to adorn a man's arm. Bulma looks like an accessory that has broken free, confusing the narrative. She squeezes past them with her head down. Her gloved hands pull her coat belt nervously once more as she navigates the stands in heels. There's been several fights already. Vegeta gave her the time he went on stage only. It seems like the crowd is already several pints in, and she presses close to the shadows, blue eyes rounding.
This is what he does? This is "athleticism?" The place is an absolute stench pot of ugly male behavior. Gambling, smoking, violence. She turns her nose up, scowling at the empty ring. It's crude. And he called her classless.
The small arena is dim but for some wanting lighting around the walls and the blaring lights over the ring. It smells like sweat, and Bulma wonders how she wound up circling the drain of the seven circles of hell, with all its chaos and vices on display. Of course her neighbor would thrive in a place like this, she thinks sourly. The smell of brimstone was nearly wafting through the air, sulfur scintillating in the air. She chafes a little as someone spills their beer just a step away from her shoes.
Bulma stands apart from the crowd so that no one jostles her, but the building is small enough that she can see the refs sad, thin mustache as he hops into the ring. The stage lights dim. The announcer's voice booms. Bulma huffs a little, shuffling her feet impatiently, because there are greater things at stake than this stupid match and these glee club theatrics. She glances at her slim gold watch as an enormous man lumbers into the ring, red shorts and red gloves, and tries not to roll her eyes as he beats his chest and throws his arms out wide. This is what her neighbor does? These, these backdoor brawls? She's disappointed. She expected more out of him, somehow. This is just so—
The announcer bellows Vegeta's name, and the crowd jumps to their feet, roaring in answer. Bulma, in the top row of stands, can't hear anything else the announcer says. And then doesn't need to.
A lethal silhouette shadows a doorway. She knows instinctively, exactly who it is. She doesn't see him make his way to the ring; there are too many people standing, pumping their fists, crowding him. But then he pulls himself up into the ring with a hand on the corner, ducks under a rope and stretches straight, and her mind is steamrolled. No logical thought exists in it anymore.
Her neighbor is wearing only tight, black shorts and black boxing gloves. As he limberly, idly arches back, the thick muscles of his chest and the hard ridges of his abs gleam in the light. His back ripples as he warms up his shoulders, his dense erectors and the hard sides of his lean waist dipping into the waistband of his shorts. No lithe swimsuit model, even his legs are powerful, dangerously curved. He finally levels his gaze at his opponent from under straight, unyielding brows, those dark eyes finding a focus, a target, pinning him with complete focus and utter certainty. His opponent visibly fidgets. Bulma does, too.
Then the bell dings and Bulma can't keep track of the action. Vegeta rushes in and it's a flurry of fists and kicks, Vegeta easily swooping and ducking under swings and smoothly twisting away from kicks. His opponent is already on the defense, unable to land a punch on him. She marvels at his grace. His easy, arrogant gliding walk makes sense now. He knows exactly what he's capable of, and relishes in it.
Like finally closing her hand around something in the dark, she grasps that this is the product of a man completely devoted to his craft. Whose only care in the world has been fighting and winning, who has eaten and breathed and lived it day in day out to earn the privilege of this moment and its impending victory. He stalks the man across the ring, raining blows designed to leech strength, controlled and precise. He seems to float effortlessly across the ring, cutting through the air even as he launches a blistering attack. Fearless, hungry...seductive. Bulma doesn't think her understanding of him can come back from this. This force of nature was living next to her the whole time?
Vegeta's speed picks up, and the roar of the crowd gets even louder. His treatment of his opponent becomes rougher, a coup de grace, a climax, as he finishes him off with lethal, dramatic accoutrements. He's a man who's committed to making the final moments even better than the climax getting there, because every second of his time counts. Bulma tugs at the neck of her coat, suddenly hot.
The civilized mask of her neighbor's finally drops, aggression torrenting from him, and with a fierce shout drowned out by the crowd, Vegeta launches his fist into his opponent's temple. And his opponent goes down.
The guy hasn't even hit the floor yet and the crowd is on their feet, belting, throwing their fists, whistling and clapping. Vegeta's thick arm is hoisted in the air by the ref, and Bulma's eyes slide over slick muscle, over the fierce face that an hour ago wasn't traditionally handsome and now is cataclysmically so.
He turns, giving the crowd his back, and though it takes a second, Bulma's urgency shakes her from her stupor and she remembers her purpose.
She dives through the crowd with less finesse and with a single purpose. It's hard to sense the direction she should be going. She wedges herself left, right, and then gets turned around. The men are all taller than her, and they're not paying a bit of attention to her. So when she finally erupts from the other side, she finds herself right smack in front of two hulking bodyguards and a group of scantily clad women hovering outside the entrance they're guarding.
Bulma tries to tear her eyes away from all the skin that's on display and lock eyes with a bodyguard. His stare is distant and hard.
"I need to see Vegeta."
They only stare. Her brows knit, and just as she opens her mouth to repeat herself, one asks, "Name?"
She blinks. "Bulma Briefs."
He thumbs over his shoulder, shifting to let her through.
She blinks again, realizes how idiotic she must look just standing there, and then straightens her shoulders and strides in. She tries not to brush any of the women on the way, whose gazes rake over her in clear disapproval. They think she's here for the same reason they are, and Bulma bristles.
There's a short length of hallway, and then a single door, a piece of paper with Vegeta's name taped to it. Bulma knocks hesitantly, and then huffs, turns the doorknob, and just steps in.
She sucks in her breath and leans her weight against the closed door behind her. Vegeta stands with his back to her, unwrapping his knuckles of tape. The lines of his silhouette are striking in the light of the dressing room table, and when his eyes find her in the mirror, piercing, he is almost feral. "Here to put your hands all over me like the other ones?"
Bulma scowls. She yanks the belt of her coat, which slides open, and then realizes the implications, and clears her throat, blushing. "Hardly," she says too forcefully. "Haven't you the clue yet?" She's reminding them both what she's here for. Just in case current events have caused a memory lapse in one of them. She tugs her gloves off, pockets them, and lays her coat and hat over a chair. "Well? Anything?"
Vegeta watches her, and all the hairs on her body stand on end. She feels exposed, like she's not wearing enough clothing, even though the knee length skirt and long-sleeved blouse couldn't be any closer to virtuousness and chastity.
He shakes his head once, then looks down at his hand again, patiently unwrapping. He's slick with sweat. Bulma nervously rubs her hands and presses her lips together. She's anxious to get the lead and get her plant back. To occupy herself, she spots a towel hanging from a chair arm and tosses it to him. He catches it without even looking. She folds the pile of towels in the chair, neatly stacking them, trying not to appear out of sorts.
Vegeta watches her when she's not looking. A smirk is tugging at the corner of his lips. He enjoys watching her fidget.
"And not even a scratch on you," she complains, cutting a poisoned look at him.
This time he does smile. "I'm not easily touched."
She sidles up. Her eyelashes brush her cheeks, her teal hair glowing in the dressing room mirror. Her small fist darts out and womps him on his side. She smirks up at him. "It's not that hard. I got one in."
"I let you."
"Hardly. I was too fast." She bounces on her feet, punching the air lightly. "Do I look like you?" She uppercuts the air and mouths "pow." She stills, and they smile at each other.
She makes a mock look of distaste. "You're all sweaty." She wipes her knuckles off on the towel around his shoulders, and helplessly, her gaze strays to look him up and down. "Ugh! All these muscles," she's complaining. "You really should put a shirt on!"
His smirk grows toothier. "Sounds like you're enjoying this, Ms. Briefs."
"Doctor. And wrong. Where's your shirt?" She looks the room up and down, on a mission.
"I think I'll leave it off," he informs her.
Her eyes meet his from under his brows, eyes that see right through her, when the door blows open. Bulma's barely able to eek out a "What the hell?" when a man comes barreling at Vegeta, surprising him with a tackle. The man's fist collides with Vegeta's jaw before Vegeta can react, when something drops out of the arm of his suit jacket, falling to be crushed under Vegeta's side. Just as Vegeta uses all his momentum to buck the man off and pin him, his bodyguards wrecking ball through. Vegeta's own fists sinks into the flesh of the stranger's cheek, and then the bodyguards are pulling the man up and dosing out their own justice. Bulma's hand clenches the dressing room table and she angles herself away from the ruckus, but her eyes dart back to the folded up paper on the floor.
The guards are finally dragging the man out of the dressing room, and Bulma can hardly wait for the door to close before she bends down and snatches up the note. She's unfolding it to read as Vegeta curses, pacing. "Hush," she reprimands, holding up a finger. Her eyes scan the text, and then grow. She holds it out to him. All of the cockiness has been drained out of him, and her neighbor is now just a snarling panther with the hair on his tail puffed out.
He grabs it and reads it himself, and then looks at her.
"Shinhan," he curses, the name dropping heavily. "He set this up."
"Why go through all the trouble to send a man in through a guarded door?" Bulma frowns, puzzled. "He had to have known it wouldn't have ended well."
"That was exactly the point." Vegeta's voice is rough. He crushes the note in his fist. Bulma frowns and grabs it out of his hand, unfolding it and smoothing it. "That was the big scheme. Act like a crazed fan wanted a piece of me so no one's the wiser."
"I thought staying low would be the proper strategy."
"That was Shinhan's price." Vegeta's face darkens. "He couldn't extract a favor out of me, so he aimed to embarrass me. Some nobody got a hit on me with a sucker punch. He wanted to humiliate me, give me the clue, and punish that guy all in one go."
Bulma gaped. "But why send a guy in to get beat up? Who would sign up for that?"
"That garbage," he accuses, "has been fixing to get me back for—" Vegeta stutters to a halt, his eyes walling up with concealed secrets. "For something," he finishes secretly. "And given I've heard through the grapevine that he just caused some of Shinhan's cards to fall, I imagine Shinhan wanted to teach him a lesson, too."
Bulma looks like she's tasted something sour. "All of these machinations," she gripes.
Vegeta sighs loudly. They're just the way of things, she can tell he's thinking. You roll with the punches or you end up knocked flat. Bulma has struggles, too. Her coffee maker broke last week and Barb at work uses too much perfume.
He idles over to a darker corner of the room and flicks on a light, which exposes a small shower—with a glass door. Bulma's eyes widen. "I'll clean up," Vegeta says as he knocks the knob to hot, "and then we'll go track it down."
"You're just going to shower right here?" Bulma's voice rises.
Vegeta's eyebrow wings up, but she knows the bastard knows exactly what he's doing and enjoys it. "You can watch, Ms. Briefs." He prowls towards her and she freezes, but he just grabs some keys off a small table and tosses them to her. "Or you can wait in the car."
She won't be winning this one. Bulma is out the door in seconds.
...
"I didn't know you had a car," Bulma is saying when he slides in the front seat. "Because you walk home. Where are you coming from?"
Vegeta says nothing, and her brows snap together. She's regained her icy composure, sitting in the cold car for fifteen minutes. Now she's annoyed at being inconvenienced. "For what I'm assuming is training for barbaric displays like the one tonight," she adds.
She's on the defense now, Vegeta knows, even if she doesn't. She feels like she's lost some ground in some way, swooning over him like she did.
"Is that what you do all day? Punch a, a punching bag all day?"
"It's a bit more complicated than that," he grouses, turning the wheel.
"So enlighten me."
His voice is flat. "How 'bout I don't."
"You're no fun," she gripes, looking out the window. "Now I understand why you're a fighter. You take everything way too seriously." She makes her fist into a pretend microphone and shoves it his way with mock curiosity. "Did the punches over the years knock out all your capacity for fun?"
"Oh, there's plenty I find fun," he says into the mic. His smirk is evil.
"There's nothing smart or fun about fighting," she says just to get under his skin. Although after seeing him perform tonight, she doesn't believe a word of it it.
He doesn't take the bait. "I can withstand a lot of pain. Can you?"
Her tone is achingly sweet. "It's a pleasure being so smart that I don't have to indulge in such provincial activities."
"Provincial?" He sounds genuinely offended.
"Yes. Unfamiliar with the word?" She croons, rustling her hair. "I'm calling you stupid."
"Don't make me stop this car and turn it around." He says it with such threatening calm that Bulma places her hands in her lap and presses her lips together.
Vegeta smiles. He wins this one.
"Your trash can had fallen onto my lawn when I got home, by the way."
Vegeta's brows crash down.
"Fix that," she says coolly.
"Make me," he bites back.
She turns her head to him. She has delicate features for being such an insufferably demanding loud mouth. Milky skin, vivid blue eyes. Delicate, arched eyebrows. The apples of her cheeks round under her eyes when she smiles. In the pools of street light that queues over them and then drops them back into shadow again and again, she's captivating. Made of moonlight and nighttime, like a dryad in an art nouveau painting.
"You won't be so sassy after I dump your garbage all over your lawn." She ruins it.
The car drifts to a stop at a stop sign. The intersection is empty.
He twists to face her. His sharp toothed smile makes her face fall. He leans forward, his elbow on the center consul now, and she shifts back, eyes widening.
"Think about it, doctor. I haven't mowed all summer. Why would I pick up any trash? Now imagine having to look at my yard like that every day from your pretty living room."
"You're an animal," she finally says, low and accusing.
His gaze draws down the line of her clenched jaw.
He jerks back, affecting nonchalance. "About half an hour until we get there."
Accepting that they have a stalemate for now, Bulma looks out the windshield, chewing on her bottom lip. "I just can't get over the fact that Shinhan would send one of his men in to clobber you." She sighs, failing to find words. "It's rude. It's low. It's...just...not very nice."
"Who told you the world was nice, Ms. Briefs?"
She turns her head to him.
His eyes gleam in the night. "Your parents? Your teachers?" He watches her. "The world's not nice, and it doesn't owe you anything. Nothing's easy. You have to work for and earn what you want. You alone are responsible for taking it. Because no one else cares about you more than they care about themselves."
His monologue isn't meant to be stinging. It packs the punch of hard fought truth. He's not making fun of her, he's giving her a gift. The gift of truth, which might be salt in the wound, but then the tools to focus and bandage it herself.
"Why do you care so much about fighting?" She asks it of the window, softly.
"Is that what you got from what I just said?"
"I can infer," she corrects him, "that if you spend your precious time fighting, it must be highly of value to you."
"You're smarter than you look."
"I have beauty and brains."
"Well, brains, maybe."
She pokes him hard in the ribs. Hot-blooded, he's not wearing a coat, only a tee shirt. He scowls at her.
"I'm exponentially smarter and more attractive than you are." Her hands make an explosive gesture to really demonstrate and rub it in.
"You're deluded."
"Men drop like flies when I near."
"Man eater."
The car slows, and Vegeta flips the lights and pulls onto the side of the road. Down the road, men are unloading a truck. Vegeta watches them intensely. "Pilaf's men," he only says.
"What are they unloading from the truck?" Bulma squints, but they're too far away and it's too dark to see. "Wait a minute," she whisper-yells. "Mayor Pilaf?!"
"The very one," Vegeta says cynically.
"Bodyguards?" At Vegeta's sharply disappointing glance, her jaw falls a little further. "Thugs? What business does the mayor have to order thugs around? And who's footing the bill?"
"The same business as all the rest. Power." Vegeta sighs, quick and conflicted, like he knows he has to tell her something he shouldn't. She wants to know everything. He doesn't want her to know anything.
When he looks back at her, focused and intense, Bulma's heart skips a beat. She ignores it.
"Pilaf wants political clout. He wants to climb the ladder, become a senator. But he's just not made of the right stuff, and he knows it. He has no charisma, no history of good deeds. He can't convince anyone to sink any money into him because every policy he implements is a colossal failure. All he has is lust for power, and for showing it off. So he supplements the love of the people with money, because money buys votes. Bribes, extortion, racketing. Climbing to gain power over someone else who has power, so that he can feel like the one in control. But the thing about Pilaf," Vegeta finishes, glancing over at the truck, where the men are still loading, "is he's not very bright. Just needy. He sees only what he wants, and sends his equally dumb goons out to accomplish it."
"He's gotten this far?" Bulma's mouth slants, pondering. "What a sad indictment of our political system."
Vegeta gives her a look like he's relieved she understands. "Pilaf is easy to map out. It's easy to see where he's coming from and how he's going to react. We don't want to start a war—we want to remain invisible. Our secrecy is important. Everything pivots on it. I don't want these guys knowing who we are, or to give them anything to counter against. His muscle is even stupider than he is. I play on that." Vegeta's eyes narrow as he watches out the windshield. "Pilaf's leaving."
Bulma wonders how he knows all this, and then suddenly it doesn't matter. Information and strategy is all that matters, and Vegeta has it in deep supply. She's suddenly furious that things have become so dire, so mercenary, so black and white. Before yesterday evening, her biggest grievance had been the seam she'd ripped in her favorite work shirt. "I swear, if they have my plant," her voice thickens with aggression, "I'm going to kick their asses."
Vegeta fights the urge to smile and rolls down a look of disinterest. "Why don't you leave the ass kicking to me, Ms. Briefs?"
But Bulma's throwing open the door and standing up.
Vegeta scrambles to catch up. "What are you doing?" He hisses.
"I'm going to go get answers," she grits back.
"You idiot!"
"Hi, boys!" Bulma waves.
The men in black turn to her.
Vegeta grabs her forearm, whether to keep her from doing anything else or protect her, she can't tell. She shakes him off; he holds on. They compromise on a weird arm holding. "Gentlemen," she only continues, shaking him off uselessly, "could you tell me—"
Bulma undoes the tie of her coat and turns, led by the swing of her hips. It slides off her shoulders, and holding it in one arm, she peers over her shoulder coquettishly. "My date says this skirt makes my butt look big." She pouts. "Is that true?"
Vegeta freezes.
The men erupt all at once.
"Oh, no, not at all, missus—"
"Your rear end looks real nice in that skirt!"
"Your ass is perfect!"
Bulma smiles sweetly at them, batting her eyelashes. "See?" She says, addressing Vegeta. "They know how to appreciate a woman."
"I'll show you just how much I appreciate you," he's threatening under his breath.
Bulma glances at him dismissively and then turns back on the charm. "What are you handsome fellas out here doing on such a cold night?"
The three men all look at each other like they've forgotten what they're doing. Now that they've had a good look at them, Bulma and Vegeta can tell the goons are even less smart than they suspected. "We're unloading this truck for the Grand Mistress."
Vegeta goes still at her side.
"Oh! You guys must be so strong!" Bulma laughs like she imagines a sorority girl might giggle to woo a big dumb jock, loud and playful. Bulma never even knew any sorority girls. She's slathering it on way too thick, vexing Vegeta, but the men are eating it up. "Do you have any plants in there? I love plants!"
"No, ma'am." One of them takes his hat off and wrings it politely in his hands. "No plants. Only liquor."
"Oh." Bulma can't keep the disappointment from her voice. "Okay. Thank you."
Vegeta already tugs on her arm. She shoots him an irritated look. "You've had enough fun. Let's go," he growls impatiently.
She hates it when he tries to tell her what to do. On the upside, she's able to make his life hell. To his horror, she starts unbuttoning her blouse. "While you guys are here, could you tell me if my bra makes my breasts look too big?"
Bulma hardly gets to finish her sentence before her neighbor is dragging her back to the car with a ground eating pace. He unhands her next to the passenger car door and then stalks to the driver's side, decides against it and marches right back around to her.
Bulma sucks in air when he closes in. His fingers brush her chest as he deftly buttons her back up.
"It only required knocking a few heads. That's it. That's what I meant. But you can't lay low, not once." He sounds past his wit's end. His breath feathers against her face.
And then he's done buttoning every button all the way up to her neck, and he's already halfway to his car door. She slides her hand against her chest where his hand has just been, and then opens the car door and slides in.
"Really, Vegeta," she counters. "It's not rocket science. And I got a compliment out of it. Not every problem needs to be solved with violence."
"I beg to differ," he responds tightly.
"If Tien Shinhan sent us here," she's already speculating, finger tapping on her chin, "then he's either messing with us, or I'm not understanding something."
"Oh, it was a clue, all right."
Bulma's face screws with confusion. "How? They didn't have the plant." If he had let her use her women's weapons, maybe she'd have gotten more leads.
"They weren't meant to have the plant. They were Pilaf's men working for the Grand Mistress. That's interesting in and of itself. That's two avenues to explore, though. We don't have this dialed in." He frowns.
"Who's the Grand Mistress?"
Vegeta only broods, pulling away from the curb.
Bulma sighs. It's like bleeding blood from a stone with him. "I have to work tomorrow," she says eventually, "and it's late." A yawn fights its way out of her, and she rests her head against the window.
It should be impossible, but she thinks Vegeta's voice softens. "I'll drop you off."
"And then fix your damn trashcan," she mumbles, eyes fluttering shut. "It almost fell on my petunias."
Vegeta watches her from the side. "Okay," he concedes.