. . .
DAY FOURTEEN
. . .
She's woken up by a phone ringing. Vegeta's in the kitchen, but whatever he's saying to the person on the other line is too quiet for her to hear. She blinks groggily. Vegeta's low tone puts her back to sleep.
Out of the fog, a hand is on her shoulder. "I have somewhere to go. You can stay, if you want."
Indolently, she stretches, and with a sigh, curls up deeper into the blankets. She hears a door close.
Bulma wakes up alone in Vegeta's living room. The pizza box sits empty, grease stained, on the coffee table. A crocheted blanket falls around her hips as she sits up. She hadn't imagined last night.
She peeks in his room. The bed is made and empty. The morning sun pours in from all the windows that have no blinds.
Bulma folds the blanket and lays it beside the pillow she's fluffed on his bed. Locking the front door behind her, she pads down Vegeta's stairs. An old woman walking her dog stares at her. She recognizes Mrs. Sotameyer and waves. The woman comes to a full stop in confusion.
Without anything end-of-the-world that has to be done, with Vegeta who-knows-where, Bulma has Sunday to herself.
She doesn't know what to do with herself. She does her laundry, and cleans her kitchen and bathroom. She waters her plants and cracks a book. She closes the book impatiently. And feels helpless and restless again. Vegeta's pace may have been breakneck, but it had given her a sense of purpose and filled the time. Now every minute that passes is a minute she had been robbed of a year's work, that the thief remains out there, unpunished. Another minute she'd had something taken from her, a piece of her, that she wants back. She sighs through her nose.
At the end of their marriage, Yamcha had often accused her of spending more time on her work than their relationship. And he wasn't wrong. Bulma was a workaholic. She was a renaissance woman, with her fingers in too many pies. All of her energy was funneled into researching and experimenting. Yamcha wanted a family, he wanted stability. Bulma wanted to spend the night in her lab.
Their separation had been a long time coming. They had drifted, they had different goals. Their divorce was amiable. After a year figuring things out, of living with her parents, Bulma had felt so powerful buying her own house. It was the first time she'd been on her own. But it was lonely sometimes.
Bulma turns the light on in her lab. She looks out over it. Impotent. Right now, she's not doing anything to help. She is off and misplaced without Vegeta around, haunting her, grumping over her shoulder.
Bulma slides into her desk chair, plucks a sharpened pencil from the jar, and starts sketching on some errant paper.
Tien—wants information
Pilaf—wants political clout
ChiChi—wants money
Kakarot—a friend, no allegiance—or to his wife?
"Piccolo"—?
Krillin—a fitness guru, ties to Kakarot and Roshi
Yajirobe—Vegeta really doesn't like this guy
Roshi—porn collector, Krillin and Kakarot's fighting "master"
She chews the wood of the pencil.
Vegeta's "master"—?
Vegeta had acted like he'd grown up with a "master," some kind of martial arts trainer, but that it hadn't been all sunshine and rainbows. His recounting it had been bitter and painful, even though he hadn't told her anything at all. Whoever it was, Vegeta didn't feel thankful to them.
Bulma stares down at the paper.
Vegeta
She likes writing his name. It flows, an organic arc from V to G to A. Her own handwriting makes it look even better.
But what were Vegeta's motivations?
Why was Vegeta going all this way to help her?
Vegeta—?
Bulma might have a soft spot for Vegeta—a fact she'd admit only screaming into a pillow—but she was a pragmatist, too. He wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. That isn't in character with the man she knows, who operates only for his own interests. So what does she really know about her neighbor?
He's a fighter for the underground circuit. He's beautiful when he fights, refined danger and power. It leads her to believe he's been doing it for years. Given yesterday's conversation about trainers, he'd had a mentor at some point, one for whom there was no love lost.
He's well-informed and connected, but resists the friendship of everyone. He has some rough looking cohorts, and in the past, as far as she could glean, no moral scruples. Why would everyone else work with him if they didn't like him? What's in it for them? Or does everyone in this city owe him a favor and a discount? What is up with that?
He keeps a bare house. Why? Does he not care about furnishing it, or does he not make much money? She could believe that backroom fighting doesn't pay a lot, so that's plausible. Or is he just disinterested in showing off his wealth? Vegeta has Priorities and Not Priorities. Domesticated life could understandably be very low on his list. So what are his Priorities?
Her pencil scratches paper as it hurries to catch up to her thoughts.
Fighting. Vegeta spends a lot of time at the gym, training. Is that where he could be found through the work week? It's anecdotal evidence, but she's starting to suspect he works out when he feels out of control. She sends him on a tail spin at least once a day, and soon afterward, he's bolting for the gym doors. Is training the only thing he actually likes to do, besides pester her? As far as she knows, training occupies every second of his life that they're not together. Why? What does it give him emotionally? What are his ambitions, his goals? Why does he need to win so bad?
Conclusively? Vegeta reserves his passions for very few things, and believes that one should only spend their time and energy on things that matter most.
So why did he spend so much time helping her find her godforsaken project?
Unless he was actually a player in the game, too?
Bulma's pencil stills.
He's admitted he'd had a hand in some questionable stuff in the past. He knows a lot of criminal entrepreneurs and disreputable people. Maybe he was poor, and he was tired of being poor, or he was offended that he had to live this way and wanted to change his circumstances? Would he stoop to letting an innocent woman lead him to his salvation, and then take the prize from her?
Her brows knit together. It might be stupid of her—it was real stupid of her, get real—but she's having trouble believing Vegeta would double-cross her. She doesn't think her judgment of character is all that bad. Vegeta might have had a troubled early life, but he isn't a bad person. He might not be polished or "normal," but if he was guilty of that, so was she. At the end of each night's descent into madness seeking her project, she never felt taken advantage of. And that would be the tell, wouldn't it? She didn't feel like she was being used, she just felt twisted up in a heap of the truths he concealed and deflected. Vegeta is withholding, but he also abides by the spirit of brutal honesty and realism. She trusted that on principle. Besides, Vegeta isn't slimy like a bad guy at all. He could actually be sweet. That one she'd hyperventilate into a paper bag before she admitted.
But Vegeta had to have some reason to help her. It couldn't just be because she pestered him to. Maybe he just wanted to unravel the mystery for the sake of solving it? She shook her head. That was her own modus operandi. He wasn't along for the ride. He didn't take a backseat. He was a leader. He had to have a motive, too.
Did she need to watch her back?
Was the man she was being led deeper and deeper into trouble with out to sabotage her?
She erased the question marks. She really only knew three things about Vegeta, which she'd lifted from evidence and experience.
Vegeta—handsome, mysterious jerk
…
Bulma finds her way to her bedroom in the dark. It's a proper metaphor for her life right now. She's wasted all evening in her lab coming to not a single exciting conclusion, and now she's going to take a shower before mentally preparing for Monday morning. No time at all until she has to field her boss's questions about progress on her project. Time is circling right down the drain. She is used to getting what she wants, and she is not getting anything she wants. She has to accept that, with Vegeta's help, she is making progress, when what she really wants are results now.
She strips her shirt off, shoves her pants down, and tosses them both into her basket in her bedroom. She has her finger on the light switch when she sees a light tick on in Vegeta's house.
Bulma's bathroom blinds are turned open. On this side of his house, Vegeta has no blinds at all. Leaving the light off, Bulma slips to the side of the window, the window sill cool against her thigh. She presses close enough that the window blinds brush her forehead.
And waits.
It's his bathroom light, she realizes. Did he just get home, or has he been home awhile? The bathroom is empty, the tile grout discolored. There's a white towel hanging haphazardly, and the mirror frame is tarnished silver. He steps into the room. He's wearing sneakers, so he must have just gotten back.
He grabs his hoodie from behind his head and pulls it over his head, tossing it into the corner. It leaves him bare chested, and Bulma's mouth parts. She's seen it before, but it never gets old.
Tiredly, he runs his hands through his hair, nails on scalp, causing his biceps and chest to flex. She blows air out her lips.
Vegeta, Hated Neighbor, sits on his toilet lid to untie and toe off his sneakers. Even the sides of him are rippled, lean. And then he stands, hooks his thumbs in his waistband, bends a little at the waist and pushes his pants down.
Bulma throws a hand over her mouth.
He is fully on display.
Vegeta turns and yanks the faucet down. The shower spray stutters on. All she sees through the tunnel vision are strong, round glutes and a tapered, muscled back.
"Ohhhh, Bulma," she whispers. "You're a bad, bad girl."
Her heart is a crowd crushing against her chest. She feels like, at any moment, he will turn and look directly at her and say, "Got you." It will be another tally on his scorecard. But there's something wrong with her. She can't stop.
Unaware of the crisis he is the focus of that takes place just a stone's throw away, he steps in over the low lid of the shower floor and grabs the bar of soap. She watches him run it back and forth over his chest and stomach, his hands following it up over his arms. Bulma is emitting something like one long squeak now. It's the sound of a woman who knows she's going to be in a lot of trouble when this is all over.
Then his hands lather soap and dive into the junction of his hips. She gasps.
She thought her impression of him could never be repaired after his fight, but this makes that look like a primary school crush. This is driving into a wall of desire at top speed. There is no way she'll ever be able to look him in the eye again. She will have to tag along following leads while constantly staring at the ceiling, at the ground, anywhere but him.
After he rinses the lather from his thick hair, soap trailing in slow suds down his stomach, he's slamming the faucet off and stepping out.
She cannot believe that life has become so complicated and grim, and all she wants to do is watch this man undress.
She yanks open her blinds, pushes the window open, and leans out. "Of all the rude, shocking, and uncivilized things you've done, Vegeta, this one takes the cake!"
Not even seven Bulma steps and six Vegeta steps away, between an invisible wall and a strip of shared yard, Vegeta pauses drying his hair with the towel long enough for Bulma to hold her breath with anticipation. Then he moves forward. He doesn't even bother trying to cover himself, just leans out the window with the towel over his shoulders, giving her a disbelieving look. She knows under the windowsill press the naked crease of his hips.
She's got one hand on the windowsill and the other holding the trim, her hair tumbling in the breeze.
He looks her up and down, to make a point. "I could say the same of you."
Bulma remembers then as the cool air hits her that she is nothing but a bra and panties.
"Oh," she says, blushing furiously, "don't turn this around on me! I have a right to be in my own bathroom, unaccosted by my neighbors eyes—a neighbor who really ought to have blinds on his damned windows!"
"And here I thought that applied to me, too. Projection," he declares snidely, mimicking her know-it-all comments. "The act of denying one's impulses or behaviors while attributing them to others." His grin is absolutely nefarious. He seems to be enjoying this whole exchange, and she can't figure out why unless it's because he loves to see her absolutely unhinged. It makes her even more mad.
She leans back, huffing. "You really ought to be ashamed," she says.
"Should I?" He's about as happy as she's ever seen him. He is basking in her meltdown. He wins.
"I'm making you a gift registry, Vegeta, and I'm inviting every damned one of the people I've met this last week to it, and we are going to get you some damned blinds!"
She slams her window shut, yanks her blinds down and twists them closed. And then she stomps around in a little mania. Letting out a breath, she whips around and leans back against the cool wall, smoothing her hand over her forehead. And then she laughs at the puckered ceiling.
She knows from the outside she probably looks crazy. But he makes her feel so alive.
When Bulma finally steps into the shower, she runs the washcloth over her body with new awareness. There's no coming back from this. There's no way she can forget this. Her body is already turning in his direction with a sense of purpose, like a flower toward the sunlight. This feeling now has Intention. But no flowery idioms can translate the desire coursing right through her, electric. It's been a long time since she's been dragged behind the chariot of her hormones. Her body crackles with being alive. With the heavy indolence of desire. With daydreams.
. . .
DAY THIRTEEN
. . .
He breaks the cycle Monday evening, when, instead of gliding up his stairs provoking her, he's jogging down them heading straight for her. On one hand, she's seen every inch of this man's skin, and with every step he takes toward her she dies even further of embarrassment and heat. On the other hand, her heart is picking up in anticipation of the volley of insults that coming home after work usually sets in motion. It's the mainstay of her afternoon; fighting with her neighbor makes her feel alive. She anticipates it, she expects it, she needs it.
Instead, he's all business. "Can you take a few days off work?"
It wasn't the question she was expecting. And it's bordering on a demand. "I have a few vacation days I could use," she offers warily.
"Good. Take them. Two of them, starting Wednesday. Pack a bag."
And then he's off down his street with his gym bag.
"Yes, master," she mocks, saluting his back as he gets smaller. He's already halfway down the street. Then she sighs through her nose. She's almost disappointed he didn't bring up last night. She doesn't know why. She's a glutton for punishment.
Bulma leaves her shoes by the door and her work bag on the buffet. Barefoot, she puts an album on the turntable, dropping the needle delicately. The music's low and throaty from the corner of the room, and she floats into the kitchen and slides the cutting board out.
Even though she should be spearheading this hunt, sometimes she feels like she's just along for the ride. It's hard to figure out just what he's thinking or planning. It's scary to think she trusts his judgment. She slips her finger into the earmarked page of the book she's currently reading and hums, stirring gravy.
Time slips by, a thing it's been doing with fervor lately, when she hears a light knock behind her. She startles, turning toward the sound. Vegeta leans against the doorway of her kitchen, watching her. He's let himself in.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Why so jumpy around me, Ms. Briefs?"
Her eyes narrow, and she turns back to dinner. "I'm not jumpy."
His eyebrows raise in mock surprise. "Don't want to talk about what you saw last night?" His voice dips lower. "What I saw?"
Her heart is stuck in her throat. "You really enjoy watching me suffer, don't you?" Like she wanted to see her annoying neighbor naked. She looks away.
"I enjoy doing a great many things to you," he croons, leaving her insides incinerated. "But," he says clipped. "This." He hands her a folded piece of paper, drawing up beside her. "This has nothing at all to do with last night."
Bulma snatches it from him and glares at him suspiciously before unfolding and reading it.
Her face crumples in confusion. "You got us a hotel?"
It's Vegeta's turn to lose composure. He shifts uncomfortably. "This is strictly business," he promises. "Downtown there's a quarter of the city known for tourism. On the corner of 9th and Mandevilla, there's a casino called The Devil's Heaven. Have you heard of it?"
Bulma, frowning down at the pamphlet, shakes her head, looking up at him.
"It's known to be the city's most lux casino and resort, offering all kinds of sins and vices, and someone of interest to me runs it. I want at least a day to comb it over. There are things I want to observe, suspicions I have that we'll find our answer there."
Bulma folds the paper back up neatly and plants her hands on her hips. She's pondering. "What could a casino have that makes you think that?"
"The attached luxury hotel boasts a world class orangery and greenhouse." He watches as her eyes light with interest. "We go undercover."
She presses the paper to her lips, thinking. "So we explore the gardens like we're tourists."
"The only problem is that they're closed for reconstruction. We'll have to do some old fashioned spy work."
"Hmm." The paper droops in Bulma's hand, and her arms fold under her breasts. "Do I need a blonde wig? A code name?" She points at the paper. "Oh, looks like they have a pool. I'll be bringing my string bikini. No undercover agent goes anywhere without his beautiful, bikini-clad arm piece, and lucky for you, I fit the bill."
Vegeta, startled, looks like he's actually unable to speak. It's wonderful. She wishes it were a button she could push. Often.
She's barely seen him for two days; she's on a roll. "So you take me on a shitty first date and then go straight for the kill with a honeymoon suite?" She slaps the pamphlet. "You've got a lot of nerve. Is this strategy why you're single? Really, Vegeta. I expected more from you before you tried to get to home base. At least a second date. Or some seduction. I'm not adverse to foreplay."
He decides to ignore her, but it looks like it takes every ounce of his self-control. "I'll pick you up at four thirty sharp." His voice is strangled.
Bulma's face falls. "From work? I have a speaking engagement at four. I'm afraid it might run over time."
She's looking at him with genuine concern that this will waylay their plans, and his voice softens. "That's acceptable. We can afford to be a little late. We won't be touring the garden until the following morning." He glances down at the stove. "Your gravy is burning."
"Are you hungry?" She turns off the burners. Her gaze prods him. "You just came from the gym, right? You've gotta be starving. I'm making you a plate," she orders. "And you're going to sit right down and eat it."
Vegeta doesn't resist. He sits right down and patiently waits for her to serve it.
She slides a plate in front of him and sits across from him. This time she doesn't bore him with rocket science. This time she bores him with particle theory, and when he complains, she laughs. Her kitchen is cozy, the music a hum from her living room.
She has eaten all the roast she can, and rests her napkin on her empty plate in victory. "I may take off Friday, too. I could use a vacation." She hadn't realized until being thrown into this how badly she needed a little fun.
"I have a fight Friday. I'll need to prep."
"Luckily I have some vacation time to squander." Bulma's face falls, and then rebuilds into the mask of a very angry woman. "Did you say you have a fight Friday?" Vegeta looks up, mid-bite. "And you didn't even invite me?"
"I didn't know you wanted to go."
"It's just rude, frankly. Of course I want to see you kick someone's ass."
He leans over his plate to take a bite, but his eyes don't leave her. They're sharp, interested. He takes a big bite and chews. "Is that right?" He finally says, amused. "You like to watch me win?"
"No. Not anymore. I have no desire to go to the fight of a man who doesn't even remember to invite me."
He polishes off the last of his dinner roll and smiles. "You're an idiot."
"You're an idiot."
"Name one time."
"That time I raked my leaves and piled them all on your porch and you yelled at me through my screen door. I don't think the Housing Organization can deal with another complaint from us about each other or we'll both be in danger of being forced out."
"That never happened."
"It did too happen!"
"You can't prove it in a court of law."
"You'll get the letter from my lawyer tomorrow." Bulma gets out of her chair with her plate, the hem of dress swaying just seconds behind her. She slides the plate into the soapy water, reaches in to the water to organize the dishes.
A dish falls into the sink with a thump as Bulma gasps. Vegeta's head snaps to her. She's holding her hand up to the light, cradling it.
Vegeta is behind her instantly. "Let me see it." His voice is a soft order that no one in their right mind would resist.
She hands it over to him, eyes tearing. Blood is welling in the cut on her left middle finger and sluicing out.
"Is it bad?" Her voice is small.
"It's not bad," he assures her with patience she'd never think to hear out of Vegeta, Hated Neighbor.
"It hurts. Ahh," she sucks in air as he rinses it off to get a better look.
"Don't be a baby. Where are your first aid supplies?"
"In my bathroom."
"Come on."
He leads her, to her bedroom and through it. The medicine cabinet creaks when he opens it. She sits at the foot of the bed before her knees can give out and winces at her finger. All the blood makes it look bad, but there's no peeling flesh, so it can't be deep enough to need stitches, she hopes. She thinks she may faint.
"Will you make sure I don't hit my head on the dresser if I pass out?" She asks faintly.
"Yes," he replies softly. Vegeta grabs the ointment and a bandage and kneels between her legs. She watches the top of his head as he wipes her finger down, dabs the ointment, peels the paper off the back of the bandage and carefully wraps it around her finger. He's methodical, and it eases her.
"Am I going to be okay, doctor?" Her voice trembles.
He drops her hand, squatting at her knees. "A grievous injury," Vegeta says, the corner of his mouth turning up. "I don't know if you'll survive it."
"I'll just have to get strong like you," she rests her forehead in her open hand, breathing shallowly, "so that my pain threshold is so extreme that I could cut this finger clean off and just laugh."
He sits beside her on the bed. "Getting to that point is a tough road," he warns her. "You shouldn't have to prove if you have what it takes. I'm here for that."
She mock-gasps. "Don't have what it—what do you mean, I don't have what it takes? I got stung by a bee watering my roses this summer. It was right after you told me I was even uglier when I'm sunburned. I didn't even cry."
He smiles at her.
It's a real, unfiltered smile from Vegeta, without the malicious pull at the corner. It's worth a million more than anyone else's smile. She wants to take a picture and blow it up ten sizes and put it over her bed. She can't help but smile back, nose wrinkling. Her heart is so full of...something. It's bright and warm and possessive.
She reaches out and runs her palm over the angle of his cheek.
He stills. He doesn't blink. He just watches her.
She watches herself push boundaries. Watches as her hand glides over into the hair at his temple and strokes through to the back of his head. Her hand curls a little in his hair, savoring it, and then continues, skimming down the back of his broad neck that she's always been so curious to touch.
She cups his face with both hands and smiles softly at him.
His hands curl around hers, clasps her wrists. His thumb drags over the sensitive skin of her wrist.
She leans in, leaning her forehead against his, and just breathes him in.
Then, lips hovering over his, Bulma's lips brush Vegeta's. The air seems to grow thicker, and their bodies heavier, slowed, as if intent has made them laden.
This is trespassing. This is flouting the rules. She draws away, waiting for him to react, to tell her to proceed or to back away. But he's already dragging his lips over hers again.
Her entire body is straining for more contact, but her lips are taking this slow and careful. But are they? They're charting new territory, kissing this man finally that she desperately wants to taste, and maybe always has. With the confidence that she has him here and he's kissing her back, her hands curl possessively at the nape of his neck as if to keep him here.
They must be on the same wavelength, because he draws her closer to him, lining her up with a hand on the small of her back. This kiss is plain and simple but a boldfaced lie. This kiss is subterfuge and rebellion. The kiss is a pawn moved to the front to test the opposition; it's got "I'm baiting you" written all over it. It's close-mouthed and soft—"this is just a kiss"—but holding back a deluge underneath—"I want it better, more, harder, deeper." The truth makes her edgy and needy. There's a welling of desire behind her skin. Bulma realizes the depth of what she wants, to feel this man, as if that's exactly what she's been looking for this whole time and he just gave it words.
At an angle, she opens her mouth against his, goading him. She wants more. If this is a ruse, he'll back out now. This is a too dangerous game.
He acknowledges her move and moves his own piece.
Mouth to mouth, he guides her to fall back onto her bed.
Press, retreat, tilt, breath, repeat. Over and over until it's a slow wet slide. Her hand glides down his neck to his shoulder, fingers drawing over his neck. He leans his weight on one elbow, his other hand cupping her jaw. It's more contact than she could have ever dreamed of. This hand. Her whole body swells with languid excitement, with a razor sharp awareness of every inch of skin against hers and the skin that isn't, that resists.
She tastes his lower lip because she's always wanted to, and this is them forging a new path, raw and new. That firm, no-bullshit upper lip, and its fuller counterpart. This new game. Her tongue traces its curves.
Vegeta finally seems to stiffen above her. Had she revealed too much? Was she playing dirty, or was this fair? But Vegeta's hand instead slides down her shoulder, meanders down her side. That hand is everything right now. He holds her tighter at the small of her waist and angles his mouth against hers, easing her into something deeper, wetter. His tongue slides against her own, but it isn't hard and frantic. It's a melting exploration, melding and parting in a slow rhythm. He is kissing her exactly how she's always want to be kissed.
The hem of her dress slides down around her hips as he lays beside her. There is a heaviness growing between her legs that protests this pace. She is ready to wrap her bare legs around his dense waist and see how he retaliates. She is ready to be touched in other places: here here and here, she will tell him. She could draw him a map. They are too far apart. She needs to be closer. She is melting into the mattress as his tongue strokes hers, and there is no other place she'd rather be.
She wants to see what this man is capable of when he wants to draw out her pleasure and torture her. She wants to feel this man's hand on her bare thigh, now. His hand, that warm, heavy hand, drifts down the curve of her waist to the arc of her hips over her skirt, and lingers. He is inches from where her dress falls and exposes the skin of her hip. He is a handspan away from the ache he is making in her.
She is being kissed stupid, and so, brainlessly, her own palm drifts down his back, and then over the wonderfully delicious ridges of his side that are hers to explore now. She draws a finger down those famous abs. Where his tee shirt falls loose over his lean waist, she hooks her fingers into the front of his pants, the skin of his lower belly against the back of her knuckles.
Vegeta stills. And then the moment folds in on itself.
He pulls away. He politely pries his hand from her hip before he sits up. And then he's standing. "I'll pick you up from work," he's saying, moving away from the bed. It only takes him a second to shift gears. She hates that about him.
She brushes her skirt down back to her knees as she pushes herself up with a sliver of shame.
He is already in the doorway. The universe is still wheeling around her head.
It's clear. He's putting an end to this.
"4:30 sharp." He stills at the threshold of her bedroom and the rest of the world. With his back to her, his voice is neutral. Gentle, even. Letting her down, redirecting her. Reminding her to be careful, to stay disciplined. Except he doesn't sound convinced.
She sits and stares out the window as he lets himself out.
Bulma is not good at being careful. Already, she's talking herself out of the crazy expectation that she should be careful.