8:20 p.m., Oct. 1, Thursday
"Intelligence Training"
Zeus moved to look out of the second-floor window until Bulma shook her head to stop him. She sipped from her glass and set it down.
"Ms. Brief, I'm actually outside of your apartment now. Do you have visitors?"
Her nails tapped nervously on the dining table. "Well, yes, I do." I would prefer not having him leave, but, if it's something urgent, I can. Is the prince well?"
Pausing, Nappa chose his words carefully. "He is... fine...physically."
After breathing a sigh of relief, Bulma covered her mouth to hide a snicker. This talk was going to be interesting.
"It's OK," Nappa said. "You are welcome to laugh – although not too much. I still must show respect to my country's future sovereign.
"Oh god. You heard me?" her face crumpled from embarrassment. She usually exercised restraint, but having Zeus around gave her a chance to be her complete self, warts and all.
Nappa smiled to himself. "Ms. Brief, years of intelligence training teaches one to listen well - along with special microphones."
Zeus motioned for her to put him on speakerphone. Bulma placed the device on the kitchen counter and backed away slowly. "So now that you're done charming me, general, what's the real deal?"
"Would you mind coming out?" Nappa stepped forward from underneath a tree. "Look outside to your left and right. The local police know I'm here because I contacted them, so you have nothing fear."
Bulma glanced at Zeus, who quietly mouthed "no, no, no" - while waving his hands wildly. "I'll come out, Nappa. Just give me about ten minutes."
"Of course, madame."
Zeus wanted to slap her back into reality but shook the table instead. "Are you crazy?!"
"You already know the answer to that," Bulma replied confidently. "We're fine, babe. I won't return brainwashed like the Manchurian Candidate. I promise."
Zeus took a long swig from the wine bottle. "I can't do this with you anymore, honey. We're both used to weirdness from high-class clients, but even I draw the line somewhere. Since when has a flower-delivering chief of security for a prince shown up to discuss the meaning of life?"
"You are my heart, Zeus, and you will stay here," Bulma said, blowing him a kiss as she left. "If something happens, you better damn well have my best photo at the memorial service, or else I will haunt you from hell."
"Not funny!" he shouted, picking up his smartphone. "I'm calling your sister. I won't be the only one worried about this nonsense anymore!"
Bulma tugged at her coat while Nappa helped her onto the sidewalk. "Thank you, general. It's chillier than I figured it would be." He covered her shoulders with his scarf, shifting around to her right side, which had been closest to the street – a protective move. He had been trained well, she thought.
Nappa bowed, looking just as serious as he did when they first met. "I am pleased that you are comfortable, Ms. Brief. I take it you're wondering how I ended up working for the prince."
"Actually, I'm wondering how in the hell it happened." Bulma covered her mouth again. She blamed her sassiness on the wine – a lame excuse, of course, but it was convenient.
Nappa stared skyward to hide a grin. There was a lot to like about this woman, but he also had a job to do. "I have looked after Vegeta and trained him intermittently since his childhood. I left my post as general of the Royal Army to guard him." He coughed a few times, as if he had trouble saying the words. "It was an honor... and a necessity."
Bulma felt more comfortable as they walked together, which put her mind on alert. This was how real security professionals collected "soft" intelligence – to disarm their subjects by being friendly with them – and she was being relatively cooperative. But why was Nappa so open with his behavior?
She touched him to stop walking. "OK, I understand - in a weird sort of way - but what does this have to do with me?"
"I need Vegeta focused. His activities here, with you, are a distraction that I'm tolerating only because he rallies relatively well when faced with challenging situations – if they aren't of his own making." Choosing silence, Bulma waited for the other shoe to drop. Nappa's eyes joined with hers. Calling his expression serious wouldn't do justice describing his sober, forceful appearance. He meant business.
"Whatever you're planning for him, don't. This is not a request, Bulma."
Bulma bristled at his command – or was it a threat? No one threatened her. No one. She didn't care if he assassinated her. She had lived a full life. "I don't know what you mean, general."
"Yes, you do," Nappa said. "I've been doing this a long time, and I read behavior better than most. You may believe you're in control – showing a man like Vegeta what 'his place' is because you can – but you're not in control. This isn't a game, and though he may deserve being humbled in many ways, I know you are better than this."
"Better than what, exactly?" she said angrily. "You know nothing about me. I'm not some crazy person. He's the one who sought me out, remember? I am doing exactly what I've been asked to do."
Frustrated by her refusal to consider the gravity of his words, Nappa crossed his muscular arms and leaned against a tree. He was helping her, possibly risking Vegeta's trust in him. "Oh, you put on a great show with the prince yesterday, but it's all a ruse. I know you will do your job well, as you told him you would, but leave the, um, self-righteous – or, dare I say, erotic - lessons out of it."
"OK, I'm leaving!" Bulma said, shoving his scarf into his chest. "I have heard enough. You know what? Once I hit forty years old, I finally realized how liberating it is to not give a shit about what others want when it's convenient for them. I also realized how sick I am of men like you blaming women like me for not conforming to roles that don't suit us – emotionally, physically, or otherwise."
Nappa bowed to her. "Believe it or not, I like you. Your frustration is understandable, but that doesn't give you the right to leave destruction behind you – and, trust me, I have been there. You think highly of yourself, and for good reason, but there's much more at stake than your pride. Vegeta is a brilliant man and as tough as titanium panels, but he is ... vulnerable in other ways. I have likely said too much already, but keep my words in mind. You have enough integrity not to share our discussion with anyone. Now, please, let me escort you home."
Nodding, he reached for her hand. Bulma accepted it despite her anger, allowing him to place her arm inside of his. This man genuinely cared for Vegeta, sharing his concerns like a loving father would – like her deceased father would. She wondered if the prince knew how fortunate he was to have someone like Nappa in his life. Maybe. Maybe not.
Bulma saw Zeus staring from the upstairs window while Nappa faded into the darkness. A black SUV slowly drove past soon after. She silently approached her bedroom after returning upstairs. Her loving friend, carrying their unfinished bottle of wine, lay next to her on the bed. Bulma activated the sound-masking system buried within the walls. Even Vegeta's security team hadn't discovered it - or so she believed. No one could likely hear their chat. She also recalled Nappa's early assurance that the team wouldn't disrupt her life or privacy unreasonably. Vegeta had also ordered them not to install listening devices anywhere in her home, which she didn't know.
Still, she wondered why his security was this heavy. She had worked with other world leaders and diplomats, but, short of the U.S. president, his entourage almost appeared excessive. While Vegeta's country was large and had some international clout, it certainly wasn't Australia or Brazil.
"You won't tell me what Nappa said, will you?"
Bulma patted Zeus's knee. "He didn't threaten my life if that's what you're asking, honey. He was a complete gentleman."
"Chick, I'm not worried about you!" he said, smacking the back of her hand. "People like that always murder friends and family first! Should I carry poison-tipped pens with me now?"
Bulma laughed heartily and poured more wine. Zeus, however, hadn't finished his interrogation. "Bulma, you rarely keep secrets from me, even during your ugliest moments. Will our friendship be like this as long as these guys are around? Remember what I said earlier? As arrogant he is, Prince Vegeta isn't your personal plaything, and it's been years since you've been in this position. You're treading into complicated physical and, perhaps, psychological territory. This man is a soon-to-be head of state, with a hot-blooded personality, and you have a reputation to protect just as much as he does. Whatever Nappa said to you, he must have sensed something."
"Vegeta wants to be dominated in a different way – not controlled," Bulma replied, twirling her wine glass. "I recognized it when we were in London. His arrogance, as we've called it, masks something deeper. This isn't about mere vanilla sex - and, as I told him, I don't fuck my clients. However, the prince can learn other things from me and, thus, understand his own inhibitions. He'll return tomorrow, I'm sure, to finish our first lesson."
Frowning, Zeus took the wine glass from her. "Sweetie, I love you dearly, but I can't support what you're doing. What's gotten into you? Where is this god complex coming from? I have my own… predilections, of which you are well aware, but…"
Bulma reclined on the bed, pushing pillows between them. "I will build trust with Vegeta. He won't be cast to the four winds. You were correct at first that my ego had been driving me. This is different. Conversation over. Finish your wine, and I love you too."
6:20 a.m., Oct. 2, Friday
"Discipline and Obedience"
Bulma's morning routine rarely changed: Wake up at 5 a.m., shove a lukewarm bowl oatmeal into her mouth, listen to "Morning Edition" for news, and exercise occasionally before starting work. She didn't follow anyone's schedule now, beyond ensuring that clients were tended to properly and received their clothing and accessories on time. Vegeta didn't ask during his fit of pique earlier that week whether she set similar, strict time-and-behavioral rules with other clients. She did, but the prince hadn't earned that helpful knowledge. She had been bookmarking pages in men's fashion magazines when the doorbell chimed. With mild annoyance, she pushed aside fashion photos Zeus took during his routine street-roaming sessions.
Damn, I was just finishing my toast.
She released the front door lock after examining the security camera. Vegeta regally walked ahead of his attendants looking sleepy but rather satisfied with himself. He was dressed in a black crew-neck T-shirt, with short sleeves, which emphasized every muscle on his gorgeous, impeccably chisled arms and chest. His dark blue denim jeans sagged slightly over his studded, black low-top leather sneakers. He also wore a silver stud earring – an attractive flourish. Smiling, Bulma sipped the last of her coffee and slowly approached the interior door.
Quite impressive, Prince Vegeta. Too bad I can't say that out loud.
She was somewhat surprised that he didn't keep disciplined hours, like she did, but maybe he wasn't "a morning person" or had spent his evening planning to overthrow a frightened, less-powerful country. Then again, according to the news, it seemed that his country was the anxious one. Stress had intensified his terseness, apparently, but he wasn't entitled to run roughshod over anyone who meant no harm. Bulma had these moments too, although far less often, but she usually apologized and accepted the consequences. She was also being smug about her ability to do the latter.
She blocked the entrance. "You're here early."
Vegeta felt tempted to push her aside but quickly realized he was being tested. A new game. His curiosity had been a blessing and a curse since childhood. Maybe Bulma was a tad deranged, rather than merely eccentric and mysterious – a terrible insult to strong-willed women, he knew, but he considered the thought anyway. Did that characteristic drive her talents? Even more absurd, he had chosen to return and felt compelled to accept her firm demands – to obey them - and maybe go beyond that, although he was unsure what "that" would be. He had left her home furious two days before, after she slammed the door in his face. The daring look in her eyes when the door closed, however, left him breathless. He liked how her simple, direct act of willfulness made him feel. Had his attendant not been present, he would have crawled into a corner to wallow in his arousal. The sensation surpassed his original desire for sex. Bulma had to know, and she likely expected his return. He wasn't that stupid or overconfident to believe she didn't. Being near this cunning minx would test his mettle and capacity for restraint, much like the rocky obstacle course where he trained in his country.
"Isn't it customary for Americans to say good morning, Ms. Brief?"
"This is New York City," Bulma said plainly. "You take what you can get. What do your people do?"
Her explanation actually made sense to him. That's why he liked New Yorkers in particular. They weren't as evasive.
"My countrymen say 'How are you?' since mornings aren't always good. Regardless, I thought you'd be pleased that I'm early."
"I said 6:45 a.m. for a reason, your highness," Bulma replied as she further examined his attire. "How often do you arrive too late or early when negotiating political deals? Both are examples of controlling the situation to your advantage."
He smirked and scratched his chin. "I want four suits made, but we can begin with two. Now would you let me inside, or shall I wait until that fresh coffee you're making is ready? I am rather tired, and it does smell delightful. I would be happy to get some myself instead of asking you to bring it. Also, if I were trying to control this situation to my advantage, I would not be here, would I? You are the best designer there is, as you've said, and I have a weakness for fine clothing. It's an Achilles' heel that I'm unable to overcome. Can we call a truce now?"
Bulma stepped away, turning her back, while he closed the door. The locks activated automatically this time, and background noise within the studio nearly disappeared. His eyes surveyed the room, from front to back, with a radically different view. The place was hard-wired like a prison. He didn't recall Nappa saying anything when the attendants checked before. His overprotective guard probably felt more comfortable with the setup anyway.
"You know what to do," Bulma said, looking at the bathroom. "As you can see, the studio has been cleaned, which should meet your standards. I'll return with the coffee press and muffins. Have as much as you'd like before we begin, and get used to this routine. The time we spend won't seem as tedious after a while."
Watching her leave, Vegeta inhaled deeply. The coffee couldn't mask the perfumed scent that had driven him wild before. He approached the restroom to undress, dragging his hand along the brick wall. He needed something – anything - rough to touch. He had a million responsibilities on his mind, all important, but Bulma's home had quickly become a captivating siren's vortex.
He stepped up on the tailor's platform, driving his hands into his pockets. She had provided tatami waraji sandals, the traditional footwear of the common man as well as samurai warriors. He was neither, but Bulma was an intelligent artist. Her styling choices, however simple, all had meaning – right? He shrugged. He was devoting too much mental energy to this.
The studio seemed colder. It was colder, and now his nipples were hardening. Then came the goose bumps. That really pissed him off. "Ms. Brief, I don't have all damn day! I have other affairs to manage. I'm not paying you to be a European barista – and why is it so cold down here?! The temperature was fine before!"
Bulma rolled her eyes as he bellowed. He would wait. She had lowered the heat earlier to keep him focused on their work. "Maybe the room feels colder since your top shirt is removed. I will be down shortly. The coffee will help warm you up. I suggest that you review those fabric swatches on the drafting table until I return."
Given Vegeta's melodrama, she wondered if Nappa was the true diplomat representing Hegemone's interests. He certainly acted more like a chief of staff than a mere bodyguard. That seemed logical. Maybe the prince was merely a figurehead who dutifully followed his trusted adviser's suggestions, or maybe they played "good cop, bad cop" together to win disputes with others. No doubt Vegeta would be the best "bad cop" ever.
He didn't know what to make of her next act. She had returned wearing a karategi and sandals. Barely containing a smile, she looked up at him. "Come get your coffee. You act like you've never seen this attire before. Aren't you familiar with martial arts?"
"Familiar isn't the way I would describe it," he said frostily. "I know how to fight. What are you planning?"
"Oh, stop being suspicious. Sometimes I wear my gi while I'm creating. I'm also taking a class after we're done here today."
Vegeta stood quietly, sipping his coffee, until she finished preparing her tools. "I'm sure your sensei would be so proud watching you 'create' in traditional clothing, madame. It's disrespectful."
Bulma closed the shades. "We're starting now, so stop talking. It disrupts my concentration. Think happy thoughts if that's possible. Did you review the fabrics as I asked? Actually, let's begin there first and work backward."
8:30 a.m.
"So what did you and Nappa discuss last night?"
Bulma looked up briefly and then continued working. Vegeta stepped aside, placing his arms at his sides. "I do have ways of making people talk, so I will ask once more. What did you and my bodyguard discuss? Oh, and don't bother lying. I almost always know."
"Why don't you ask him?" she replied, retracting her measuring tape. "He works for you, not me. Now stand still and let me finish."
Vegeta's eyes darkened. His wrath could be as deadly as a black mamba's venom if pushed too far, and yet she seemed completely oblivious. "I... am…losing my patience with your disrespect."
"Then get the hell out, because your tantrums are boring me," Bulma said calmly. "You didn't have to return here, but you did on your own volition. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know, woman! So far you've allowed me to break several of your petty little rules! I guess you shouldn't stop now! Is boring you a violation too? Would that be rule number two-thousand and sixty-three? Maybe I should stop counting as we approach infinity. Do you even know what infinity means?"
His body radiated heat like a coal furnace. With great interest, Bulma watched his hands and eyelids twitch as he tried to contain himself. This man just couldn't stop being crabby. He provoked people and then had the nerve to be annoyed when his bullshit got called out. She burst out laughing.
For a moment Vegeta looked baffled. Then his temper ignited. She was reacting like…like he a circus clown?
"I wasn't being funny! What are you laughing at?!"
"Yes, you were," Bulma said, giggling, "and it's amazing that you don't realize it. I swear, were you punished as child for laughing at yourself? Being able to helps one's overall mood, I believe."
Panting from anger, he stepped down from the fitting platform. "What if I said that I was punished – often – for doing just that? Does that help your mood, Ms. Brief? Does it?!"
Her mirth disappeared instantly. A door opened with him in a way she hadn't expected. "How did… you deal with it, Vegeta?"
"I accepted, like any other first-born son of a traditional king would," he said quietly. "Now, are we done for today?"
"No," she said, firmly patting his shoulder. "We are not done yet."
He grabbed her arm, tugging it sideways. "I believe you have touched me enough."
Looking into his eyes, Bulma pulled in her right arm, closed fist, down past her hip. "Actually, I haven't even started, and we both know you don't want to leave for that reason. Now get on your knees and tell me what's really on your mind."
