Chapter 3 – You May Be a Sinner, But Your Innocence Is Mine
Author's note: 2 more reviews in 24 hours of uploading the previous chapter! You guys know how to make a girl happy. And I've been monitoring the stats; chapter 2 has had over 100 individuals browse it. As a writer, it's exciting to see your work being well received. . This is for you guys!
OK, I need a beta reader. I suck hairy Butter's chin balls (guess which episode of what series) when it comes to proof reading my own work. There's too much anxiety about reading one's own work again and wondering what the critiques might say; it's pretty daunting.
No one spotted the ANTM cycle 10 Miss J quote? Shame... lol! I love pop culture reference, and I'll pop them in when I can just for the fun of it. Last chapter had Marilyn (I adore the darling!) with the famous song from the film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Current song playing while writing this: I Throw My Toys Around by No Doubt featuring Elvis Costello; it was featured in the film Rugrats in Paris.
Also, there are about 5 visitors who read this story who were from New Zealand. Which part you guys in? I'm in earthquake central! Kia ora!
Sorry for the delay; mental health issues calls. FUCK YOU, FLUOXETINE. Also, I LOVE YOU, PROFESSOR WIKIPEDIA
A month went by. Not a word was spoken between them, and the tension was building up, the way flammable gas does in a closed room; all it takes is a spark, and Bulma was well aware of the fact. Trying to act cool around Vegeta was harder than it seemed; at the mere sight of him, she could feel a rush of adrenaline, and she often felt like jumping out of her skin every time their eyes met. Other than the dark circles around his eyes, he looked as alert as ever. Bulma, on the other hand, seemed to waste away under her clothes; this morning, when she got dressed for work, her jeans sagged off her hips so much that she had to wear a belt down to the last inner-most notch; her hip-bones were jutting out, and every time she looked at herself in the mirror, she would look at how flat her stomach had become, and maybe it's ok if she missed another meal. Try as she might, she couldn't muster the appetite to consume enough food to maintain her body weight; she wanted to need to taste food, but often times, she failed to find pleasure in eating.
A long, tortured sigh escaped her lips; time was 4.42pm, and sustenance consumed since 7am came in the form of a mussel pie that came from the bakery down the road, and a mug of milk. Work progress - nil. Shuffling paper, moving things around, moping... she intended on getting work done, but first she needed to calm down; it was Monday, she was feeling like crap, and she was also on edge about the whole Vegeta situation. He had disappeared for almost 4 weeks after that sudden display of tenderness, and had only shown back up a couple of days ago, and Bulma's hormones were once again in full swing. Just as she managed to purge her thoughts of anything to do with Vegeta, her phone beeped again; it was a text from Yamcha. One of the few that he had sent to her recently; apparently, he hasn't learned his lesson. 'I miss u, B. I'm sry for all tht I've done; I'm lost wthout u! Y- oxox luv u so much!' If there was anything else that Bulma Briefs despised, it was txt language. His insistent texting and pleading messages that she had to filter through her voice mail drove her up the wall; she had blocked his number, but he would get a new prepaid number and resume texting her. The choice of obtaining a legal restraining order did occur to her, but she was sure that it would get out to the media and end up biting her in the ass in the end. No, better just ignore the bastard.
When she didn't reply, he called; the unidentified number appeared on screen. She declined the call and let it go to voicemail. There would be another text reminding her that she has new voicemail; she was curious to hear what this idiot was going to say next. It would at least amuse her for a little while; hearing him plead and whine like the little prat that he is; opening her voice mail, she could hear him slurring drunkenly, snivelling and barfing as he proclaimed his love for her. Dear God, this was pathetic. No work would be completed today, so she decided to take off early; she had a date with a bag of whacky tobacco to attend to. Grapes and a mug of milk made up the bulk of dinner; diet soda followed. The man she wanted has not shown the least bit of interest in her, and the man who was borderline-stalking her was a despicable loser who deserved nothing more than your indifference. What a mess; the tension stiffened in her neck muscles, and she welcomed the relief of changing from work casual to lounging around attire.
She lounged on the new designer deck chairs that her mother had recently decorated the deck with; the sliding glass doors were retracted, and the floor space expanded inwards towards the luxurious living room. It was a nice evening with a gentle southern breeze that carried with it the warmth of the tropics; in honour of nature's gift that was the summer breeze, Bulma decided to spend the rest of the day unwinding in the soft evening sun with drinks, some smokeables and a red bikini. The drink she happened to be nursing was a very filled up tall crystal tumbler of mojito, made with fresh imported sugar cane juice, Key lime and organic mint; every little thing in the Briefs' household was a luxury, alright. If you wanted sugar, you have a choice of organic Demerara sugar, organic cane sugar, or organic brown sugar; all of which are fair trade of course, and would often cost an absurd amount. "There would be no white sugar in this household; oh no, especially not those packets; those hideous packets! Cheap, disgusting; I won't have them in my house!" Bunny once said.
Closing her eyes, she struck the lighter and lit the resinous flower buds in the cone of her silver pipe; it was an ornamental pipe made of silver that she had found at the bottom of a clearance bin at the second hand shop; she had paid a full $5 for it. The weed was home grown in one of the many laboratory rooms on the complex; ah, the advantages of having your own military grade laboratory in your backyard, she mused. And the public image that was expected of her because of her position as the heiress of the corporate empire; fuck, it was all too much. When was the last time that she had spent on something that she had actually enjoyed? And then there was always the parental guilt/argument of 'you were given everything you could have ever wanted; why can't you be less selfish?' Was it wrong to want more? Life on a pedestal looked glamorous, but at times, especially now, it can be very dull; there was no soul, no heart in it. She may be a grown woman, but she couldn't help but feel as though she was living in a gilded cage; parents with high expectations were bad enough, but ones who were always reminding her of the importance of her image as THEIR daughter, someone whose behaviour will be reflected on THEM... it was too much at times.
And it doesn't help that an abusive person was currently trying to win back her sympathy; at first it came off as pathetic, but after a while, she couldn't help but feel scared of him. He hadn't attempted anything yet, but she knew him well enough to guess that he would go to almost any lengths to get his way. Or perhaps she was being paranoid; he was an abusive jerk, and he refuses to leave. That's all; it'll blow over, surely it will. Fuck. She hoped so, at least; he had been the only man that she allowed herself to fall in love with, and what a great fucking idea that turned out to be.
Another puff of smoke, she held it in her lungs for as long as she can; light headedness from lack of oxygen, the gradual increase in all her senses... painfully, she blew the smoke out and gasped. It was as though the lights were turned on; the colour seemed brighter, and she was able to shut away the sound of everyone else, including the nagging voice in her head. Lying back onto the very plush cushion of deck chair, she crawls into herself, finding her centre; a place that she can only be in when the other voices are shut out; the angry, critical, mean, demeaning voices in her head; each and every one of them whispered words of doubt, words of irrational fear, words of jealousy, envy, rage... But for now, under the influence of substance, she was able to relax and be alone in her head.
After applying sun screen lotion, she laid back and, stretching backwards, she arched her back off the chair and points her toes; the stress that settled in her joints slowly dissipated, and was replaced with a pleasant ache. Unaware that there a pair of eyes were watching, she runs her hands down her neck, onto her chest, and down to her stomach, willing the malaise away. She had her eyes closed, and her head sideways, facing towards the open lounge space. She kept stretching and unfurling, and as she did, she sighed and groaned as the tension melted away. She felt like a cat bathing in the sunlight, and she almost purred with contentment. Her senses were heightened, and she savoured the heat, feeling alive, which was welcome change compared to the cold frigid air in her study that was shut away from bright sunlight; outside, in the sun, she felt like a flower opening up the light, feeding off of the sun's energy. Closing her eyes, she tried to drift off to sleep; just as slumber stole her away, her mind drifted to the alien prince...
The wounds on his brow was fresh and still gushing; the white towel was soaking up and turning red, the overflow dripping down his angular face, down his chin and onto his chest. This annoyed Vegeta greatly; the bleeding wound would not cease its outpour, and it had been nearly an hour since he had injured his face after a piece of shrapnel from an exploding combat droid caught him just above his right eye. Standing in the kitchen, he scoured the freezer compartment for ice to constrict the vessels; it should at least help lessen the bleeding, hopefully giving the wound time to clot and close off. With one eye swollen nearly shut, one hand rummaging for ice cubes and a zip bag, he was steady and his moves were assured and confident. The bloody towel went into the dirty laundry basket in the linen closet; ice pack held to his head, he grabbed a clean towel and cleaned the bloodstains off his face. The smell of blood will always remind him of death and destruction, agony and pain, and the harrowing sorrow that comes after; it was an olfactory response that has developed after a lifetime spent on the battlefield.
Today was not a day for bad memories, he thought. Granted, he may not have achieved his goal yet, but he was determined on trying. And with great facilities provided to him by the generous Briefs family, he was more than taken care of; he enjoyed the luxury of having clean towels and clean clothes at his disposal; the household chores are done well, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was how it would have been had Frieza never came to his home world. The Briefs family were practically royalty; money, power, influence... he couldn't help but feel ashamed as the green eyed monster bit his heart. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he envied the blue haired woman and her life. Sure, the world might come to an end soon, but she at least had a chance to grow up knowing what it was like to be loved; the empty space in his soul where love should have been was sealed up with concrete, and it felt just as cold. Despite the sunny weather and the bright flowers from Mrs Brief's impressive garden of flowers, he could almost hear the howling wind and coldness that gripped his heart.
The thudding that emanated from his wound seemed to die down as the ice stole the heat away; sighing though his nostril, he welcomed the numbing cold sensation. As he inhaled, he caught scent of a smoky and intoxicating aroma; following his nose, he walked through the wide corridors of the luxurious four storey mansion towards the centre den that opened to the outer decks. Stretched out on the reclined deck chair, he saw the object of his envy; she was stretched out, at ease, completely unfazed, it seems, of the impending danger of the advent androids. He stood a while away from her, observing her as she basked, completely oblivious to his presence. A sudden awareness of how long it had been since he bedded a woman left him unprepared against his own perverted behaviour; he stayed in the shadowed hallway watching her, keenly observing every nuance of her curves. He dared not make his presence known for fear that she might disappear or that she might start shrieking at him. He watched her as she sat back up, smoking from a silver pipe. Intrigued, he pondered venturing over, but before he could move, he heard her speak out to him.
"Are you alright, Vegeta?" she observed him as she lay there; her brows knitted when she registered that he was wounded, she stood up and walked over to him.
His guts coiled like a serpent; he noticed her blue eyes were half-lidded from intoxication. Sure, he's had his share of women in the past; as a prince, he felt that it would be unbecoming of him to force himself onto a woman, so all those he bedded were willing whores or fellow female soldiers; they came from all walks of life, coming from all different quadrants of the known galaxy, but all shared the same broken spirit that seemed to be quite the fad when that guy Frieza was still around. It was rare to see someone so new, vibrant and alive like the heiress.
When he said nothing, she beckoned for him to come closer. "Come here and sit with me; I'll get a first aid kit and take care of that wound for you. And after that, you can join me for a drink; the sun's out and it's absolutely divine here on the deck." She flashed him a carefree smile; something he rarely noticed from her. Sure, he'd seen it a few times, but she was withdrawn after she returned to her weakling after he was resurrected. Ah, that weakling Yamcha; killed by a Saibaman, no less. Absolutely laughable.
She began fussing about, tending to his wound; he wasn't sure what he would say to her after the kiss they shared, and he wasn't about to turn her away either, so he let her sit him down on the deck chair before fetching a first aid kit to stitch the wound up. She sat next to him, and he wasn't sure if she was aware of their thighs brushing; kissing her was a mistake, he decided then and there. She had a control over him that he wasn't sure he was ready to relinquish, but he couldn't fight back no matter how much he stubbornly thought he should.
Her touch was gentle, and she made an effort not to hurt him while mending his injury; her scantily clad body was displayed before him in all its glorious wonder. The first thing that caught his eye was how smooth her skin was; she had no significant scarring, and her body was an image of perfection. There were no angry red scars that knotted and would ache with a phantom pain every time you press too hard; her skin was as new as a babe's. Whores often had scars; some of them had been branded, since it was decided that it would be easier should they attempt to escape. A collar or a tag you can discard, but scars – some were given as punishment just to mark you. Every scar tells a tale of either victory or defeat, and he was sure that his body was battered mostly with scars of defeat. Still, he wore them with pride, for they meant that he was determined to come back and be twice as strong. But that was never the case with Frieza, was it? No, that lower class idiot finished him off and ascending into the Legendary. What more did he have to his name other than trying to prove his worth as a warrior; that is all he'll ever be, and he was resigned to his fate.
"All done; good as new," she sang, covering the wound with a stick on bandage; she smiled at him, unknowingly having broken his reverie. She sauntered to the bar area and spent a few minutes tinkering and mixing and pouring; when she came back, she had a highball glass that had layers of colours in it, of which was promptly handed to him. Effortlessly, she sat back down on the deck chair and lay back, basking the sunrays.
Awkward silence ensued.
He sniffed the drink that was handed to him; it smelled sweet. He took a sip, and decided that he liked it. He gulped it down and relished the searing sensation as alcohol streamed down his throat. He could hear her giggle behind him. "What?" he gruffly said.
"You're not supposed to drink an entire glass of cocktail down like you would a shot of vodka; you're supposed to savour it." She smiled at him; her gaze met an impenetrable mask of stoicism; it unnerved her how he smouldered even when he was silent. His expression didn't change, and after a few seconds, it felt like a staring contest; staring down an alien warrior was the last thing that she needed, so she casually put on her sunnies, reclining further into the deck chair. "You should learn to take a break once and a while, Vegeta. Take a breather, enjoy the sun. I mean after all, it might not be here when the androids arrive."
Another awkward pause.
Her lack of confidence in him was apparent; he didn't defeat Frieza, why should he be the one to defeat the androids? He couldn't help but notice the sudden crushing feeling in his chest; before he let it take hold any further, he stood up and walked away. "I'll be off to resume training."
As he walked away, Bulma felt as though it was another rejection. Oh, who was she kidding; it IS a rejection. Rude alien prince! No 'please', no 'thank you', just kiss and walk away. Her ego took another beating, and she couldn't help but wonder why he had even bothered showing her that bit of tenderness in the first place if he insisted on treating her like a jerk. It was bad enough that she pined for him; he was a jerk, by Gods, she knew it all too well, but she couldn't help feeling the enigmatic pull when she looked into his eyes. Frustration bubbled up in her chest; after a while contemplating, after shot or three of whiskey later, she set off to find him. She was tired of being passive, and she intended on giving Vegeta a piece of her mind.
END CHAPTER 3
a/n: Sorry it took a while to update. I've been busy. ;( But do let me know what you think of this chapter.