"BLINDED BY THE LIGHT," Bulma yelled at the top of her lungs. The music filled the dome of her bus as it raced down the highway, the wind whipping her hair across her face. "LIT UP LIKE A…uh, hmm-hmm-hmm-something something something, oh, I don't know the words."
She flicked the radio down a bit and grabbed for her Pepsi.
Tonight was going to be a great night.
Tonight was the silent auction, and tonight she'd be giving something very special to Vegeta.
"Your virginity?" Chi Chi asked on speaker, Bulma's cell phone sliding across her lap as she took the turn a little too hard.
Bulma snorted. "No," she exclaimed with disdain. "A motorcycle."
Vegeta felt out of place as soon as he regrettably, reluctantly, reproachfully stepped inside the doors of the car show. The sprawling downtown auditorium was milling with hundreds of people he wouldn't otherwise associate with. His father had always distinctly separated people by whether they could or could not afford his hourly rate, and the people here fell firmly into the latter category. They dressed with casual abandon, slouching jeans and ball caps and t-shirts with obnoxious graphics, and it was all rather…plebian. He repressed the desire to curl his lip and forced his legs to move forward.
He forked over his ticket to the people at the front desks silently, tugging his shirt cuffs at his wrists uncomfortably, letting others walk around him as he stood at the front entrance with his hands in his trench pockets. People seemed to avoid him—here, everywhere—and, for the moment, it gave him some relief.
Perhaps they could sense an air of superiority around him? A sort of musk secreted from his refined pores? He was undeniably out of place, nonetheless, because people seemed to be giving him a wide berth. His eyes narrowed at them all, as he stood rigidly just inside the doors.
Perhaps it was his more sophisticated attire. He'd simply worn what he left work in: black slacks, crisp button down, and a several hundred dollar, double breasted coat to guard against the evening breeze. Bulma had once called his wardrobe's emphasis on black "funereal." He sniffed at the memory, though found himself pulling more colorful garments out to wear when she was around.
He'd spent all day making sure the software and expense accounts for the firm were feasible and functional, and though he'd left it behind with supreme agitation, having been practically ordered to be at this event by the woman who already dictated far too much in his life, being out of the office was likely…good. It performed a function; it was contingent for recovery. That's what he told himself, anyway.
He had a habit of getting totally absorbed in his goals, as it was the time tested method by which he succeeded in all things. He was also a completionist; he would set himself on a task and energetically engage and master it from every angle, with the end goal being complete decimation. Bulma's interrupting his routine was balking, nerve-wracking even, but sometimes it afforded him a small break so that he could regroup and refocus. Not that he would admit that to her, of course.
He searched the auditorium with increasing disgruntlement. This was no small show. Cars lined the walls, queued in lines down the center—domestic power houses, imported engineering feats. He was a car man, but privately; he did not like sharing his interests with other people, as Bulma did. That just made it a task. Then he had to small talk with someone, and it was draining and grating, frankly, when the other person disagreed with him. It became a pissing contest, and it troubled him so much that he'd be seething about it for days.
But wandering through the crowd and cars offered a quiet lull from the usual absorption and intensity in his head. No one paid much attention to him for once, and he liked the white noise it created. He was often so full of competing projects and responsibilities, juggling the demand for integrity and pride and perfection, that it felt alien to let loose and be empty for a moment. He had Bulma to 'thank' for that.
He wandered until the crowd grew thicker. Brows pinching in irritation as his silence was intruded upon, he plowed through the people, hoping to come out the other side.
Instead, he was deposited in front of the 'B's Dubs' t-shirt stand.
He'd found her.
He fought down a wave of surprise which rocked him visibly. She'd dressed for the occasion—a fitted 'B's Dubs' shirt tucked into tight black denim, motorcycle boots with a practical heel. Her shop's logo was stretched across her ample chest, her high rise pants stretching over her generous hips and buttoning at the small of her waist. Her mass of curls, soft and bouncy, spilled around a black headband and he wanted to run his hands through it. Reminiscent of the cherry red Corvettes a few yards away, her bright red lips contrasted against clean white skin. She looked put together, relaxed, and glowing, a flirtatious Rosie the Riveter.
This was a different woman altogether, and yet the very same one. The thought of confronting her did something to his belly. Instead, he watched her for a moment interact with the crowd and a small group of reporters, smiling dazzling and wide. She gestured at the automobiles behind her, passionately discussing the sizes of cams, valves, carbs, and deconstructing his last lingering belief that she was not a woman who took her work seriously.
Not a lot of the kids knew who she was, though they hovered around the iconic relics she'd restored in fascination. But the media certainly did. There were a few journalists standing outside the circle, waiting to get a picture and a word. He was so used to seeing her pulling at the underwear riding up her butt and running into things in the morning, covered in dust and grease in a gloomy shop, that watching her confidently shake hands with her fans and self-assuredly joke with journalists was almost unsettling.
He put his hands in his pockets and meandered up to the front of the group, not wanting to intrude. As if sensing him there, she turned, and with a private smile, she reached for him, drawing him to her. For just a moment, he had the audacity to be embarrassed as bulbs flashed around them, but the blue gaze fixed on him dulled his awareness of the crowd for a moment.
"Don't you look happy to be here," she teased him quietly. "Dressed all in black for the occasion." Her hand squeezed leave his arm.
He stood uncomfortably. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"You look good," she assured him, smiling warmly.
"You don't look so bad yourself," he replied awkwardly.
"If you were a rock star I would throw my panties at you," she said earnestly.
"That's promising." He flashed his canines briefly.
Her smile grew broad, and she squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you came. I have a surprise for you, if you can hang around for an hour."
He looked at nothing in particular from the side of his eyes, exaggerating aloofness. "Oh?"
"Have you been working at the office all day?"
"Yes," he replied cautiously. He expected her to complain.
"Well, then, I expect you to stick around, then." She smiled at him then, an intimate thing that made his stomach clench.
It would never cease surprising him how unafraid she was to just be in public, how unapologetic and strong and opinionated and proud, without sacrificing her happiness to do it. She was well liked wherever she went, talkative and warm, making sure everyone she met in the crowd got an equal amount of attention. Outspoken, yes, but outgoing, and tempered by a respect for every individual she encountered...while he made everyone work for his attention without any promise of his appreciation.
She turned from him to take questions, to chat with spectators, to talk engine sizes and model years and air-cooled and water-cooled, and he stood stoically beside her as it washed over him. He'd thought that she was most in her element surrounded by parts and dust, her gloves and jumpsuit dipped in oil, but she flourished in the public spotlight. It had never occurred to him how strong, professional, and controlled she was, even when she got her hands dirty.
He startled as a car show officiant breached the crowd and handed Bulma a slip of paper. She opened the folded sheet, and her eyes grew wide. The officiant pat Bulma on the arm warmly and walked away.
She held it out to Vegeta between her fingers, eyes winking with delight.
Upon unfolding it he saw a woman's neat cursive writing—$20,000 to West City Shelters.
"My Beetle was auctioned off to support West City Women's Shelters," she explained. "It garnered three times more than I expected!"
"Congratulations," he stammered.
He had met other successful women, women like Fasha, women whose success drew him in briefly and who just as swiftly bored him. Women who were good at what they did for a living, who didn't take no for an answer; sharp-dressed women, well-educated women, women who knew how to let him lead, and understood, at least, by design, the power he liked to have in a relationship. He was a stolid traditionalist. But Bulma was cut from an entirely different cloth. Her objectives were different: she didn't demand respect, she was given it by virtue of how she treated people and how she devoted herself to her craft. And she didn't let him lead at all—well, except in bed. That he chalked up to a lackluster sex life with an idiot before he'd arrived, like a paramedic, on the scene.
He'd always been drawn to strong women, but he'd never met one who wasn't just trying to project it, who made him feel anything more than a visceral attraction that would quickly disappear when the sun rose.
"It's almost time for the Best in Show," she stated, glancing at her watch. "Would you like to go take a look with me?"
His gaze didn't lift from the ground. "Sure."
It was hard to keep his attention; he found other things, like throwing himself into insurmountable assignments, more rewarding. They gave tangible rewards; relationships devolved quickly, leaving no profit, only headache.
She took his hand in hers and led the way. His eyes widened at the gesture.
He'd always felt that there was the serious business of living—work—and the lesser business of living, like wooing women, which never took much work and became dull pretty quickly.
And yet, that didn't apply to the thing that had misshapenly grown between them. She wasn't lesser, wasn't secondary…she wasn't classed at all with other women. He didn't have to try to be a man he was not with her, a two-dimensional man, a man penciled in on a piece of paper and animated by one night's stale magic. Despite how easy it could be, just to be with her, it was as compelling and fulfilling as any of his hard work was. To be around her was to be three dimensional.
"Hey," she whispered. "See the guy in the red shirt over there?" She pointed into her palm. "That's Harishi Marumoto."
His brows rose. "Of Marumoto's Motors?"
She nodded, smiling with barely contained glee. "Isn't that exciting?"
He cocked an eyebrow. They had different definitions of 'excitement.'
Because of his aversion to intimacy, he'd never had a serious relationship he realized as he stood uncertainly at Bulma's side. He had no experience with how to receive or express feelings, how to interact with a woman in a way other than for his own pleasure. He'd never even had a role model of how to act as…as a romantic partner. Commitment was for salarymen, his father would often say.
With other women, he was a classically built body, but always a shot caller. His word was non-negotiable, and it was like attracting—and drowning—flies with unforgiving honey.
Her lips thinned. "I wonder if I should approach him."
Bulma did not interact with him just as a face and a title, but…as a man inside. Drooling over his chiseled body after he got back from the gym earned him a remark about all of his hard work. Bossing her around usually earned him a sharp reminder that she had a will of her own. She had inadvertently shown him that his reasoning took place inside him, not out; that there was a thing inside and apart from the blackness of his heart, and it was him.
A few men stopped in their tracks beside them, exclaiming and pulling Bulma into an embrace.
"I'd like you to meet a few of my peers in my field," her voice drifted to him. The men regarded him, smiling. She beamed at them all. "Vegeta, this is Marty and Sam, owners of Motorheads; Paul Aaron, head of Paul's Porsche's…"
He shook hands with them all.
She did not follow the logic by which he'd set up his life, his father's logic, the logic of corporate work, of money and power. That his father was good at his job was just a perk; but it was for the power that he sought to achieve in his field, not the personal satisfaction or the pride of work itself. Vegeta had always had to work twice as hard as his father to prove himself. But Bulma simply wasn't interested in proving herself; she did the hard work because it was the right thing to do, and because she enjoyed it. The fame was only a perk if she could use it to help others. It was backwards, and Vegeta didn't know where on that spectrum he would even put himself.
They shook hands with more reporters and made their way slowly toward the motorcycles at the far end of the room.
Though she was careful to give him his space, he felt her fingertips brush his backside as she explained each competing motorcycle category, gesturing at groups of bikes, her hand brushing the divot between his shoulder blades subtly.
Breaking him free of his thoughts for a moment, she leaned in close. Her hair brushed his ear. She smelled clean and feminine. "Wanna go out for a beer and pizza after this? I'm starving."
His voice quietly grumbled over her. "Does it lead to undressing you?" Sometimes he had no control of what he said around her. It was galling.
She beamed up at him. "Buy me a chocolate dipped chocolate ice cream cone and we have a deal."
"Done," he whispered silkily into her ear, and for a moment, she leaned her head against his cheek, smiling into his shoulder.
A group of older men introduced themselves and began asking her questions, and she pulled away to answer amiably.
He folded his arms over his chest and glared out at the crowd.
What kind of woman did he think he'd wanted?
A successful one, in a corporate field, one who, like him, was highly composed. He'd wanted one who didn't want to become attached. A woman who dressed powerfully, but a woman who deferred to him in all things. Bulma was none of those things. What kind of man did that make him?
He listened at her side as she took questions, slinging jokes, the flash of cameras every now and then.
She gestured down the aisle. "Let's go look at the vintage bikes, shall we?"
The two of them might be opposites on paper, but as she lectured in casual, intoxicating detail the math and physics behind the combustion chamber while tickling the kids that wound around her legs and laughing with the journalists, he was struck hard by the character of the woman before him.
It didn't hurt that she was beautiful, classically stunning when cleaned up, but so understated and so often covered in soot that it was typically overlooked, except those moments he'd watch her blue brows furrow with thought under the chassis of a car, her eyes unblinking as the cogs in her head wheeled over data. He wanted to lick the furrow between her brows and cover her slender neck with his mouth, the sweat and grease a private aphrodisiac. Other men might have seen a woman too short, too proud, too unambitious, too loud. He had never really seen one before until her.
"Which one do you like?"
He startled. "What?"
"Which one do you like?" She gestured at the motorcycles, fully restored antiques gleaming.
He looked at them all quietly. They were all appealing in their own way, though there was one at the end that kept drawing his eyes, aggressive in its styling with a classic aesthetic. It was bold but controlled, boasting a silver gas tank and an intimidating black frame, balanced with thick, menacing wheels.
"That one?"
"What?" He frowned.
"Do you like that one or something?" She asked.
"Nice looking bike," he grumbled, shrugging.
"It's alright," she agreed, pulling him in the other direction.
They were making their way back to the B's Dubs tent when a young man approached them, and to Vegeta's puzzlement, extended a small gold trophy to Bulma. "Best Vintage," he confirmed, shaking her hand.
She startled them all by hugging the young man, and then hugging Vegeta. There were a few flashbulbs, and after answering a few questions happily, she pulled him away from the crowd by his wrist.
He watched her confidence stall, replaced by bashfulness.
"Vegeta." She cleared her throat. "It was a team job," she explained. "I had a friend at Cafe Racers Motorcycles build the low profile body, while I worked on the engine. The paint scheme is based off the Porsche 911 Magnus Walker. I thought you'd like that. And the seat is vintage leather." She seemed to be growing more and more embarrassed as she spoke. "The headlight is just like my own, and it has twin ceramic coated exhaust pipes." She laughed nervously.
He wasn't sure what she wanted him to say. "Your point?" He said stupidly.
"Yes, well," she squeaked. And cleared her throat. "The bike you liked. It's yours. I built it for you."
He stared at her dumbly.
She stared back, worrying her lip.
"Is that okay?" She finally asked, wanly. "I wanted it to compete so you could know with certainty you had a first class bike."
He watched her with astonishment.
She pulled a small set of keys from her pocket, holding them out cautiously to him.
He put his hand out, and she dropped them in. His hand curled around them.
"I can't take these," he finally said.
Her mouth parted in surprise, or maybe protest.
His voice dipped into a growl. "I don't want it."
He was a hardworking man who'd climbed his way to the top without making any friends.
For the first time in his life, he didn't know that he deserved this. He hadn't worked for it. He'd just been along for the ride.
He didn't deserve a good woman. Not until he gave her something back in return.
He held the keys out to her. Paralyzed for a moment, she then grabbed them with shaky fingers.
"Well, then." She cleared her throat, and after gazing at their feet for a moment, turned and walked away.
He watched her leave mutely, eventually turning on his heel towards the exit.
She drove home with watery eyes. The streetlights glowed down the strip of highway, creating tracers as they floated past her. She dashed at her eyes and gripped the bus's wheel tightly.
She felt stupid. She felt stupid for assuming Vegeta wanted or was ready for that kind of gesture. That seemed really, painfully clear now.
She'd just been so excited for the last month, putting together the motorcycle engine in her shop manically, exchanging emails back and forth with the design company, anticipating…what?
She knew Vegeta wasn't super emotive, and she was prepared for that...she'd thought. But she thought that a gift from the heart superseded that. This was no big deal, she'd thought, except it was a big deal, because it was a really personal undertaking. She was an adult, and she shouldn't have jumped into such an intimate project with someone whose status in her life wasn't clear to her, who wasn't ready to reciprocate those kinds of feelings.
"I'm so dumb," she whimpered. "I'm just a big dummy." She sniffled.
It had taken another hour to take down the booth that housed the B's Dubs t-shirts for sale, and every second was exceedingly painful. She had to touch base with her tow guy, who would be towing the bike back to her shop, rather than to Vegeta's garage. She shook hands with the Beetle's and the camper's new owners, which sold for a large sum during the silent auction. Forty grand had entered her bank account tonight, and it didn't count all the t-shirt sales and the marketing, the articles that would hit the stands next week.
And now it all felt empty.
It wasn't so much that she was hurt that he hadn't seemed excited—he was a self-contained man, she knew that—as much as she was hurt that she'd thought there was more to this than there really was. But things had just been going so great between them, and rather than hold on to it for a few more months feeling out their situation, after he'd confessed he wanted her to move in, she'd thought that was the sign she needed….
Things always seemed to be moving so fast between them but not going anywhere at all.
She grabbed for her phone, toying with it on her lap, her fingers sliding on the buttons, caressing. She pressed number 1, Chi Chi's speed dial. And then promptly turned the phone off.
Chi Chi had her own problems. It would be selfish of her to bitch and moan about her own petty issues to Chi Chi, who was having serious mom-to-be issues. She and Chi Chi were usually gregarious with one another, but they were kind of starting their relationship anew, and Chi Chi was in a very delicate place, and Bulma didn't want to step on any toes.
Bulma threw the phone into the center console with frustration.
She thrust her hand out for the phone again, this time pressing five, Goku's speed dial number. And then threw the phone down with frustration. She couldn't call Goku and not Chi Chi! Chi Chi would be hurt that she hadn't came to her first.
Bulma screamed at the top of her lungs, jerking the wheel. She flipped the analog radio on and turned it up loud enough not to hear herself think.
She pulled off the highway as her ramp sidled right, pointing her towards the large properties in midtown that her parents resided at.
When she pulled in, she was disappointed to see that he wasn't there, waiting for her. Fury rolled over her for being so dumb to expect that he would.
She cranked the parking break and flew up the front steps, stomping in the front door. She grabbed for the burgundy bubble helmet that sat unassuming on the front table in the foyer and pivoted, shutting the front door as quickly as she'd come in.
She was going for a bike ride, and she was going for pizza and ice cream and beer: the trifecta of bad mood food.
Vegeta barked for the server and sat dubiously, drinking his third scotch as if someone might at any moment jump out and attack him in between his haranguing the servers and criticizing the menu. Sometimes Raditz was reminded of how much of an asshole his friend was. When he was around Bulma, he was at least considerate of how he treated people in front of her.
"You know," Raditz began loftily, "true love is said to change you by bringing out the best of yourself, and by helping you grow up, together."
"Shut up, Raditz," Vegeta snarled.
It was one of the rare occasions that Vegeta joined them on a pub crawl. It was a Friday night, and Raditz was pretty sure Vegeta had promised to hang out with Bulma, but he wasn't going to complain. Audibly.
"Sooooooo," Raditz drawled, glancing at Nappa nervously. "How 'bout that football team?"
"Go football team," Nappa offered supportively.
"Another scotch!" Vegeta hollered.
An hour and a half ride through West City's highways and hills and now she was happily by herself.
Happily, oh-so-happily.
She slumped into the seat in the corner of the pizza joint, listening to the occasional roar of excitement when the jocks sank a waffle ball into a plastic cup full of beer, and thankfully she couldn't think over the blaring music, the lights from pinball machines blinking around her.
Usually she buried herself in work at her shop when feeling down, but tonight she was tired of machines, tired of logic, tired of hard work. The shop had been bustling all summer, and she was wound up and needed to wind down. The summer was drawing to a close, the sun setting sooner and the wind, buffeting against her on her bike, crisper. The need for a change in her life was coming on strong.
She took a gulp of her second pilsner and sighed. She then buried her head in her arms and groaned. She was lonely, and upset, and so exhausted.
"Hey, girlie."
Bulma peeked upwards from her crossed forearms, warily peering at three young men with baseball caps turned backwards.
"Wanna play?" One of them thumbed behind them.
She narrowed her eyes at them, gauging them for any bad, frat boy intentions. There was a large group of guys and girls behind them, chatting and bouncing balls with drunk abandon. Neither of the boys in front of her seemed creepy, just sincere, young and outrageously dumb.
She smiled widely.
"I'll tell ya what." The frat boys shrank a little as Bulma stood in all of her petite glory, slamming her draught and grinning at the curmudgeons as she spoke. "Four out of five wins. And let's up the stakes. $100—each—on the winner."
The young men begrudgingly placed dollar bills in her hand and sulked off as Bulma slammed the eighth dixie cup of beer and hopped on her feet in a little swaying dance while the phone rang against her ear.
"Hello?" The phone spoke with a smidgen of confusion.
"Hey," she replied confidently, otherwise known while tipsy as a-little-too-loudly. "I just won a drinking contest against a bunch of frat boys."
"What would convince you to enter a drinking contest with a bunch of frat boys? Nevermind. Pride. I get it. So why are you calling me?"
Bulma was smiling, the walls spinning a little. Raditz was always so funny. For some reason he was whispering. "Because I have a really excellent idea…" She paused. What had been her really excellent idea? "…An idea...that I think you would make an exquisite partner for."
"Oh? I'm at Easy Rider's on 4th Street, where you at?"
"Oh, what a co-inky-dink. I am at Earl's Pub on 7th Street. I'm not fit to drive, though, so I'll meet you at the fountain. Ready? Set? Go!" She had to press the off button a few times before it finally ended the call, almost dropping her phone. She pulled on her leather jacket and adjusted her riding gloves clumsily as she headed out the door.
She wasn't so drunk yet that she wasn't equipped to walk down the street, the large fountain at the center of the bar district just meters away. Well, maybe a little, as she pinioned around a trash can. But the drinking contest with the frat boys had been exactly what she needed. It had renewed her confidence! And given her an extra couple of hundred dollars in her pocket. Here she was, boots chomping the pavement with a slap-slap-slap, wide hips and red lips to cut a man on this Saturday night. She was loud and proud; she was invincible!
She lost track of time but eventually found herself at the fountain, pleased to see Raditz standing nearby, smoking, watching the crowd reservedly.
She stumbled into him, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it. "It's been so long!" She shouted, hugging him. She didn't notice Raditz tense under her embrace. Had she not ever hugged him before? She should do it more often!
"Yeah, real long," he replied sarcastically, peeling himself from her. "You're tanked. Are you here alone?"
"Shyeah," she snorted, and Raditz flinched before wiping his face. "Just needed to get away by myself, you know."
Raditz looked at her doubtfully. "Uh huh." He shifted. "Well, you should know—"
"Barry was telling me that there's a big karaoke competition going on at Donovan's right now," she explained, already dragging him past the fountain towards the dive bar across the street.
"Who's Barry?"
"One of the frat boys. I told you that. Listen to me every once in awhile! It's going to be crazy. Crazy! I knew that Raditz, you, Raditz, the one and only, were my partner in crime as soon as he told me what he said to me, that it's going to be awesome. Didn't I tell you?! It's karaoke ohmygod!" She wailed.
Raditz cringed behind her. "Yeah."
"Oh, man, Pat Benatar, Devo, oh my god, we're going to kill it. We're going to kill it."
"Bulma—"
She pulled him into the little dive bar blaring music on the corner without a second thought.
"I forgot how happy I am when I'm around people," she yelled over the music, jerking Raditz down so she could yell in his ear. "Being happy makes me happy." His hair was in the way. "You have the hair of an angel, has anyone ever told you that?" She inserted her fingers into his hair, petting him.
"No. No one ever has," Raditz admitted, grabbing her hand and holding it still. "Hey, there's something I gotta tell you—"
"Hey! Hey, you!" Bulma was shouting at the guy at the sound booth. "We wanna go." She pointed between both of them frantically. "We wanna sing."
"Ohhhh, no. No, I don't think so." When Raditz tried to pull away, Bulma yanked him closer towards her.
The DJ was nodding. "What track do you want?"
Before Raditz could intrude and pull Bulma away, she was already jumping up and down with excitement. "A hair band. Oh my god, a hair band!" She wrapped Raditz' hair around her fingers absently like a school girl. "'Nothing But A Good Time!'" Bulma tugged her hand from his hair and slapped him on the back, bubbling with ecstasy at her wit, and Raditz' face fell.
"Oh God," he squawked as she pulled him to the stage.
They couldn't help that they entered the bar as ominous as gangsters, Nappa towering over all as Vegeta's already angry, tired gaze seared all who glanced over and quickly looked away. He wasn't in the mood for this, and he felt like taking it out on everyone who looked twice at him. He didn't like himself today, and he didn't like anybody else.
Grumbling, Vegeta scanned the crowd, the blasted music grating on his already frayed nerves. He'd had a few more glasses of scotch and what he could stomach of a porterhouse steak while waiting for Raditz to reappear, and it had done nothing to give him any direction. The effect of the alcohol was disappointingly lacking clarity and he was taking its affront personally.
"Where is the pathetic little worm?" Vegeta asked Nappa as they surveyed the bar. It was densely packed, and the lights were infuriatingly low except over the stage. "He's not here. Let's keep looking."
It was as if the smoke cleared in front of them, as if a curtain pulled back and he and Nappa's gazes fatefully discovered the stage at the same time.
There stood Raditz, with his foot resting on an amp on the stage, singing high-pitched and eerily in tune with the woman's voice erupting from the speakers.
He whipped his hair over his shoulder teasingly, fluttering his lashes at the crowd as he palmed his chest.
As if in slow motion, none other than the petite, blue-haired misguided-object-of-his-affection swaggered out from behind him, microphone in hand, rapping, hands cutting the air in exaggerated gestures.
Vegeta's face colored as Nappa burst into deafening laughter.
"Raditz is singing the girl's part," Nappa pointed out unnecessarily.
Bulma masterfully spat the last verse in the song like she'd sang it a hundred times before, and Vegeta had no doubt that she had. Raditz was gyrating his hips and running his hands over his body to the hook, to everyone's shrieks and excitement, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Vegeta couldn't move. Was it humiliation, or because he knew if he did he'd grab Raditz by the suit lapels and drag him out of the bar and Raditz wouldn't have such pretty hair anymore? And yet, here he was, a man of action, paralyzed.
"Let's hear it for Mariah Carey, everyone," Bulma's voice rang through the speakers, and screams and clapping crescendoed as Raditz threw his hair back and posed and the music finally dwindled.
Bulma beamed and leapt into Raditz' arms, waving at the crowd before Raditz carried her carefully down the stairs from the stage. Bulma kissed Raditz' cheek.
Vegeta's vision grew red.
He was moving through the crowd before he realized it, distantly hearing Nappa's protest. He pushed through the crowd without concern, knocking people out of the way as he beelined toward them.
"What are you doing?" He seethed as he pulled up in front of them, grabbing someone's tall glass of beer from their hand despite their protest and downing it to refrain from grabbing Bulma and throwing her over his shoulder. The buzz sank its claws into him immediately.
"Vegeta!" Bulma said warmly. It was clear, his gaze drifting over the light sheen of sweat on her face, her frazzled hair, her unfocused gaze, that she'd been drinking. The idiot. She was gorgeous.
He distantly saw Raditz stiffen and sweat as he waited for Vegeta to possibly pummel him.
"Again," Vegeta replied sarcastically, "what are you doing?" Vegeta gestured at the stage angrily.
Bulma's face grew stormy. "We were participating in the ancient art of kah-rah-oh-keh," she argued. Her eyes widened. "You know, I forgot for a second how mad I was at you. But now I remember! I'm mad at you!" Her arms folded over her chest and she listed.
"You're mad at me?" Vegeta laughed haltingly. "I'm out having drinks with my friends and the next thing I know you've stolen one of them."
"Hey girl, is this guy bothering you?" A young man with his hat on backwards put his hand protectively on Bulma's shoulder, glaring at Vegeta.
His hand was on her shoulder.
Steam erupted from Vegeta's ears.
"No, Barry. Thank you. He's just my arrogant jerk boyfriend."
Bulma patted the hand on her shoulder and the guy pulled away reluctantly.
"Or are you even my boyfriend?" Bulma thrust her fingertip into Vegeta's chest, and he stiffened with anger. "One moment you're asking me to shack up with you and the next moment you're acting like you can't wait to be rid of me!"
Unsure how to get out of this dangerous territory, he turned his rage on Raditz.
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were leaving to hang out with my crazy woman?"
Raditz shrank into himself. "I tried," he squeaked. "She called me and she was obviously drunk. I left to try to get her home but she dragged me here. I knew you were upset with her so I didn't want to bother you!"
"Hey. Hey hey hey hey." Bulma inserted herself between them. She grabbed a drink from the table next to them and downed it, much to the further chagrin of the table's occupants. "Raditz is a real friend. Not like you. It's not his fault he loves Mariah Carey!"
"I don't want anyone touching you," Vegeta said without thinking, tic pulsing.
"What, like this?" She rubbed Raditz' arm with her palms like she was trying to start a fire. Vegeta grit his teeth as Nappa and Raditz looked on with awkward confusion. "You're a real jerk, you big jerk," she stuttered, dwarfed on each side by Raditz and the jock. Her arms stiffened at her sides angrily. "Just call it like it is! Is this a hooking up thing? Is this a booty call thing and you just don't know how to tell me that's all it is? Cuz if it is, I'm gonna move on! I'm a beautiful woman and I'm not getting any younger here!" She threw her arm companionably around Barry, and Vegeta finally lost it.
Vegeta grabbed at Bulma's hand and drug her out of the bar, Nappa and Raditz trailing reluctantly behind.
"I'm taking you home," he grit, holding her by the upper arm and leading her down the alley, toward the parking lot where his Ghia sat.
"You're not taking me anywhere. I don't want to be anywhere stupid with someone as stupid as you right now," she issued haughtily, her intimidation somewhat diminished by her slurring.
Vegeta came to a halt and faced her furiously.
"What am I not doing right? Huh? Tell me what I need to do right!" Vegeta's arms waved wildly. Raditz and Nappa lingered a few feet away, ready to intervene.
"You need to figure out what you want from me! I'm tired of living in…in a state of unknown with you," she explained uncertainly. "It's like you have no idea how to interact with other people. This is hard on me. Your running away from your feelings punishes me." She looked surprised. "Wow, that came out a lot more eloquently than I thought it would."
"Why can't we just go by how we feel day to day?!" He argued with frustration. "Today I feel like drinking. Tomorrow: Who knows?" It was not the question he wanted to ask, but he couldn't find the words to say what he needed without feeling humiliatingly uncomfortable.
"Because I love you!" She cried out.
Vegeta's heart stopped.
Tears grew in her eyes and she wrung her hands together.
"I love you and want to be loved in return," she sniffled. "But I don't know that I'm even welcome in your life."
Vegeta's eyes widened.
She watched him for a moment, but as the seconds ticked by, her brows clashed over her watery eyes and she set her jaw. She spun away and began walking down the alley by herself. "You're a coward, Vegeta," she spat as he watched her stomp down the alley. "At least have the balls to tell me you're not interested."
Vegeta wasn't aware that he was walking until his hand was on her shoulder and spinning her around, grasping her in his arms.
His mouth found hers, hot and still, and he pressed her against him firmly, his fingers sinking into her hair.
They stumbled into the wall. He kissed her again, and again, and she stood dumbfounded under his assault until tentatively kissing back, and something tightened through his chest.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he muttered into her mouth, his mouth sucking at her lips, his chest against her own, heaving.
"Are you telling me this is the first time you've kissed a girl?" She joked weakly into his mouth as his hands rested on her waist possessively.
He growled. "I don't know….I don't know!…How to be a, a…boyfriend...to you." He pulled back and chewed on the word with embarrassed anger. He watched her from hooded eyes. "This is not where my skill set lies. If you were smart, you'd move on."
"Vegeta, I'm not smart, I'm drunk," she admitted, blinking. "All I ask is that you say you're committed to me. You're a man of your word. Just say you're committed and I won't have to be scared anymore."
"I'm not boyfriend material," he argued, eyes wild as he clutched her close.
"I know that," she consoled him. "Just say you and I are firmly together. Just say you're serious about me. That's all you have to say, and I won't doubt you again."
"I…" He shook his head, and then kissed her over and over rapidly. They swayed together, dancing around each other's feet into the middle of the alley.
"Just," he pressed his tongue into her mouth then, his hands smoothing down her arms to grasp her tightly. They broke for air. "Just, say you're mine."
"I'm yours," she breathed, trying to keep up with his mouth. "Now reciprocate it you idiot."
Everything in Vegeta was yelling out at the same time in a cacophony and he couldn't make heads or tails of what he was thinking. This required clear thinking! This required time and practical thinking and a strategy, and then they'd discuss assets and some kind of prenuptial and—
They swayed and listed, and he pressed her against the wall, kissing her roughly, holding her head against his with barely controlled passion.
"Just don't call me your boyfriend. I loathe that word," he griped into her mouth.
She surprised him by jumping into his arms and pulling him close, winding her arms around his neck and throwing her legs around his hips.
"How 'bout my bottom bitch," she breathed, pulling him tightly against her. "The old ball and chain? My lover? My old man? My boy toy. My arm candy."
"Shut up," he said, covering her mouth with his own.
Raditz searched for his lighter in his coat pocket.
"Cute," Raditz sighed to Nappa as they watched the pair press up against each other and sag against the alley wall.
"Love," Nappa sighed.
They nodded and lit their cigarettes, making sure no one entered the alley.