Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Hookups And Hangups ❯ Chapter 4
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: springandbysummerfall 
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.01.2015 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.7K | Visits: 247 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.01.2015 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.7K | Visits: 247 | Status: Work In Progress
Vegeta's fingertips rapped on the long oak desk as his mouth curled with sadistic pleasure. "Good. Tell them I'll be coming after the Bentley's, next," he said into the phone. "It's an open and closed case. In fact, I don't want to hear any more about it. Tell him if he wants to pursue it any longer or if he's going to email me with anymore of his contrived blackmail, all of his messages will be redirected to the West City Department of Waste Management. Got it?" Someone choked out an agreement on the other line. "Good," he purred, before sitting the phone back in its cradle on the desk and standing up to pull on his suit jacket.
His eyes raked over the magnificent cityscape from the wide window on the 14th floor with apathy, and he pocketed his cellphone and grabbed the handle of his briefcase. He strode from his office and barely registered his secretary jump out of her seat to scamper after him. "The Freeman memo is on my desk," he said without slowing his stride or looking her way as he headed for the elevator.
"Mr. No'Ouji, wait," she pleaded, struggling to meet his stride. Vegeta's cool mask disintegrated and he turned an unrepentant scowl at his pretty, young intern, who looked back at him fearfully. "Um, Mr. No'Ouji, this was just faxed over from Goldman's office."
"What is it," he snapped, giving the papers a look of viperous dislike. He really didn't want to deal with any more work tonight. He'd been here since 5 am, going over this damn case so he could bury the damn thing already, and now he was going home to take a hot shower before he had to get up early in the morning to get in and out of the gym before his 8 am meeting.
"Um, it's about the Freeman case," she issued weakly.
He snarled.
He was getting very tired of this suit. It should have been in the bag already, but every time he'd kill it, the defense's reprisals at their last breath, something would revive it and he'd be staring down a whole new chimera.
His eyes scanned the fax trembling in her hands. ”Juuhachigou from Turtle and Kame?" Vegeta's frown deepened and his eyes actually met hers, causing his secretary's heart to pitter patter at an even more alarming rate. "What in the hell does that harpy Juuhachigou want with the Freeman case?" Before she could even attempt to offer an answer, West City's top attorney had ripped the fax out of her hands, his eyes back and forth over the text before quickly rolling it up with a deep growl. He cursed viciously, causing his secretary to flinch.
She watched the sinfully gorgeous man stride out of the office and into the elevators opposite without even acknowledging her or saying farewell, only slamming the door behind him, and she let out a breath she'd hadn't known she'd been holding before bursting into tears and rushing to her desk to pack her things for real this time.
The man barely knew she existed, but when he did, it always ended up with her questioning why she even bothered existing. No one in the office dared to speak to him, except for the partners of the firm, who took all his chilly demands and icy dismissals in stride.
How could someone so excessively handsome be so heartbreakingly uncivilized?
The pressure from her parents for her to become a paralegal really wasn't worth this.
//
Warm oil dripped onto Bulma's forehead, and she swiped at it with the back of her gloved hand, managing only to smear it across her temple as she bit her tongue and cranked the socket wrench as hard as she could. With a crack, the nut broke off the bolt and clattered to the floor, and Bulma let loose a string of curses before dropping her wrench beside her and grabbing for a replacement oil pan. It seemed like every time someone brought in one of these old Fox's they were far more work than they were worth, and her boots clattered against the grating of the lift as she scooted down a bit to get a better grip on the last bolt. Her stomach rumbled ominously, reminding her it was past time to eat dinner, and reluctantly, she told it to shut its trash hole as she spent yet another long night at work.
"I aught to just put up a sign that says I charge triple for these stupid lemons, motherfff—“ The bell above the front door distantly clanged. "We're closed,” she called. "These stupid, ugh—" her wrench slipped again—"pain in the ass—" She grabbed for her mallet, and with a hint of guilt for taking the easy way out which would most certainly damage the part she was trying to preserve, started smacking her frustrations out on the rusted last bolt. “Motherfucking—“
Someone cleared their throat impatiently, and far under the car she barked, "I'll be with you in a minute."
"Ah!" She hollered as the last bolt snapped off and shot off down the chassis and clattered onto the floor, a cloud of dust and debris falling thickly onto her face. Bulma sputtered, clenched her eyes, and scooted her butt off the lift, hopping down and making her way to the nearby sink, where she snatched a towel and rubbed at her face vigorously. "Ugh!" She exclaimed with disgust, and wiped her fingers of the worst of the oil before throwing the towel into the can and turning toward the intruder with frustration.
"Can I help...you," she finished lamely as she came face to face with the last person she wanted to see.
Vegeta looked at her from across the room with amusement, an eyebrow inching up as he leaned a little too dapperly against the counter that separated her garage from the waiting area.
"Indeed," he replied with cool measure, his expression neutral. "Do you have a minute?" His tone brokered no room for negotiation.
"What do you want?" She walked toward him frowning, and as she leaned forward and looked up at him from the other side of the counter, Vegeta was struck with an unfamiliar pang of...something. Her frazzled blue curls were pinned back in a tight, thick bun at the nape of her neck, strands rebelling all around. Her blue eyebrows were arched with cautious curiosity, her creamy skin slick with sweat and marred with streaks of oil around her hairline that had stubbornly evaded the towel. She was dressed in baggy, dirty gray-blue coveralls, her name embroidered across one breast with her shop name against the other, her thick soled boots toeing the floors impatiently. For the first time that he could ever really recall, Vegeta thought that the woman before him was stunningly beautiful. He hadn't known that the word was even in his vocabulary.
She frowned deeply in consideration before a smile lazed over her face. "Couldn't get enough, huh?"
He snorted derisively. "Hardly," he bit out with excessive force. He froze her with a look of sharp purpose. "I came here because of this." He unceremoniously shoved a roll of papers in her face, and she looked wide eyed at him before scanning the text. Her eyebrows inched up with each passing second.
"Oh, wow," she breathed. When she looked up at him, a smile stretched across her face. "This is awesome."
Vegeta growled and snatched the papers away. "Did you do this?"
She looked at him with startled amusement. "No," she answered sweetly and unapologetically insincere. "I have no idea why she'd get involved."
"I want to know who in this neighborhood is stirring up trouble. I swear, if this is your doing—“
"Are you threatening me?" She hissed, moving around the counter to confront him and shoving her gloved knuckles onto her hips.
"And what if I am?" He replied dangerously. "I could have this whole block wiped out if I wanted to. I am, after all, the bit player in the Congressman's legal retinue. Then where would you be?"
Her eyes glittered with malice, and she clenched her teeth squarely. "Listen here, you overbearing little squirt, there are more than enough tools in this shop to kill you with—"
"You didn't think I was so little Saturday night," he retorted rakishly.
To his surprise, Bulma's small fist gripped his suit jacket lapel, and she grit up into his face. "If you think for a moment you can threaten me, I will have every law firm set on you like vultures on carrion to take Bardock Vejita and Sons down. If you think for a moment that I am some naive bucktoothed backwoods little girl pretending to play hard ball, think again. I have a very personal relationship with Baba, Korin, Juuhachigou, Turtle and Capsule Corporation litigators, and I will have your career and reputation smeared across the pavement," she seethed into his face as he bared his own teeth at her, their eyes boring into one another's.
"Try me," he seethed back.
"Is this man causing you trouble, Miss Bulma?" A warbling voice issued behind him, and Bulma's eyes flicked over Vegeta's shoulder, her grip loosening on his suit.
"This man couldn't hurt me if he tried." She sent Vegeta a loaded glance, and in so doing earned a string of nasty curses from inside Vegeta's head.
Vegeta smoothed his shirt and turned around to see a wrinkled old man with a painfully bent back and ashy, dark skin observing him and the infuriating woman. Vegeta held back a barely restrained snort. It was as if everything was sent topsy turvy with his proximity to this woman, careening towards a Feast of Fools where his power suddenly meant nothing and his subordinates mocked him with a parody of pleasantness.
"You sure you don't need me to walk him out?"
This time Vegeta did snort, and he crossed his arms and walked to the other side of the room with his back to them doggedly. Bulma shot him a dirty look and turned to the old man. "It's no problem, Eddy. I'm getting ready to lock up now," she reassured him.
"I just thought I'd check up on you," he said firmly, sending the visitor another assessing look before tipping his hat to her. "Another late night for ya I see. Well, we'll see you tomorrow."
"Alright, Eddy. Thanks. Tell your wife I said hi, and thank her for the cookies. They were heavenly," she smiled, walking him out the door.
The old man chuckled as he walked out the doorway. "Yes ma'am. You know she has a hard time sharing them with me when she makes 'em, but she always shares 'em with you."
Vegeta heard Bulma call out bye and watched her wave out of the corner of his eye. He had just a second to inspect the photos and rummage through the various debris on the countertops and walls.
It didn't take long for his heart to jump into his throat. He moved his face closer to the framed portrait and blinked. There it was, undeniably—a photo of Bulma when she was a plucky teenager, holding a giant check next to a stout man with thick glasses beneath a Capsule Corporation banner. The check was made out to her for the sum of twenty thousand dollars, and in the notes, "From the Peabody School of Astrophysics and Engineering." Next to this astounding record of achievement were four more: each a diploma, at the doctorate level, all dated a decade ago or more in different fields of hard science. Next to the grubby, blocky phone were framed lesser-certificates for automotive, collision repair, welding and restoration, and as he turned back to the dirty little woman with an open jaw, he wondered just who in the hell he was dealing with.
But as she turned back to him, a frown marring her pretty little features, he didn't get the chance to ask.
"Is that your Type 14 coupe out there?" She hooked her thumb at the doorway, her tone surprisingly balking.
Instantly, Vegeta's growing frustration with the night melted, and a slow, impish smile unfolded over his face.
"Why, yes," he drawled, picking up his briefcase and sauntering over to her before standing beside her, his chest and face just inches away from her. “Yes, it is. I told you I was a man of good taste," he purred, dipping his head down to look at her from under his lashes boyishly.
He opened the door with his arm, his waspish smile growing as he nodded towards the door. She responded with a smile of her own, and she turned, walking out the door under his arm to inspect the svelte, cream colored VW Karmann Ghia in the streetlight, glittering. She crossed her arms and paced around it, peering into the windows, Vegeta's pleasure growing as he saw her eyebrows rise fractionally upon viewing the restored, pristine burgundy leather interior.
"May I?" She called, rounding the back of the car and lingering, waiting for his okay.
He frowned slightly, maybe uncertainly, before nodding. If there was any woman he could trust touching his car, it was probably her.
She reached down and popped the trunk open, where, to her delight, a shiny air-cooled engine sat neatly tucked into the back hatch.
She looked up at him with barely restrained eagerness. "I pinned you for a sports car kind of guy, but this is only a size 1200 cubic centimeter engine." She fixed him with gleaming eyes, and he realized with confusion that he'd moved closer to her as he stared down at her delicate, round face. "I could put a 1600 in her for you. Your gas mileage wouldn't suffer too much, and you could at least drive on the freeway then. You know. If you'd like."
He watched her wrestle with her desire to share her love of cars with him and her increasing certainty that it was a risk to do so. She chewed on her lip subconsciously, and he watched her do it, until she blushed, and he realized what he'd been doing.
There was something in him that jumped at the opportunity to surprise her. "I'd rather have coffee with you first. Don't you think swapping out my engine is jumping the gun a bit?" He smiled as she flushed a deep scarlet, knowing full well that they'd already jumped the gun Saturday night, and she angled her head to the side to hide it.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was turning her face back to his with his fingertips and pressing his molten smile against that bottom lip lightly, relishing it more than he cared to admit. After a moment, she returned the kiss slightly.
"Meet me for a coffee tomorrow at 6 at The Roasterie. Then we can discuss this debacle of a case." He looked at her pointedly, and she returned his serious mien.
"I will not buckle on this, Vegeta," she said firmly, looking up into his dark eyes in the streetlight.
He looked down his nose at her before blowing a chuckle out between his lips, and moved to open his car door, tucking his briefcase into the sliver of a backseat. He moved toward her again and gazed down at her with rare consideration. "I don't want you to," he admitted gruffly, before running his thumb lightly down her jaw and turning away to slide into the drivers seat.
The decades old sports car started up smoothly, aside from the characteristic air-cooled clacking that Bulma had grown to love over the years. Vegeta shut his door and rolled down the window.
"Tomorrow. Six o'clock. Don't be late." He demanded gruffly, before tilting back his head with a devilish smile and setting the car into gear.
"I told you I have good taste," he crooned, fixing her with a very self-satisfied smile, and took off out of her small, weedy parking lot and down the street, leaving her blushing in her coveralls, her thumb on her cheek where his had been, watching the Ghia's red tail lights winking down the dark, industrial street with wonder.
There was an echoing clang to her left, and she turned to see Eddy packing up his painter's ladders and giving her a coy wink from his wrinkled face. She bolted back inside and closed the shop door staunchly behind her.
/ /
Chi Chi frowned down at her computer, her pen rapping the keyboard. She was in a pickle. She didn't know how he had gotten her email, but he had, and he was hitting right to the heart of the matter.
She chewed the top of her pen.
She placed the pen between her teeth buccaneer-style to free her hands, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and put her long fingers to the keyboard.
I really can't speak for Bulma, but I will let her know that you would like to see her.
She stared at the screen uneasily and then preceded to tap the backspace button.
She began again, this time more animatedly.
With all due respect, I really don't think it's my job to play middleman between you and Bulma regarding a relationship I really have no understanding of, and I resent you sending this email.
She worried her lip and, again, hit delete uncomfortably.
That was too mean. Even if it was what Bulma wished she'd say.
Her cell began chiming, and seeing it was 'Goku Bby' followed by multiple heart emoticons (something she would take TO THE GRAVE), she picked it up.
"Hey, you," she answered.
"Hey," his sunny voice sang clearly. "What's up?"
She sighed. "Not working. Don't tell anyone."
Goku laughed on the other end of the line. "Your secret's safe with me."
She sighed again, her eyes pinned to her computer screen. "Goku...I need some advice."
"What's up?"
"I..." She stared at the white screen, the small black text, sitting innocuously in her inbox.
Chi Chi, how are things? It's been a long time! I hope all is well with you and yours. I miss the heck out of your Dad's waffles. ;)
I've met your new man, Son Goku! We play baseball with each other often in this new league, believe it or not. He seems like a real good guy. Very funny. I'm happy for you.
"It's nothing," she told him.
"Are you sure?"
For all his unrivaled and unfathomable good cheer, Goku was acutely aware of the subtleties of things, and that was, in part, why things worked out so well between them. He balanced her usually uptight and critical nature, which seemed to worm its way into her life through her work life, with something pure and well-meaning. He was also able to read people very well. That sensitivity and patience towards her black mood swings sealed the deal as far as finding someone that could withstand her, and see that underneath all of her overreactions to stress, she was really just a silly girl. Albeit an uptight one. Like Bulma, he was able to bring that out in her, and she loved him for it.
However, his keen perception of people really came out when he was competing in one of the many sports leagues he poured himself into in his spare time, which was probably for the best, given Chi Chi's dense schedule. She deeply appreciated that they so far could both maintain and thrive on their independence without drifting too far apart as a couple.
Though, to tell the truth, she had given thought to what things would be like if work wasn't a priority for her….Lots of thought about if she had time to settle down and have children….
She wondered, not for the first time, if Goku would mind giving up his career to be a stay-at-home father. She knew he wasn't really emotionally invested in his job—had, in fact, only pursued it because an injury to his hip that meant he couldn't compete professionally. He'd been fortunate and had been offered a job by his uncle to make use of his measly law degree. (Which he'd only entertained so that he could play college sports legitimately. Of course.)
Goku had too much of his Grandpa in him for the lawyer lifestyle, though. Goku's grandfather had raised him after his mother died when he was still very young; while his father had grieved by ignoring the role of fatherhood completely and spending his every waking moment becoming West City's fiercest lawyer. Goku's grandfather, though, was a jolly old man who cared more about home life than work life, and had inadvertently imbued the same qualities in Goku.
Chi Chi wasn't sure how it happened, but the two people that were closest to her were so unlike her.
Although Bulma's vagabond heart was tempered by her mechanical prowess and a take-no-prisoners competitiveness that buoyed her in a field of prejudiced men, Goku's was tempered by the love of his friends, his interests, and his loved ones. She suspected he thought his friends and loved ones wanted him to advance as a paralegal. But Chi Chi had the sense to know that Goku's own heart did not take him to the junction of justice and law, and in fact, the only reason he was still even in the field was because of his damned internal compass that always directed him to do the right thing. The 'right' thing was to make his father and uncle—and, she suspected, herself—happy, since he couldn't do what he really wanted anyhow.
But, if Chi Chi offered him another choice, would he find the 'right' thing elsewhere was more fulfilling?
If Chi Chi provided Bulma another choice—indirectly!—would her friend find her own fulfillment from someone she didn't even know she was missing out on?
She just wanted the best for her friend, and to do the right thing once in awhile. It wasn't even really manipulating events behind anyone's back if all she did was haphazardly reintroduce them to one another, right?
And to think she and Bulma might be able to settle down together at the same time, if all went well!
"It's nothing, really," Chi Chi answered, resolved. "Hey, I was wondering if you'd mind if Bulma and I dropped by the game Friday night? You'll be playing the East City Titans, right?"
"Yeah! I'd love it if you could make it. Are you sure you don't have to work late?"
"No. I wouldn't miss it," she answered softly, plans settling into place.
"Great. I can't wait. I think the guys mentioned going, too. I'll see you tonight?"
"Are you making wontons?"
"Yep. We just have to head to the store beforehand."
"Bulma will be happy to hear it.” Chi Chi set her fingers to typing furiously before Goku even disconnected.
This is for your own good, Bulma Briefs.
//
It was only after Bulma had picked up her underwear from off the floor and after a lot of cursing and twirling around that she found her flip flops tucked under the bed and realized that this might have been a bad idea. Outside, on the balcony, she could hear Vegeta's rumbling, deep voice as he snapped at someone about a document that had to be stamped and mailed by 7:30 that morning—less than six hours away.
She really couldn't explain how they'd ended up this way. Again. She had met him for coffee as promised Tuesday evening and they'd wound up making out desperately in the alley between the coffee bar and a record shop. Nothing had even been resolved between them about the case, as little as Bulma had a hand in it anyway. They'd argued, like usual, and he had to know by now how she felt about the debacle and why only a terrible person would prosecute the case. In return, he'd called her a slew of names all revolving around her being a tree-hugging socialist nitwit and had asked her venomously just how in the hell a small business owner could be such a bleeding heart red-flag waving shame.
They had thrown on their jackets and scarves—he looking too dashing and subdued in his for her comfort—and had walked outside to continue their conversation over a cigarette. Only for her to end up pushed up against the wall under the onslaught of the sexiest, most exacting thigh-rubbing kiss she'd ever had in her life.
She was still surprised he hadn't had anything to say about doing it in her VW bus—really surprised—which had a lot more room than his Ghia, she supposed. She hadn't messed around with someone in a car since she was sixteen and let Brad Ersley touch her boobs in his Ford Mustang. Yeah, those were the glory days.
Despite the body wracking orgasm she'd had underneath him on the floor of her bus, her palm shoved against the wall and the other looped tightly around his neck, she hadn't expected him to come calling again tonight, because, well, hello—West City's best lawyer (cue eye roll) had let himself be reduced to a fuck in a rusty '67 van in a well-lit parking lot. She really hadn't expected him to be a happy camper about that one; the man's pride was stupidly enormous. Almost as big as, well, you know. But then again, she hadn't expected him to come by the shop Monday...or to tell the truth, even stay the night Saturday. And yet, here they were again, this time at his place, hunting her clothes under swank couches and between the bed and wall, and she couldn't venture a guess about what he was getting out of it.
Clearly, she wasn't Vegeta's type. It was evident what kind of women he'd been with in the past, and she was just barely the same species as them. As she pulled up her holey white briefs and shined her phone light around the berber carpet, looking for her work shirt, she poured over the reasons he'd keep pursuing her.
1.
The sex was good. It was really good. It was stupidly, earth shatteringly, deliciously amazing. Was sex always this good? She didn't remember it being so hot. Like the sex was in the movies and in rap videos. Maybe she was just easy to please, but why would he keep putting himself in her way if he wasn't getting anything out of it, too? That was weird to think about.
2.
She had no previous experience to call on when it came to this hooking up, booty call stuff.
What was casual sex supposed to be like? How did you look each other in the eye afterward? How did you not feel kind of strange about someone having a first hand experience with how much hair covered your privates but not knowing your last name? She knew she wasn't supposed to get emotionally involved, so this didn't really require any scrutiny, right? So maybe he was just taking advantage of her naivety? Maybe he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes, you know, about...how much of a sexy man he was. Maybe he was trying to get the milk without buying the cow, or something. Wait, that didn't add up.
It's not like she could have said no, had he handed her a contract that first time from between her legs and said, "So you're obviously not my type, and I would never take you home to my mother, but I'd like to bump uglies. Sign here, here, aaaand here. And initial there." And she would have!
He was hot, what could she say? She was going to have to start DVRing the Simpsons each night if he kept intruding into her evenings. He was stupid hot, and he was kind of funny. Was he? Bulma wasn't sure 'funny' was the way to describe it. But he was definitely...interesting. And when was the last time she'd gotten laid anyway? She had to put her binoculars on to see that far into her past.
She understood he was rough around the edges, was high maintenance (excluding his relationship with her, anyway), and could be very critical and competitive, which was respectable but mostly just irritating. She kind of liked that about him though. He didn't mince words, he was unfailingly proud of his thoughts and interests, and he was apt to be very selective in them. She was confident that whatever he liked or thought, there'd be a good reason for it, and even if she didn't agree with it, she found herself growing to like those things through his confidence in them. He was logical, and she was illogical, and somewhere, they kinda met in the middle.
Not that they'd done much talking. It was weird to think that she'd spent more time underneath him than discussing these kinds of things with him. But it didn't feel unnatural. Was there a Facebook relationship status that described them?
So, anyway, she kind of liked the things that defined him, and she felt that he got that about her, and kind of...respected her for it.
Leading to
3.
He was using her.
...Probably as stress relief. But...wasn't that what casual sex was all about? A moments vacation from the rigamarole of life? Should she really fear being viewed objectively if she were consenting to this casual sex stuff?
She shrugged on her jacket over her 'B's Dub's' baseball T and checked to make sure her keys and cards hadn't tumbled out of her pockets in the ruckus tonight. She'd be happy when the weather got warmer. It had been an exceedingly cold, long winter, and the nights were just beginning to lose their hold on the day. West City hadn't seen any flurries for weeks. In a month or two, she'd be able to ride her old Honda cafe racer to work. The Bus didn't have a heater box. Brrr.
The glass door slid open. She looked over her shoulder as she pulled her wooly, fingerless gloves over her hands and wiggled her hat on over her hair, adjusting the ear flaps.
Vegeta's silhouette was a shadow against the sliding glass door, the light smell of tobacco wafting in after him.
He didn't say anything, and to Bulma's surprise, it wasn't really awkward. In fact, she smiled a little as she tugged her jacket cuffs over her mittens, watching him watching her.
"Later," she said, giving him a small wave.
He approached her, and his face was impassive as he said, "Let me see you out."
"Whatever, tough guy," she remarked, following him through the modern condo, passing a wall of glass panes in the dark living room which opened to an expansive lawn.
He opened the door into the softly lit outside corridor of the complex and jerked her back by her ear flappies right as she stepped over the threshold, giving her a surprisingly delicate kiss.
"Be safe," he graveled, and she nodded, unable to deny a smile as she flicked a stray tuft of hair from his forehead that had been mashed and weighed down with sweat as he rocked underneath her, his head pressed into the pillows and headboard as she had surged against him, her chest mashed into his.
"You know the Bus doesn't get much faster than 40 miles per hour," she smiled, before winking and turning to make her way down the stairs to the small, landscaped parking lot, unaware that Vegeta watched her the whole way with a small, contented smirk.
His eyes raked over the magnificent cityscape from the wide window on the 14th floor with apathy, and he pocketed his cellphone and grabbed the handle of his briefcase. He strode from his office and barely registered his secretary jump out of her seat to scamper after him. "The Freeman memo is on my desk," he said without slowing his stride or looking her way as he headed for the elevator.
"Mr. No'Ouji, wait," she pleaded, struggling to meet his stride. Vegeta's cool mask disintegrated and he turned an unrepentant scowl at his pretty, young intern, who looked back at him fearfully. "Um, Mr. No'Ouji, this was just faxed over from Goldman's office."
"What is it," he snapped, giving the papers a look of viperous dislike. He really didn't want to deal with any more work tonight. He'd been here since 5 am, going over this damn case so he could bury the damn thing already, and now he was going home to take a hot shower before he had to get up early in the morning to get in and out of the gym before his 8 am meeting.
"Um, it's about the Freeman case," she issued weakly.
He snarled.
He was getting very tired of this suit. It should have been in the bag already, but every time he'd kill it, the defense's reprisals at their last breath, something would revive it and he'd be staring down a whole new chimera.
His eyes scanned the fax trembling in her hands. ”Juuhachigou from Turtle and Kame?" Vegeta's frown deepened and his eyes actually met hers, causing his secretary's heart to pitter patter at an even more alarming rate. "What in the hell does that harpy Juuhachigou want with the Freeman case?" Before she could even attempt to offer an answer, West City's top attorney had ripped the fax out of her hands, his eyes back and forth over the text before quickly rolling it up with a deep growl. He cursed viciously, causing his secretary to flinch.
She watched the sinfully gorgeous man stride out of the office and into the elevators opposite without even acknowledging her or saying farewell, only slamming the door behind him, and she let out a breath she'd hadn't known she'd been holding before bursting into tears and rushing to her desk to pack her things for real this time.
The man barely knew she existed, but when he did, it always ended up with her questioning why she even bothered existing. No one in the office dared to speak to him, except for the partners of the firm, who took all his chilly demands and icy dismissals in stride.
How could someone so excessively handsome be so heartbreakingly uncivilized?
The pressure from her parents for her to become a paralegal really wasn't worth this.
//
Warm oil dripped onto Bulma's forehead, and she swiped at it with the back of her gloved hand, managing only to smear it across her temple as she bit her tongue and cranked the socket wrench as hard as she could. With a crack, the nut broke off the bolt and clattered to the floor, and Bulma let loose a string of curses before dropping her wrench beside her and grabbing for a replacement oil pan. It seemed like every time someone brought in one of these old Fox's they were far more work than they were worth, and her boots clattered against the grating of the lift as she scooted down a bit to get a better grip on the last bolt. Her stomach rumbled ominously, reminding her it was past time to eat dinner, and reluctantly, she told it to shut its trash hole as she spent yet another long night at work.
"I aught to just put up a sign that says I charge triple for these stupid lemons, motherfff—“ The bell above the front door distantly clanged. "We're closed,” she called. "These stupid, ugh—" her wrench slipped again—"pain in the ass—" She grabbed for her mallet, and with a hint of guilt for taking the easy way out which would most certainly damage the part she was trying to preserve, started smacking her frustrations out on the rusted last bolt. “Motherfucking—“
Someone cleared their throat impatiently, and far under the car she barked, "I'll be with you in a minute."
"Ah!" She hollered as the last bolt snapped off and shot off down the chassis and clattered onto the floor, a cloud of dust and debris falling thickly onto her face. Bulma sputtered, clenched her eyes, and scooted her butt off the lift, hopping down and making her way to the nearby sink, where she snatched a towel and rubbed at her face vigorously. "Ugh!" She exclaimed with disgust, and wiped her fingers of the worst of the oil before throwing the towel into the can and turning toward the intruder with frustration.
"Can I help...you," she finished lamely as she came face to face with the last person she wanted to see.
Vegeta looked at her from across the room with amusement, an eyebrow inching up as he leaned a little too dapperly against the counter that separated her garage from the waiting area.
"Indeed," he replied with cool measure, his expression neutral. "Do you have a minute?" His tone brokered no room for negotiation.
"What do you want?" She walked toward him frowning, and as she leaned forward and looked up at him from the other side of the counter, Vegeta was struck with an unfamiliar pang of...something. Her frazzled blue curls were pinned back in a tight, thick bun at the nape of her neck, strands rebelling all around. Her blue eyebrows were arched with cautious curiosity, her creamy skin slick with sweat and marred with streaks of oil around her hairline that had stubbornly evaded the towel. She was dressed in baggy, dirty gray-blue coveralls, her name embroidered across one breast with her shop name against the other, her thick soled boots toeing the floors impatiently. For the first time that he could ever really recall, Vegeta thought that the woman before him was stunningly beautiful. He hadn't known that the word was even in his vocabulary.
She frowned deeply in consideration before a smile lazed over her face. "Couldn't get enough, huh?"
He snorted derisively. "Hardly," he bit out with excessive force. He froze her with a look of sharp purpose. "I came here because of this." He unceremoniously shoved a roll of papers in her face, and she looked wide eyed at him before scanning the text. Her eyebrows inched up with each passing second.
"Oh, wow," she breathed. When she looked up at him, a smile stretched across her face. "This is awesome."
Vegeta growled and snatched the papers away. "Did you do this?"
She looked at him with startled amusement. "No," she answered sweetly and unapologetically insincere. "I have no idea why she'd get involved."
"I want to know who in this neighborhood is stirring up trouble. I swear, if this is your doing—“
"Are you threatening me?" She hissed, moving around the counter to confront him and shoving her gloved knuckles onto her hips.
"And what if I am?" He replied dangerously. "I could have this whole block wiped out if I wanted to. I am, after all, the bit player in the Congressman's legal retinue. Then where would you be?"
Her eyes glittered with malice, and she clenched her teeth squarely. "Listen here, you overbearing little squirt, there are more than enough tools in this shop to kill you with—"
"You didn't think I was so little Saturday night," he retorted rakishly.
To his surprise, Bulma's small fist gripped his suit jacket lapel, and she grit up into his face. "If you think for a moment you can threaten me, I will have every law firm set on you like vultures on carrion to take Bardock Vejita and Sons down. If you think for a moment that I am some naive bucktoothed backwoods little girl pretending to play hard ball, think again. I have a very personal relationship with Baba, Korin, Juuhachigou, Turtle and Capsule Corporation litigators, and I will have your career and reputation smeared across the pavement," she seethed into his face as he bared his own teeth at her, their eyes boring into one another's.
"Try me," he seethed back.
"Is this man causing you trouble, Miss Bulma?" A warbling voice issued behind him, and Bulma's eyes flicked over Vegeta's shoulder, her grip loosening on his suit.
"This man couldn't hurt me if he tried." She sent Vegeta a loaded glance, and in so doing earned a string of nasty curses from inside Vegeta's head.
Vegeta smoothed his shirt and turned around to see a wrinkled old man with a painfully bent back and ashy, dark skin observing him and the infuriating woman. Vegeta held back a barely restrained snort. It was as if everything was sent topsy turvy with his proximity to this woman, careening towards a Feast of Fools where his power suddenly meant nothing and his subordinates mocked him with a parody of pleasantness.
"You sure you don't need me to walk him out?"
This time Vegeta did snort, and he crossed his arms and walked to the other side of the room with his back to them doggedly. Bulma shot him a dirty look and turned to the old man. "It's no problem, Eddy. I'm getting ready to lock up now," she reassured him.
"I just thought I'd check up on you," he said firmly, sending the visitor another assessing look before tipping his hat to her. "Another late night for ya I see. Well, we'll see you tomorrow."
"Alright, Eddy. Thanks. Tell your wife I said hi, and thank her for the cookies. They were heavenly," she smiled, walking him out the door.
The old man chuckled as he walked out the doorway. "Yes ma'am. You know she has a hard time sharing them with me when she makes 'em, but she always shares 'em with you."
Vegeta heard Bulma call out bye and watched her wave out of the corner of his eye. He had just a second to inspect the photos and rummage through the various debris on the countertops and walls.
It didn't take long for his heart to jump into his throat. He moved his face closer to the framed portrait and blinked. There it was, undeniably—a photo of Bulma when she was a plucky teenager, holding a giant check next to a stout man with thick glasses beneath a Capsule Corporation banner. The check was made out to her for the sum of twenty thousand dollars, and in the notes, "From the Peabody School of Astrophysics and Engineering." Next to this astounding record of achievement were four more: each a diploma, at the doctorate level, all dated a decade ago or more in different fields of hard science. Next to the grubby, blocky phone were framed lesser-certificates for automotive, collision repair, welding and restoration, and as he turned back to the dirty little woman with an open jaw, he wondered just who in the hell he was dealing with.
But as she turned back to him, a frown marring her pretty little features, he didn't get the chance to ask.
"Is that your Type 14 coupe out there?" She hooked her thumb at the doorway, her tone surprisingly balking.
Instantly, Vegeta's growing frustration with the night melted, and a slow, impish smile unfolded over his face.
"Why, yes," he drawled, picking up his briefcase and sauntering over to her before standing beside her, his chest and face just inches away from her. “Yes, it is. I told you I was a man of good taste," he purred, dipping his head down to look at her from under his lashes boyishly.
He opened the door with his arm, his waspish smile growing as he nodded towards the door. She responded with a smile of her own, and she turned, walking out the door under his arm to inspect the svelte, cream colored VW Karmann Ghia in the streetlight, glittering. She crossed her arms and paced around it, peering into the windows, Vegeta's pleasure growing as he saw her eyebrows rise fractionally upon viewing the restored, pristine burgundy leather interior.
"May I?" She called, rounding the back of the car and lingering, waiting for his okay.
He frowned slightly, maybe uncertainly, before nodding. If there was any woman he could trust touching his car, it was probably her.
She reached down and popped the trunk open, where, to her delight, a shiny air-cooled engine sat neatly tucked into the back hatch.
She looked up at him with barely restrained eagerness. "I pinned you for a sports car kind of guy, but this is only a size 1200 cubic centimeter engine." She fixed him with gleaming eyes, and he realized with confusion that he'd moved closer to her as he stared down at her delicate, round face. "I could put a 1600 in her for you. Your gas mileage wouldn't suffer too much, and you could at least drive on the freeway then. You know. If you'd like."
He watched her wrestle with her desire to share her love of cars with him and her increasing certainty that it was a risk to do so. She chewed on her lip subconsciously, and he watched her do it, until she blushed, and he realized what he'd been doing.
There was something in him that jumped at the opportunity to surprise her. "I'd rather have coffee with you first. Don't you think swapping out my engine is jumping the gun a bit?" He smiled as she flushed a deep scarlet, knowing full well that they'd already jumped the gun Saturday night, and she angled her head to the side to hide it.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was turning her face back to his with his fingertips and pressing his molten smile against that bottom lip lightly, relishing it more than he cared to admit. After a moment, she returned the kiss slightly.
"Meet me for a coffee tomorrow at 6 at The Roasterie. Then we can discuss this debacle of a case." He looked at her pointedly, and she returned his serious mien.
"I will not buckle on this, Vegeta," she said firmly, looking up into his dark eyes in the streetlight.
He looked down his nose at her before blowing a chuckle out between his lips, and moved to open his car door, tucking his briefcase into the sliver of a backseat. He moved toward her again and gazed down at her with rare consideration. "I don't want you to," he admitted gruffly, before running his thumb lightly down her jaw and turning away to slide into the drivers seat.
The decades old sports car started up smoothly, aside from the characteristic air-cooled clacking that Bulma had grown to love over the years. Vegeta shut his door and rolled down the window.
"Tomorrow. Six o'clock. Don't be late." He demanded gruffly, before tilting back his head with a devilish smile and setting the car into gear.
"I told you I have good taste," he crooned, fixing her with a very self-satisfied smile, and took off out of her small, weedy parking lot and down the street, leaving her blushing in her coveralls, her thumb on her cheek where his had been, watching the Ghia's red tail lights winking down the dark, industrial street with wonder.
There was an echoing clang to her left, and she turned to see Eddy packing up his painter's ladders and giving her a coy wink from his wrinkled face. She bolted back inside and closed the shop door staunchly behind her.
/ /
Chi Chi frowned down at her computer, her pen rapping the keyboard. She was in a pickle. She didn't know how he had gotten her email, but he had, and he was hitting right to the heart of the matter.
She chewed the top of her pen.
She placed the pen between her teeth buccaneer-style to free her hands, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and put her long fingers to the keyboard.
I really can't speak for Bulma, but I will let her know that you would like to see her.
She stared at the screen uneasily and then preceded to tap the backspace button.
She began again, this time more animatedly.
With all due respect, I really don't think it's my job to play middleman between you and Bulma regarding a relationship I really have no understanding of, and I resent you sending this email.
She worried her lip and, again, hit delete uncomfortably.
That was too mean. Even if it was what Bulma wished she'd say.
Her cell began chiming, and seeing it was 'Goku Bby' followed by multiple heart emoticons (something she would take TO THE GRAVE), she picked it up.
"Hey, you," she answered.
"Hey," his sunny voice sang clearly. "What's up?"
She sighed. "Not working. Don't tell anyone."
Goku laughed on the other end of the line. "Your secret's safe with me."
She sighed again, her eyes pinned to her computer screen. "Goku...I need some advice."
"What's up?"
"I..." She stared at the white screen, the small black text, sitting innocuously in her inbox.
Chi Chi, how are things? It's been a long time! I hope all is well with you and yours. I miss the heck out of your Dad's waffles. ;)
I've met your new man, Son Goku! We play baseball with each other often in this new league, believe it or not. He seems like a real good guy. Very funny. I'm happy for you.
"It's nothing," she told him.
"Are you sure?"
For all his unrivaled and unfathomable good cheer, Goku was acutely aware of the subtleties of things, and that was, in part, why things worked out so well between them. He balanced her usually uptight and critical nature, which seemed to worm its way into her life through her work life, with something pure and well-meaning. He was also able to read people very well. That sensitivity and patience towards her black mood swings sealed the deal as far as finding someone that could withstand her, and see that underneath all of her overreactions to stress, she was really just a silly girl. Albeit an uptight one. Like Bulma, he was able to bring that out in her, and she loved him for it.
However, his keen perception of people really came out when he was competing in one of the many sports leagues he poured himself into in his spare time, which was probably for the best, given Chi Chi's dense schedule. She deeply appreciated that they so far could both maintain and thrive on their independence without drifting too far apart as a couple.
Though, to tell the truth, she had given thought to what things would be like if work wasn't a priority for her….Lots of thought about if she had time to settle down and have children….
She wondered, not for the first time, if Goku would mind giving up his career to be a stay-at-home father. She knew he wasn't really emotionally invested in his job—had, in fact, only pursued it because an injury to his hip that meant he couldn't compete professionally. He'd been fortunate and had been offered a job by his uncle to make use of his measly law degree. (Which he'd only entertained so that he could play college sports legitimately. Of course.)
Goku had too much of his Grandpa in him for the lawyer lifestyle, though. Goku's grandfather had raised him after his mother died when he was still very young; while his father had grieved by ignoring the role of fatherhood completely and spending his every waking moment becoming West City's fiercest lawyer. Goku's grandfather, though, was a jolly old man who cared more about home life than work life, and had inadvertently imbued the same qualities in Goku.
Chi Chi wasn't sure how it happened, but the two people that were closest to her were so unlike her.
Although Bulma's vagabond heart was tempered by her mechanical prowess and a take-no-prisoners competitiveness that buoyed her in a field of prejudiced men, Goku's was tempered by the love of his friends, his interests, and his loved ones. She suspected he thought his friends and loved ones wanted him to advance as a paralegal. But Chi Chi had the sense to know that Goku's own heart did not take him to the junction of justice and law, and in fact, the only reason he was still even in the field was because of his damned internal compass that always directed him to do the right thing. The 'right' thing was to make his father and uncle—and, she suspected, herself—happy, since he couldn't do what he really wanted anyhow.
But, if Chi Chi offered him another choice, would he find the 'right' thing elsewhere was more fulfilling?
If Chi Chi provided Bulma another choice—indirectly!—would her friend find her own fulfillment from someone she didn't even know she was missing out on?
She just wanted the best for her friend, and to do the right thing once in awhile. It wasn't even really manipulating events behind anyone's back if all she did was haphazardly reintroduce them to one another, right?
And to think she and Bulma might be able to settle down together at the same time, if all went well!
"It's nothing, really," Chi Chi answered, resolved. "Hey, I was wondering if you'd mind if Bulma and I dropped by the game Friday night? You'll be playing the East City Titans, right?"
"Yeah! I'd love it if you could make it. Are you sure you don't have to work late?"
"No. I wouldn't miss it," she answered softly, plans settling into place.
"Great. I can't wait. I think the guys mentioned going, too. I'll see you tonight?"
"Are you making wontons?"
"Yep. We just have to head to the store beforehand."
"Bulma will be happy to hear it.” Chi Chi set her fingers to typing furiously before Goku even disconnected.
This is for your own good, Bulma Briefs.
//
It was only after Bulma had picked up her underwear from off the floor and after a lot of cursing and twirling around that she found her flip flops tucked under the bed and realized that this might have been a bad idea. Outside, on the balcony, she could hear Vegeta's rumbling, deep voice as he snapped at someone about a document that had to be stamped and mailed by 7:30 that morning—less than six hours away.
She really couldn't explain how they'd ended up this way. Again. She had met him for coffee as promised Tuesday evening and they'd wound up making out desperately in the alley between the coffee bar and a record shop. Nothing had even been resolved between them about the case, as little as Bulma had a hand in it anyway. They'd argued, like usual, and he had to know by now how she felt about the debacle and why only a terrible person would prosecute the case. In return, he'd called her a slew of names all revolving around her being a tree-hugging socialist nitwit and had asked her venomously just how in the hell a small business owner could be such a bleeding heart red-flag waving shame.
They had thrown on their jackets and scarves—he looking too dashing and subdued in his for her comfort—and had walked outside to continue their conversation over a cigarette. Only for her to end up pushed up against the wall under the onslaught of the sexiest, most exacting thigh-rubbing kiss she'd ever had in her life.
She was still surprised he hadn't had anything to say about doing it in her VW bus—really surprised—which had a lot more room than his Ghia, she supposed. She hadn't messed around with someone in a car since she was sixteen and let Brad Ersley touch her boobs in his Ford Mustang. Yeah, those were the glory days.
Despite the body wracking orgasm she'd had underneath him on the floor of her bus, her palm shoved against the wall and the other looped tightly around his neck, she hadn't expected him to come calling again tonight, because, well, hello—West City's best lawyer (cue eye roll) had let himself be reduced to a fuck in a rusty '67 van in a well-lit parking lot. She really hadn't expected him to be a happy camper about that one; the man's pride was stupidly enormous. Almost as big as, well, you know. But then again, she hadn't expected him to come by the shop Monday...or to tell the truth, even stay the night Saturday. And yet, here they were again, this time at his place, hunting her clothes under swank couches and between the bed and wall, and she couldn't venture a guess about what he was getting out of it.
Clearly, she wasn't Vegeta's type. It was evident what kind of women he'd been with in the past, and she was just barely the same species as them. As she pulled up her holey white briefs and shined her phone light around the berber carpet, looking for her work shirt, she poured over the reasons he'd keep pursuing her.
1.
The sex was good. It was really good. It was stupidly, earth shatteringly, deliciously amazing. Was sex always this good? She didn't remember it being so hot. Like the sex was in the movies and in rap videos. Maybe she was just easy to please, but why would he keep putting himself in her way if he wasn't getting anything out of it, too? That was weird to think about.
2.
She had no previous experience to call on when it came to this hooking up, booty call stuff.
What was casual sex supposed to be like? How did you look each other in the eye afterward? How did you not feel kind of strange about someone having a first hand experience with how much hair covered your privates but not knowing your last name? She knew she wasn't supposed to get emotionally involved, so this didn't really require any scrutiny, right? So maybe he was just taking advantage of her naivety? Maybe he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes, you know, about...how much of a sexy man he was. Maybe he was trying to get the milk without buying the cow, or something. Wait, that didn't add up.
It's not like she could have said no, had he handed her a contract that first time from between her legs and said, "So you're obviously not my type, and I would never take you home to my mother, but I'd like to bump uglies. Sign here, here, aaaand here. And initial there." And she would have!
He was hot, what could she say? She was going to have to start DVRing the Simpsons each night if he kept intruding into her evenings. He was stupid hot, and he was kind of funny. Was he? Bulma wasn't sure 'funny' was the way to describe it. But he was definitely...interesting. And when was the last time she'd gotten laid anyway? She had to put her binoculars on to see that far into her past.
She understood he was rough around the edges, was high maintenance (excluding his relationship with her, anyway), and could be very critical and competitive, which was respectable but mostly just irritating. She kind of liked that about him though. He didn't mince words, he was unfailingly proud of his thoughts and interests, and he was apt to be very selective in them. She was confident that whatever he liked or thought, there'd be a good reason for it, and even if she didn't agree with it, she found herself growing to like those things through his confidence in them. He was logical, and she was illogical, and somewhere, they kinda met in the middle.
Not that they'd done much talking. It was weird to think that she'd spent more time underneath him than discussing these kinds of things with him. But it didn't feel unnatural. Was there a Facebook relationship status that described them?
So, anyway, she kind of liked the things that defined him, and she felt that he got that about her, and kind of...respected her for it.
Leading to
3.
He was using her.
...Probably as stress relief. But...wasn't that what casual sex was all about? A moments vacation from the rigamarole of life? Should she really fear being viewed objectively if she were consenting to this casual sex stuff?
She shrugged on her jacket over her 'B's Dub's' baseball T and checked to make sure her keys and cards hadn't tumbled out of her pockets in the ruckus tonight. She'd be happy when the weather got warmer. It had been an exceedingly cold, long winter, and the nights were just beginning to lose their hold on the day. West City hadn't seen any flurries for weeks. In a month or two, she'd be able to ride her old Honda cafe racer to work. The Bus didn't have a heater box. Brrr.
The glass door slid open. She looked over her shoulder as she pulled her wooly, fingerless gloves over her hands and wiggled her hat on over her hair, adjusting the ear flaps.
Vegeta's silhouette was a shadow against the sliding glass door, the light smell of tobacco wafting in after him.
He didn't say anything, and to Bulma's surprise, it wasn't really awkward. In fact, she smiled a little as she tugged her jacket cuffs over her mittens, watching him watching her.
"Later," she said, giving him a small wave.
He approached her, and his face was impassive as he said, "Let me see you out."
"Whatever, tough guy," she remarked, following him through the modern condo, passing a wall of glass panes in the dark living room which opened to an expansive lawn.
He opened the door into the softly lit outside corridor of the complex and jerked her back by her ear flappies right as she stepped over the threshold, giving her a surprisingly delicate kiss.
"Be safe," he graveled, and she nodded, unable to deny a smile as she flicked a stray tuft of hair from his forehead that had been mashed and weighed down with sweat as he rocked underneath her, his head pressed into the pillows and headboard as she had surged against him, her chest mashed into his.
"You know the Bus doesn't get much faster than 40 miles per hour," she smiled, before winking and turning to make her way down the stairs to the small, landscaped parking lot, unaware that Vegeta watched her the whole way with a small, contented smirk.