Former Love
By: Alita

His lips curled into a snarl of contempt as he stepped over the threshold, into the garden. Such opulence. Such a waste of time and money. Who did the fool man think he was impressing? Did he expect the King of England to appear? But then, the King himself would blush at the entertainment arranging itself towards one corner of the lawn. Lithe acrobats, clad in feathers and masks, contorted themselves into various positions, their skimpy costumes leaving little to the imagination. To him, they looked more animal than human. Animal. He slid his tongue over his lips, wetting them. There would be plenty of time to eat. At the moment, he was more intent on finding his woman.

"Yamcha?" Her eyes widened in disbelief, baby-blue irises sparkling. The man across from her answered with a lopsided smile.

"It’s good to see you too, Bulm-"

She cut him off by leaping forward and hugging him ‘til he squeaked, then laughed at the noise. "Oh Yamcha, it’s been so long. Where have you been? I waited…" she paused, head shaking gently as she looked away "Well, never mind that. When did you come into this?"

The question warranted a blink, until he realized that she meant the house, the property, the party. Every bit of it spoke of wealth and prestige—not of good taste, but certainly of money. Carved pillars reached to the ceiling; gold gilt detailed the polished furniture; soaring windows offered a magnificent view of the bay. They also offered a view of East Egg, and though Bulma did not know it, her house was visible from the master bedroom of his mansion. Barely visible, but enough so for him to make out the whiteness of the walls.

"Oh…well…yes. Long story." He coughed, suddenly uncomfortable, but quick enough to recover his composure. "I inherited from—from my uncle, played the stock market a bit, dabbled in business…you know."

The vagueness of the answer did not seem to faze her, as she clapped and smiled in delight. "Why, that’s simply wonderful. I’m so glad you’re doing so well."

He barely suppressed a sigh of relief. "Yes, yes, life’s good." He rubbed his hands together briskly, wondering when his luck would run out. "Would you like a tour of the house?"

"Tour…?" She glanced back towards the double-doors, her gaze lingering on the ongoing party outside. His heart sank. "I’m not so sure-"

"Vegeta wouldn’t mind. I had a nice chat with him before coming inside. We got along fabulously." He managed a smile, though his stomach felt like a deadweight, and the lie seemed painfully obvious to his ears. But again, she was oblivious to it; perhaps she had been drinking? He held out his hand, providing an excuse to lean forward slightly and inhale her scent, and the hint of gin on her breath. How drunk was she?

She reached out to twine her arm around his own, laughing quietly as she gestured to the staircase beside them. "Lead on, then."

He growled and cursed under his breath, waving aside yet another waiter. The poor young man staggered back, overturning his tray and the martinis upon it. Delicate glass smashed on the marble tiles underfoot, liquor splashed on his shoes, olives tumbled away—he didn’t give it a second thought, but stalked off towards the pool area. The garden was far too large for his liking.

His head whipped around as someone shrieked, her shrill cry carrying over the muted music of the orchestra. It wasn’t her, but he was somewhat amused to see another young woman being dumped in the pool, clothing and all. For all her screaming, she seemed to find it funny enough, as the cries changed to high-pitched laughter and splashing. Several people leaped to join her. He shook his head in wonder. They must be more than drunk, or were all West Egg residents so lacking in composure?

"Why hello, handsome," a strange voice purred into his ear as a strange body plastered itself to his arm. "You lost, honey?"

He glanced to the woman—no, leech—as she encircled her arms around his own, pressing her breasts to his bicep. Apparently not all women sported the tomboy look; this one dressed like a harlot, baring both cleavage and leg. Generous cleavage at that. He smirked, and she smiled back, vixen-like, taking his expression as appreciation.

"I do not enjoy being touched by harlots. Get lost." Her eyes widened, first in shock, then outrage. He sneered back, catching the hand that snapped up to slap him. She wailed loudly and stumbled back, rubbing her wrists. He barely caught her catty hiss of ‘bastard’ before moving on. Many eyes had turned to him, much to his annoyance. If people would mind their own goddamned business, life would be so much easier. Still, he could not seem to find the woman, nor so much as a hint of blue hair. Where had she gone to?

He turned back to look at the house, eyes narrowing. Was it possible…?

"Oh my…what lovely shirts," she slurred, swallowing noisily and giggling at her display of intoxication. The silk shirt suspended between her hands fluttered silently to the carpets. "I’m sorry." She bent to pick it up again, only to find strong arms encircling her waist. "…Yamcha-?"

"Hush," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and quick as he ensnared her. He could not believe his luck: here she was, he was holding her, she was not resisting. Her inebriation hardly crossed his mind, now. She was not resisting. She was his again. The thought drove him wild. He moaned, trailing kisses down her neck. My, but that dress was lovely on her. His hands slid over the smooth fabric, following the embroidery up her sides, abandoning the pattern to cup her breasts. She gasped. He took it for delight, and squeezed them, none too gently.

"Yamcha!"

He blinked, broken from his trance by her aggravated cry. Suddenly he was aware of her hands as she grasped uselessly at his own, trying to pull them away from her chest. She was struggling. His heart sank again, and his muscle slackened. She pulled herself free and whirled around to face him, her face a mask of fury and confusion. "Yamcha, what are you doing!"

"You were mine, once," he whispered dejectedly, shoulders slumping. "Why can’t I have you again?"

"Because I’m married, you idiot," The reply felt like a dagger to his heart, coupled with the rage still evident on her features. "And I love Vegeta very much. We have a child. I’m not going to destroy my life for…for…the fool who left me waiting for two years!"

"Two years…? You think that two years is a long time to wait for someone?" He couldn’t help snarling at her. In fact, he took pleasure in seeing her anger change to fear, watching her take another step back, as if the extra distance would keep her safe. "You pathetic wench. I told you I would come back. How the hell could I marry you without any money? This house alone cost half a million dollars. Half a million! And anything less would not be enough for you! I lied, I cheated, I stole, I murdered for you—and what do I get? You running off to marry some stuck-up Oxford man because his family’s rich and he plays polo— "

"Shut up," she replied quietly, his words sobering her up slightly. "How dare you treat me this way. How dare you pretend to be anything but a common criminal."

His fist shot out, catching her in the cheek and driving her back against the wall. There was no time to scream, much less think, before her head connected with the painted wood. Her eyes rolled. The pain was slow to come, but rushed through her brain in torrents when it did. She groaned, sliding downwards until a hand gripped her throat, pulling her back up.

He dragged her forward, drinking in her whimpers, enjoying the sounds of her pain. If she was going to hurt him and deny him, why, he would pay her back. Tenfold.

The hallways were wide, with high ceilings more suitable to a cathedral than to a residence. And so many rooms-! He snorted in frustration, hands working the knob of the closest door, pushing it gently so as to see inside. Empty, again; the crack of light fell on a bookshelf. Another library…how many libraries could one man have?

A muffled noise cause him to glance down the hallway. Someone else was definitely upstairs, and being none too quiet about it. The possibilities ran through his head as he strode towards the source of the disturbance; none of the images were pleasant, and none eased his temper. Fists clenched, he stopped before the double doors at the end of the hall, leaning forward slightly to listen.

"Oh god," she sobbed, curling into a fetal position on the rumpled bedsheets. "Yamcha, please stop…please…"

"I told you to shut up," he growled, striking her shoulder with the flat of his hand. Her cry was most gratifying, but no more so than her bare breasts as the impact rolled her onto her back. Terrified, teary blue eyes stared up at him, finding no compassion in his visage. Only sadistic pleasure. The last, groggy effects of the alcohol wore off, and she wailed.

His answering laughter cut short as the doors flew open; he barely had time to look towards them before a fist impacted with his throat, sending him toppling over the edge of the mattress. Fighting for breath, Yamcha rolled across the carpets, barely avoiding being landed on by his assailant. "What…how—"

The other man did not answer, but waited for Yamcha to stagger to his feet, clutching at his bruised throat. Yamcha was the taller of the two, but quailed as he took in the hateful face of his attacker. "Vegeta, I…"

"You’re dead." Another fist shot out, blurring across the distance between the pair to land in soft stomach tissue. As Yamcha doubled over, an elbow followed, driving between his shoulder blades. His face met the floor with a sickening crack.

"Pl…please…I can pay you…" Yamcha sputtered as he managed to raise his head, blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose.

"Why would I need your dirty money?" Vegeta stuck his hands in his dress-pant pockets, bending over as he looked into the other man’s eyes. He smirked, watching fear overcome hope as his dark gaze bored into Yamcha’s. "I live like a Prince. You pretend to be one, then attack a woman like a common thug. Pathetic."

Yamcha shook with terror as Vegeta reached down, hands curling around his throat and jerking him to his feet. He balled his fists, lashing out indiscriminately in desperation, hoping that Vegeta might drop him, praying that someone might walk in on them, that…

A sickening crack resonated through the chamber. Vegeta relaxed his hands, allowing Yamcha’s body to crumple to the carpet, blood still leaking from his mouth and pooling on the hardwood floor. His head flopped sideways, coming to rest at an unnatural angle.

Sniffing in distaste, Vegeta stepped away from the body, his attention turning to the figure on the bed. She was sitting up now—good—but frozen in shock. He sighed inwardly, moving around the bed as he removed his dinner jacket. "Woman," his voice was harsh; he coughed once, clearing his throat, before continuing. "…Bulma?"

She inhaled sharply, finally tearing her gaze from the body on the floor to see the coat he held out. Her fixed stare caused him to cough again and look away, expression softening. "Come on…"

When she neither moved nor responded, he sat down next to her, carefully placing the jacket around her slender shoulders. "Next time, tell me about your old boyfriends before we accept an invitation…hey?" He smiled slightly, tenderly cupping her chin with his hand. "Let’s go home."

She threw her arms around his neck, face pressing to his chest as she sobbed, pouring out all her anguish. He couldn’t help but grimace as his best dress-shirt grew damp with salty tears…small price to pay, he chided himself. One arm moved to the small of her back while the other slipped under her knees, drawing her body close. He rose, bearing her weight easily, smirking as her slim hands grasped his suspenders and her cheek came to rest on his collar.

"Vegeta…"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"Hmm."

He bore her away in silence, away from that loathsome house and the wild party which continued long into the night, the guests unaware of their host’s demise. Away from West Egg, and the cheap corruption of the man called Yamcha.