With Extra Sausage

Bulma pulled up outside the apartment building her GPS locator was telling to be the right address, and put the car in park. She checked the address: room 307. Great, of course it would be upstairs. Not only was she running late but now she'd have to run up two flights of stairs.

She had been pushing the speed limit the whole way, cutting a few yellow lights to make it to the address in a reasonable amount of time. The pizza shop was backed up so by the time the order was given to her, it was already late. But she would be damned if that was going to come out of her tip. She wasn't delivering pizzas between college classes out of charity.

She scooped up the 2 extra-large pizzas (1 meat-lovers and 1 vegetarian deluxe), side-order of chicken wings, and her portable card reader, and jogged up to the front entrance.

It was a shady-looking buzz-to-enter complex. She pressed the intercom button for room 307 and waited, tugging her delivery uniform straight as she tried not to feel too conspicuous.

"What?" The voice belonged to a man, brisk and unfriendly.

She winced at his tone. He didn't sound like the forgiving type. "Pizza delivery".

The guy didn't reply but buzzed her in. Bulma considered taking the stairs two at a time but figured the seconds saved weren't going to save her tip, and she didn't want to risk clutzing it up and tripping and dropping his food everywhere.

Two floors later, she was standing in front of 307. She rapped her knuckles on the door. "Pizza…" She steeled herself for a lecture. It was so unfair. Why did she get chewed out for being late when it wasn't even her fault?

She was trying to decide on the best course of action — did she start with an apology or a greeting? Should she explain the hold-up or just suck it up and accept the loss on this one? — but all thoughts evaporated the moment the door opened.

A man stood in the doorway. Bulma doubted she would ever see his like again, not even if she delivered pizzas day after day until the end of time. He was immense — not in height per se but in density, all compact muscle like an anthropomorphic panther. He had muscles where she never knew muscles could be. He wasn't your typical gym-jockey or even body-builder. He was thicker, more condensed. Built for lethal intent, not for show. A fighting dog.

And she knew all this because the man was only wearing navy boxer briefs.

Her face blushed a new shade of nail-polish red as she stared in shock. His TV was on in the background, throwing him into flickering lights and shadows that danced over the hard panes of his abdominals and across the sharp features of his face. His hair was black and as sharp as his gaze, his expression set in sheer disdain as he eyed her slowly up and down, as if contemplating a nasty stain on his boot. Bulma had never felt so small in all her life.

"You're late." His tone dripped with annoyance. The timber of his voice was more growl than speech, a tiger's snarl. Danger, it warned.

His words jerked her out of her paralysis. She gulped and spun about to distance herself from his nakedness, not quite sure what the protocol was. Why couldn't he have put something on, he'd had plenty of damn time! "S-sorry sir, I can offer you a coupon for the delay…?" Her voice trailed off. She knew nothing she could do was going to make amends. The man was born pissed off, she could tell. She would be lucky to get out of the situation without him calling up the store manager and making a formal complaint against her.

He let out an aggravated sigh and she heard movement. Glancing over her shoulder she saw the man pulling on a dark black t-shirt. His muscles flexed and bunched at the simple maneuver, his stomach stretching out as he raised his arms up and gave her a clear view of his happy trail that dipped down to his underwear, the tight fabric leaving little to the imagination. She quickly looked up at the ceiling as he pulled the shirt down.

"Let me see the state of my dinner," he snapped. "Come here and don't drop my food." She did as told, hoping he couldn't see her tremble. The t-shirt had done little to help. He was still intimidating as all fuck.

He opened the bag of wings and glanced at them with a sneer, then made her hold both pizza boxes while he lifted the lids and checked on them too. His face was marble, unreadable. As he closed the boxes his eyes flicked up and looked at her, weighing her worthiness with his merciless black gaze. Bulma gulped and promised to be a good girl from now on if she got out of this apartment complex alive.

Finally, the guy relieved her of his order and set it down on a table by the door.

"How much?"

"$49.75…" She started to fumble her card reader.

"Put that away," he ordered and she nearly dropped the damn thing at his biting words. "I use cash. I don't like to leave a trail."

Because you're a murderer, she thought to herself.

He picked up a wad of cash but didn't start counting it, looking at her instead with narrowed eyes. "How old are you? You don't look old enough to be driving."

She pouted, puffing up her cheeks. She hated that question. "I am too. I'm in college."

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit, I turned 18 last August!"

He broke eye contact and started thumbing through his bills. "Settle down, I didn't ask for your life story."

She had to clamp her mouth shut before she went off on the guy, absolutely incensed. What a dick! But she tried to stay professional, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she watched his fingers flick over the notes. He was taking his sweet time about paying up.

"You're new." It wasn't a question. "This going to be your regular shift?"

Bulma hesitated, his question making her uneasy. Why was he asking that? To be friendly? He certainly didn't seem the type to shoot the breeze. Oh god, was he really a killer? Was he plotting it right now, how to do her in without being caught?

When she didn't answer right away he looked up at her, pinning her with a withering glare. "Hey. College genius. Answer the question. If I order pizza again at this time on this day, am I going to be seeing you at my door? Yes or no."

Bulma felt sick. She didn't want to reply but then, what was the point of lying? He had a point. If he called and ordered at this time again, she was going to be the one making the delivery. She nodded woodenly, as if agreeing to her own death sentence.

He stared at her for a moment longer before looking back at his cash and separating a much larger section than he had been counting. He offered it to her. "I take my food and my time very seriously," he told her, looking her dead in the eyes. "I don't care what you're doing, but when MY order comes in, you drop everything and you get it to me immediately, do you understand? Make sure it's hot, and on time, and you and me, we won't have a problem."

Bulma could hardly keep her jaw from dropping. He was tipping her? No, more like bribing her for VIP service, but holy cow whatever you wanted to call it, he was paying her more than she could hope to make on a good night. Or even a good week.

She nodded and grabbed the cash. "Yes sir!" Then as an afterthought — because a girl had to make money somehow — added, "I also work Thursday nights and Saturdays."

He didn't let go right away, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so vaguely in a dark smirk. "There's a good girl." His fingers released the cash.

Bulma felt the ground open up and swallow her whole, his words purring over her like a forbidden promise.

As she stood in stupefied shock, her knees gone to mush, the man shut the door in her face. Bulma slowly turned around and started walking back to her car on autopilot, trying to figure out why she was both terrified yet excited about coming back here.

~xox~

AN: Written for Nala1588 who posted the most amazingly hilarious yet hot pizza-girl AU on her (p) atreon.