Brutal Comfort

Hi again,

Here's another story from Heather's life. Like the rest of them, it can be read on its own. As always, don't forget to vote and drop a comment on your way out.

Thanks to tsreader, whose encouragement is the sole reason this story is seeing the light of day and MadamWhitewalker, my editor.

Though not essentially, if you want to know more about the main character, you may try

How To Catch A Falling Star

,

The Day The Music Died

,

Moira

and

Edge of Reason

.

DISCLAIMER -

This story has scenes of drug use and drug induced hallucinations along with rough sex. Please do not read further if such material offends you.

* *

PROLOGUE

Two yellow spheres were visible against the red background. They slowly rose and coalesced, their edges blurring and melding into a single entity. The shape rotated, suspended in the red fluid around it.

Blair Cassel's eyes stayed fixed on the lazy shapes forming and breaking in front of her. She lay on her side, watching the lava lamp. It was a gift from her lover, because she enjoyed giving her things for no reason.

She looked up and saw herself on the large mirror covering most of the ceiling. The bed around her was crumpled and dirty, matching her own demeanour. Her purple hair was in disarray all over the pillow, but she didn't bother to move her head. She gazed up at her face, hollow and red from crying.

How many days had she not been out of bed?

It didn't seem to matter. Nothing did. She pushed some purple strands from her face and reached out towards her phone. She disconnected it from the bedside charger and held it up to her eyes. The glittery pink cover and heart shaped trinkets hanging off the top did little to cheer her. Blair opened her voicemail log. Her eyes shimmered with moisture even as she scrolled down. Her trembling hands moved the phone to her ear.

"Hi, baby. I'm almost home. I'll land and come straight to you. You won't believe the stuff I've got for you this time. I miss you so much, Blair. I can't wait to hold you in my arms and kiss you everywhere. I love you."

The voicemail ended. A single tear crept out of the corner of her eye and slid down her face. She did not know how she had any left, but she kept crying. She listened to the voicemail once more before the temporary calm gave way.

Blair sobbed and wailed like a baby, clutching the bedsheet in her hands. Her body was racked by her cries. There was no colour or meaning in her life any more, only a chilling emptiness.

She had not stopped crying, even as she played the voicemail again.

And again.

And again...

* *

"How long has it been?" Heather asked.

"Four days. She won't even open the door. I can hear her crying inside all the time."

Heather stood facing the locked door. The housekeeper, two EMTs, and a locksmith stood with her. She nodded slightly. The locksmith took out his implements and began working.

"It's a terrible thing, what happened," sighed the housekeeper.

There was a click and the ornate double doors swung open. The putrid smell hit everybody at once. Four days in solitary confinement could do that. Dust and hair were strewn across the floor, covering the furniture. Blair lay on her side on the bed, clutching the pillow.

"Mrs. Cassel, are you okay?"

No answer.

"Mrs. Cassel?"

Still silence. Heather covered her nose and mouth and gestured towards the medical professionals with her other hand. The two dour looking men went to the bed and held Blair by her arms. The moment they tried to lift her, her eyes snapped open.

"No... let me go. Don't take me away."

Blair kicked and screamed. Her foot connected with one of the EMT's' gut, making him drop her. The other guy held on for a while longer before she detached herself from him and cowered at the back of the bed, clutching the pillow as if her life depended on it.

"Mrs. Cassel, my name is Heather Franklin and I am a lawyer. I am the executor of Florence Kaufman's will."

"Don't talk about her like she's dead, you bitch," Blair screamed, her green eyes flashing under her mop of coloured hair. "She's still here. She can't be dead."

She plunged her head into the pillow, desperate to imbibe traces of her lover's essence. The two medical professionals looked at each other and then at Heather. Wordlessly, Heather walked to the end of the bed and helped her sit up, still holding the pillow. Her purple hair was splayed all over her face.

"I'm so sorry, Blair. I wish it wasn't true," Heather said evenly, placing a palm on her back to keep her upright. "Florence Kaufman is dead."

"You're wrong. You're all wrong," Blair yelled between sobs. "She's not dead. She can't be."

She disentangled herself from Heather and collapsed on the bed. Heather stood for a few moments and drank in the piteous sight before her. Blair's face was a patchwork of ruined mascara. Rivulets of tears criss-crossed all over her cheeks. She looked emaciated and her frail body shook with every sob.

"Blair, the doctors are going to sedate you now. You need medical treatment. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The girl looked at her through her lashes, trying to make sense of it all. Heather reached out and held her hand.

"We'll get through this together. One step at a time. That's what Florence would have wanted, right? She would have wanted you to be happy again."

Blair looked down, her face hidden behind a veil of purple. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Her limbs, weak from hunger and fatigue simply gave in and she flopped on the bed. One of the EMTs stretched her arm out while the other prepared to draw a sedative into his syringe.

"Take my phone too, please," she said weakly.

The plunger pushed the drugs into her, and all at once the world went dark. In the darkness, she thought she heard a soothing familiar voice say.

"Hi, baby. I'm almost home. I'll land and come straight to you. You won't believe the stuff I've got for you this time. I miss you so much, Blair. I can't wait to hold you in my arms and kiss you everywhere. I love you."

But Florence had failed to keep her promise. Blair knew that she wasn't coming home.

* *

"How long do we have to keep her like this?" Heather asked impatiently.

"It's hard to say," said the doctor, shifting the glasses up his nose as he studied Blair's chart. "She has acute dehydration, low levels of nutrition in her system and a persistent fever. We'll keep her at least until we have the fever under control. Meanwhile, we are using an IV line to replenish her fluids."

Heather strummed her fingers impatiently, watching the still figure lying on the bed.

"Notify me the second she wakes up."

The doctor nodded and walked off. Heather returned to her seat in the waiting room at Mercy, agitation bubbling through her. She looked around, finally pulling a copy of the Wall Street Journal from the table nearest to her.

The pictures of the flaming wreckage did not dominate the front page like they had done four days ago. Now, the news regarding the exact cause of the plane crash which claimed Florence Kaufman's life was relegated to the middle pages, sandwiched between garish advertisements and liberal op-ed pieces. Heather scanned and re-scanned the small square of text, making sure no mention of Blair's current state was in it. She had gone to great lengths to keep Blair's breakdown out of the tabloids' reach.

Minutes turned to hours. She checked her watch, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table. Finally, the room became too stifling for her. She stepped outside and opened a fresh pack of Marlboros from her purse.

She had finished her third in as many minutes when her phone began to ring. It was from work. She swiped it shut and put the phone back in her pocket.

Now was not the time to worry about anything else.

* *

"The doctors have managed to correct her electrolyte imbalance caused by severe dehydration and restore her vitamin levels," said the spectacled doctor. "I have spoken to her attending and they recommend keeping her at bed rest at home for a day or two."

"You're her psychiatrist. Tell me about her other... issues?"

Heather listened in rapt attention. The doctor sighed and shook his head.

"She was diagnosed with chronic depression when she was thirteen. Her parents died in an armed robbery around the same time, leaving her a mess. She dropped out of school and would spend days unable to get out of bed. Her foster parents tried medication and counselling till she was seventeen."

"Her only real improvement came after her engagement to Florence Kaufman. She was taking her medication regularly and the cognitive treatment was having a significant impact on her mood. Mrs. Kaufman's death has set her therapy back by years."

Heather took out some paperwork from her briefcase and put it in front of the doctor.

"I need you to write an evaluation on her mental faculties. She stands to get a major share of Florence Kaufman's assets. Given her fragile state and the fact that their marriage is only a few months old, I expect we will see some opposition to it. Do you understand?"

"How can I do that?" asked the doctor, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't had a chance to examine her state of mind yet."

"I'm sure you'll have a positive assessment of it," said Heather, leaning over the desk. "I'm counting on it."

"I-I.." started the doctor, beginning to feel sweaty.

"C'mon... doc, do I really need to spell it out for you? You have alimony, a mortgage, and a kid who's going to college next fall. You could use some money right about now."

"H-how much?"

"Enough."

"What should I write?"

"I'll leave the medical jargon to you, but it should say that Blair is dealing with her depression well and it is your

medical

opinion that she is of sound mind."

The doctor shifted his glasses up his nose and nodded.

"Good. I'll let you know if I need you to do any more."

* *

Blair found herself back in familiar surroundings. The room was cleaned and fumigated. The mansion was as opulent as it had always been. But there was a telling emptiness amidst the high ceilings and lavish furniture. There was no more life and mirth.

"Feeling better?"

She smiled weakly as the redhead lawyer sat down beside her on the bed. A slender hand cupped the back of Blair's head and laid it down on the pillow.

"You get some rest, okay? We'll talk some more later."

"Who are you?" came the weak reply. "Why do you care about me so much?"

Heather bit her lip and paused. There were things she could not tell her yet. Maybe someday, but definitely not yet.

"Florence and I were good friends. I've been her lawyer for a long time now. She was an icon for all lesbians, myself included. I know she loved you very much and would have wanted me to help you in whatever way I can."

"I don't know if I can move on," Blair whimpered, a hint of moisture forming at the corner of her eye.

"You can," said Heather, clutching her hand tightly. "...and you will. Just give it some time."

Saying this, she left. Blair slowly reached for her phone and heard the voicemail once more. The slight wetness in her eyes morphed into a rivulet of tears. She put her hand over her mouth and sobbed.

She heard the voicemail once more and nothing else mattered to her.

* *

Heather Franklin leaned back on her headrest and admired the glittering lights of Manhattan outside her window. The night was cold and it seeped into the room.

Disinterestedly, she flicked her lighter to life and lit a new Marlboro. The end glowed when she took a long drag and let out a thin stream of smoke. Her thoughts were far removed from her Upper East Side apartment. She replayed the sad, helpless look painted on Blair's face.

Those hollow cheeks, marked by innumerable tears. Those sumptuous lips that looked like they would never smile again. That haunting expression in her green eyes.

"Are you ready?"

Heather turned to look at her doorway where an elegantly thin black woman stood with a devilish grin on her face. She was dressed in nothing apart from her stiletto heels. Heather looked up and down her lithe body, admiring her plump breasts and the bald lips of her pussy smiling back at her.

"Sorry, Deanna. Got a bit distracted here."

She took another long pull off her cigarette, her eyes transfixed on the athletic form slowly making her way to the bed. She let out a brief puff of smoke when she felt a soft kiss near her knee. The lips slowly moved up her leg, kissing and pulling at the skin at regular intervals. A low, guttural groan left her mouth when they kissed her lower lips softly, almost teasing them with a hint of what was to follow.

"Do you want it, baby? Say you want it."

"I want it."

Heather's voice was muted when her lover's tongue finally snaked inside her. It swept from side to side and brushed against her pink flesh. She groaned again as her friend added her index finger to the mix.

"Fuck..."

A middle finger joined the index plunging in and out of her wet lips. She looked down and saw Deanna's elbow rocking back and forth rhythmically. Each in stroke was accompanied by a fluid flick of the wrist, making contact with her G spot in short jabs.

Deanna's lips were fastened to her clit now, furiously lashing the sensitive button while her fingers wreaked havoc inside Heather. She looked up and met Heather's smouldering gaze.

"Don't stop."

Deanna duly increased the tempo of her fingers, now three of them, pistoning like a well-oiled engine. Her other hand crept up to pinch one of Heather's small but hard nipples. The combination sent Heather into delirium.

"That's it, baby," she cooed. "Let me take care of you. Just close your eyes and let Deanna take you away from all this."

Heather clenched her eyes shut and let the sensations radiating through her body consume her. Waves of pleasure rippled through her skin, sending her nervous system into overload. The pace was frantic now. Deanna's mouth and fingers had reached their crescendo. A blur of colours and shapes floated across Heather's vision. Fireworks went off in her head.

And she saw it once more. The forlorn look on Blair's face. It wasn't sadness or dejection, more of a look of disenchantment. The world had been especially unkind to her. Now, the one time she felt she was finally getting her long overdue happiness, the floor was ripped out from under her.

Heather slowly opened her eyes and sighed. Even an orgasm couldn't take her mind off of Blair.

* *

"Thank you for coming, Blair. Are you feeling better?"

"A little bit," she affirmed, sitting down and putting her bag on the desk.

"I'll just quickly go over the paperwork. I hope I've not forgotten something," said Heather, combing through the contents of her file.

"You don't look like an estate planner," said Blair watching her sort through the sheaf of papers.

"That's because I'm not. I only did it as a personal favour to Flo."

"When did you first meet her?"

"We met at a GLAAD fund-raiser a little over three years ago. I tried referring her to a friend of mine who specialises in estate law, but she wanted me. So here we are."

"It still doesn't feel real," said Blair shaking her head. "Will it ever?"

Before Heather could answer, two sharply dressed men entered the conference room. Heather shook hands with them and beckoned them to sit.

"You'll find everything you need in here," Heather said, handing over the documents. "I expect this is merely a formality and you will be changing the ownership and title on the accounts and properties to Blair very soon."

"I wouldn't be so sure," said one of the men. "We still need to verify the authenticity of the will."

"It's authentic, trust me."

"There is also the matter of how legitimate this marriage is. Florence Kaufman was a private person. We have no idea if Blair Cassel married her out of love or out of greed. We will fight the legitimacy of both the marriage and the will, written in an infatuated state of mind, in court."

Heather balled her hands into fists until her knuckles turned white. She stole a quick look to her side to see Blair sitting with her eyes closed and the same distant look on her face. She didn't show any signs of being aware of what was said.

"Mr. Wasserman. Can you please tell your associate to leave so we can have a one on one discussion?"

The older of the two lawyers nodded at his colleague who left the conference room, closing the door behind him.

"Call him and put the phone on speaker. Now."

"I beg your pardon," said the lawyer.

"The man who's paying your hourly. You and I both know what this is really about so let's stop playing games."

"I represent Mrs. Florence Kaufman's estate. If you're trying to insinuate that I-"

"Mr. Wasserman," said Heather through gritted teeth. "I am not a patient person. You will call up your actual client within the next ten seconds or I do everything in my power to make sure your practice shuts down. Every case your firm has will be pushed to the bottom of the docket. Every judge will throw out evidence that helps your firm's clients. Every continuance that your firm's opponents want will be granted. I will bleed your firm's business dry until all your clients leave."

The opposing lawyer dabbed his suddenly sweaty brow. Heather Franklin was one of the very few people who had the juice to follow up on a threat like that. His trembling hands took out his phone and dialled his most recent call.

"Put it on speaker and place it on the table."

He did as asked. Several rings went by before a coarse male voice was heard on the other end.

"Hello. Is the meeting over?"

"Not quite," said Heather, craning forward to make herself heard.

"Who's this?"

"This is Heather Franklin. I am the executor of Florence Kaufman's will. I take it you are Bryan Kaufman."

"I am."

"I want you to listen carefully to what I am going to say. You are going to drop your claim to a share of Florence Kaufman's estate and you are going to tell the rest of your idiot siblings to do the same."

"And what makes you think we would be stupid enough to do that? We're her only remaining family. We're related by blood. If anyone deserves Florence's estate, it's us, and we'll fight for it in court."

Heather picked the phone up and placed it just in front of her.

"It is highly unlikely for siblings to receive any part of the inheritance in case there is a will and a surviving spouse. I hope you know that."

"My sister was a reclusive, lonely person. Blair took advantage of that and married her so she could inherit everything. Their marriage was nothing more than a sham and we will make sure the court knows it. Or else, you could spare her the lengthy and humiliating trial by giving us what we want. Mr Wasserman can help you with our demands."

"This isn't a request, Mr. Kaufman. If you fight for your late sister's assets, I can assure you the trial will take years. You might not have that long to fight."

"What do you mean? Is that a threat?" came the angry response.

"It means that your construction company is deeply in loss. Your only hope of seeing the next quarter is the contract for the Andromeda Mall in New Rochelle. Now imagine if someone made a call to the real estate developers and told them that if they hired your company, they would suddenly be the victims of a full blown financial investigation? I make a call to the right prosecutor and that's exactly what happens. Let's see how your prospects look for landing the contract then. Without that contract, you'll end up in court all right. Bankruptcy court. I do hope you'll still be in a position to pay Mr. Wasserman's fees."