My Brothers wife. Chapter 1
Characters Tracy and Monica Quartermaine
I do not own EITHER character,
Rating M
Sex, yes, and if two women succumbing to each other offends you, I suggest you read something else.
Chapter : Awakening:
The house was quiet, too quiet.
Tracy couldn't bring herself to retire to the boathouse and was instead in Edward and Lila's old room pacing, looking over photos, choking back tears and becoming increasingly agitated that this house that usually bustled with life at any given time, was silent.
The recent past had seen many losses in the Quartermaine family. Almost more then she could bear. The passing of Lila was the deepest cut of all to the entire family, but Tracy,…Tracy took it worst of anyone.
And now Alan, her brother, that had just about done her in.
Though quiet, Tracy wasn't the only one here. Down the hall, behind a closed door, Monica was too mourning, lost and afraid. She sat on the edge of the bed, slowly spinning her wedding band on her finger.
With the after service reception over, and Alan buried, now was truly the first time that Monica faced the first night of many alone. And like Tracy, Monica didn't do alone well at all.
Monica and Tracy were the quintessential Ying and Yang of the Quartermaine women.
Monica, for the most part, the benevolent Dr., was light, kind and involved. Lovely, intelligent and dedicated, she proved a fair leveling agent over the years of odd situations this family managed to get into. Monica was a rare Quartermaine, as she had some modicum of a conscience; her shield was on the inside. She had a tough heart, but would rather appear softer and a woman of reason to the world around her.
Monica, a skilled surgeon, with scalpel in hand, could heal, and repair
And then you have Tracy, dark, hard, chiseled, and beautiful, who wore her armor exteriorly. This woman could master any situation to her advantage, the brilliant, consummate opportunist.
Now granted, Tracy from time to time was capable of fleeting compassion that could make your knees weak with its splendor and sincerity, and as soon as she knew that that side of her peeked thru, that her severe vulnerability shone…her chill would return, brutal and detached and her guard was back up.
Tracy, the primal manipulator, with knife behind her back, could wound and destroy.
Weighing in on them both, they were so different, yet so very alike.
"I cannot take this infernal SILENCE anymore,. I need a drink" muttered Tracy as she stormed downstairs
Down the hall, Monica startled when she heard the door open, then slam. She had almost forgotten Tracy was in the house, and was strangely relieved that the stillness was disturbed.
She too, decided to leave her and Alan's room, and calm her head with a beverage.
Dropping a few pieces of ice into heavy lead crystal was a favorite pastime of Tracy's. The sounds, the ritual of it, the pouring of the heady single malt, the creak and crack of the cubes shattering as the Scotch flowed around them, that Oak laden aroma as she raises the "cure-all" to her lips, and the feel of the world easing as the warmth coats her throat.
Her head back, eyes closed, she takes her first full breath since the funeral.
"It looks like we've come to the same conclusion" says Monica as she enters the room.
Tracy remains for one more second, reveling in the temporary peace she has found, before turning to face Monica.
"Same for you?" she asks as she reaches for another glass.
" Yes, but I've got it" she is stopped by the wave of Tracy's hand.
"No, no,..sit down, I can pour more then one you know" she states with her usual protective sarcasm. "I am just a wiz at multi-tasking"
Monica manages a weak smile, and thanks Tracy as she takes the drink then has a seat.
Tracy sits down on the opposite end of the couch, and sighs heavily, the black silk robe falling slightly open, revealing her thigh.
Monica sees this, and a sentence careens through her head.(God she looks tired, how does she hold up under the pressure of her life, and still look radiant?). This was not a new thought, and yet Monica was a bit stunned that it ran thru her mind at this moment, not to mention the sensation in her stomach. She took a long pull on her Scotch.
"I'm going to miss that son of a bitch." Tracy said softly, voice slightly cracking, smiling to herself
This was a comment that anyone else would have been scorned for as horrible and insensitive by Monica. But this was Tracy, pure Tracy, and Monica let it slide
"After Mother died, I had this strange illusion in place, that Alan and I would continue this race together, blood bound, brother and sister."
Monica listened as Tracy continued.
"I truly believed he would just BE here, always, the last immortal, can't touch us Quartermaine" She rubs her forehead as this was past fantasy, and here was bitter reality.
"I'm sorry Tracy, this has been an awful year for you,..for all of us, but you mostly"
"Come on Monica, don't patronize, this isn't about me, (That is one thing Monica NEVER thought she'd hear out of Tracy Quartermaines mouth!) Alan may have been my brother, but you were married to the big goon. He was yours beyond what he could ever be to me, or Father and Mother. And that is just what I knew and accepted (and hated…rang in her skull) .
A wife is not a sister, not just a friend, you managed to give him normalcy in this messed up family, and THAT is NO short order Monica. You were all things and you made him happy"
Monica is still. She knows this pattern, so she sits taking in the consoling, waiting for the bite
"This family loved you Monica, it still loves you. You were ALWAYS the port, and I was, and will always remain" she pauses…" the storm."
She stops at her own analogy, and stands to get another drink. She felt a sense of envy cross her heart, one that now was not the time or place for, one that had more sides then one would think. Here comes the armor again.
She looked over at Monica who was resting her chin on her hand, eyes closed; blonde hair falling over her shoulders, turquoise pajama shirt opened one button too far. She found herself taking her in in a way she always tried to avoid.
"You need a refill?" Tracy asked "I know I sure as hell do"
"Here Tracy," Monica stands, "let me", and she steps beside the drink cart and reaches for the glass.
"What the hell Monica, I may be out of sorts, but the day I cannot pour a scotch is the day I'll be in the Vault with the rest of the family"
"I agree, but I also agree that things need, on a very VERY real level to remain normal, whatever that is, and YOU waiting on me just isn't normal…o.k.?" Monica was adamant
Tracy sets the glass down with a snit, and notices again the undone extra button showing a glimpse of Monica's skin, and finds herself flush warm at this sight. She likes Monica asserting herself. Tracy always loved when she toughened up a bit.
"FINE, make your own drink." Monica reaches to claim the glass, but Tracy doesn't let go. Emotions begin to reel.
"We all know you're a big girl. And since you want to play normal, let's DO remember the order of things in this house"
She leans in towards Monica, both their hands on the same tumbler. She is close, dangerously close.
"Make mine too" she hisses, testing Monica's resolve, staring her dead in the eyes. Now THIS feels like old times, and Tracy grins inside to herself that for the first time all day, her thoughts were in the living, not the dead.
Monica quakes and hopes Tracy didn't see, but not much is missed by that woman. Those eyes, those wicked blue eyes. Monica usually avoids too much direct contact with them. It always felt like staring at a wild animal, provoking it.
Just not a good idea, but for some reason, she held Tracy's gaze.
These were two women on a precipice, hurt, lonely, angry, full of latent desire, and just enough alcohol. This is a dance they danced for decades, building into a ruthless game of cat and mouse, good girl, bad girl, and it worked to keep their real feelings firmly in check.
There was only ONE person who always managed to keep that line in the sand from blurring. Respected, mutually loved and revered. One reason was common to NEVER cross that boundary over all these years, and that was Alan,…and now
Alan was gone.
The tension is thrilling. They both know what they want, and after almost 30 years, it cannot be avoided one second longer
Monica leers back, jaw fixed and all she can think of to say, is "Fuck you Tracy"
Tracy lets go of the tumbler, and sternly slips a hand behind Monica's neck, pulling her close, and moving her mouth to Monica's ear. The bridge is gapped and both women stand ridged, hearts pounding so loudly it's as if the walls themselves will crumble.
"Now that's the spirit honey, I've waited for that proposition for way too long" she seethed at an evil whisper.
Holding Monica fast, she grazes her jaw line with her parted lips, and faces her again. Basking in this moment as if she had finally held her prey in one clawed hand, she leans back in, stare fixed, pushing the envelope, wondering if Monica will stop her.
The earth turns to quicksand under Monica's feet, as Tracy brushes lips against lips, and then, like a bolt of white hot lightning, Tracy closes her mouth over hers, and that longed for, warm sweet tongue slips inside.
This causes an electric shutter to run through Monica, and a moan to escape through her nose.
She has a nano-second where she considered pulling away, but who was she kidding. She brings her hands up to either side of Tracy's face. This is exactly where she wanted to be.
Monica returns this kiss with fervor, tongues wrestle and dance and vie for dominance, and Tracy realizes the old adage of Be careful what you wish for.
Never one for less then a good round of one-upmanship, she reaches between then and clasps the open sides of Monica's top in each hand. With a primal lust burning her alive she tears the shirt open. Buttons tink off the wall and floor as they fly.
This breaks the kiss, and Monica gasps. She stands there, the glisten of sweat already apparent on her belly, and chest.
Tracy glides her hands down between supple breasts, to Monica's trembling abdomen, not once losing her eyes.
Making a path. A deliberate slight line, with slow methodical fingertips, and then back up her stomach.
She feels Monica shaking, and fights that same tremor in herself, but is losing the battle.
A sensual smile of delight, at how her hard nipples feel against her palms, crosses Tracy's face as her hands cover Monica's female forum.
And as the game is set to run into second gear…the doorbell rings harsh and cold