Apartment 2B
Apartment 2B
Copyright © 2014 K. Webster
Cover Design: K. Webster
Stock Photo: Big Stock
Editor: Mickey Reed
Formatting: Stacey Blake
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and
Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material
is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an
information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Broken (Book 1 in The Breaking the Rules Series)
Rock Country (Book 1 in the Vegas Aces Series)
To Wendy Bear—you laid claim on Liam even before I did. He’ll always belong to you.
She approaches me with the glassy, far-off look, and I cower away from her. There
is no escaping her when she goes into one of her moods. When she’s like this, I refer
to her as Clean Momma. I plead with my eyes, not daring to voice my prayers. You never
speak to her when she has that look in her eyes. Speaking will only make things ten
times worse.
“Sidney, baby, are you dirty?” she questions, the sweetness in her voice thick as
syrup.
I blink a few times to rid the tears that are threatening. Clean Momma hates tears.
Quickly shaking my head from side to side, I once again plead with her nonverbally
to not go to the inevitable. When she takes a step toward me, I flinch, and the corners
of her lips turn up into a sickening smile.
Momma is as twisted as they come. Even being a very naïve, sheltered fifteen-year-old
girl, I know that there is something sick in her brain. Thankfully she allows me to
borrow books from the library. Because of those escapes from hell, I know that I am
living in a nightmare that is far from a normal life.
As if reading my mind, she glares at me with all the hate she can muster, it seems,
and I nearly vomit. But I choke it back because you certainly do not do that in front
of Momma. Only a few times in my life has it happened, and I paid dearly for them.
“Sidney, you are a very dirty little girl. When you went to the library today, you
were exposed to some nasty things. I can practically seem them crawling on you. Momma
needs to wash you clean.”
This time, the tears fall on their own accord, and I slowly inch myself away from
her. Even though we are nearly evenly matched with our height and weight, she has
just enough crazy in her that I will never be able to fight her. Breaking my vow of
silence, I finally succumb to begging.
“Momma, please,” I begin in a whimper, “I was so careful not to get dirty. I wore
clothing to cover my arms and legs. Plus, I remembered to wear my gloves.” I didn’t
really, but I threw it in for good measure, hoping it might work this time.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…”
I gulp, once again trying to push down the rising bile in my throat. There is no way
around this. And since I’ve spoken, it will be brutal.
“Get into the bathroom right away and undress. I’ll get my supplies.”
When I don’t make any moves toward the bathroom, she picks up one of her many switches
that are scattered about the house from the end table and cracks it across my upper
arm with surprising force for a woman of her size. I howl in pain and pull away from
her, hurrying into the bathroom. The last thing I need is a bunch of open lashes while
I endure my punishment. My arm stings, and without looking, I know she’s broken the
skin.
Not wanting to push her any further, I quickly strip out of my clothes as I wait for
her. I know the drill. She will bathe me as if I’m a child. Problem is, she will do
it in such a sadistic manner that it will take me days to recover. Again, I feel like
puking.
I can sense her presence before I see or hear her and step out of her way as she comes
into the bathroom. She’s in her ‘uniform,’ as she calls it, donning long yellow rubber
gloves and goggles. Heaven forbid she gets any bleach on her precious skin. Spinning
around so fast that I yelp out in surprise, she glares at me. The woman can sense,
even in my mind, when I have the smallest inkling of defiance rolling through me.
Her look is enough for me to wash it away immediately.
Stalking over to the tub, she draws what I know from experience is a scalding-hot
bath. I’m already whimpering as I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. As it
fills, she adds the entire bottle of bleach into the tub. It instantly burns my eyes
and nose as it fills the air, mixing with the steam. I try not to choke and take shallow
breaths as not to inhale it all and send myself into a coughing fit. Clean Momma is
bad, visiting frequently, but Nurse Momma is the worst. A cough would bring her out
in a flash, and I simply can’t deal with Nurse Momma.
“Dirty child, get into the tub. We need to wash the filth from your body. Momma needs
to make you clean again.”
I blink the tears from my eyes, which are now a mixture of fear and chemical irritation,
and approach the tub hesitantly. Because I must be going too slowly, I am immediately
attacked with the switch again across my bottom, and I wail out in surprise. This,
too, has broken the skin, and I curse myself for making things worse on me.
Raising my foot over the top of the tub, I try to ease my toes in, testing the temperature
of the water. Of course it is beyond scorching, and I whine as I force my foot into
the blistering abyss. Escaping to the mental holes in my mind, I think about anything
but the pain that is slowly rising up my leg as I fully submerge it. Once my toes
graze the bottom of the tub, I get my footing under control before I pull the other
foot into the tub.
Momma calmly watches as I lower myself down, grabbing ahold of either side of the
tub. This part always hurts the worst. If I don’t do it in a manner that she views
is quick enough, she’ll help me along. I do not like it when she helps me along.
Biting down on my lip, praying to distract myself from the pain, I lower my bottom.
I feel the heat on my sensitive flesh between my legs before it even touches the scorching
water. When I hesitate just a fraction of a second, I know I’ve made the worst possible
mistake.
Momma slams her hands onto my shoulders and pushes me into the piping-hot water. My
screams are otherworldly as the liquid fire lashes at my flesh. Tears roll down along
with snot as I try not to move a muscle, hoping not to inflict any more pain on untouched
skin.
My breaths are coming out shallow and ragged as I throw all of my willpower into not
hyperventilating. I still have a death grip on the edge of the tub so that she doesn’t
fully submerge me if I am caught off guard. Every muscle in my body is tight as I
brace myself for what she has plans for next.
From the corner of my eye, I watch with bated breath as she pulls out a bristly scrub
brush. Thankfully this one only has plastic bristles. If they ever ran out of the
plastic ones at the grocery store, she was in no way opposed to buying metal scouring
pads. Momma has her own business as a cleaning lady with many affluent clients and
I often wonder if she cleans their bathtubs like she cleans her daughter—very thoroughly.
Carefully, she pours a little bleach over the scrub brush and turns to me. Clenching
my eyes closed, I hold my breath as she begins her relentless scrubbing.
