Parking outside a very rustic-looking cabin, Andrews shook me lightly out of my quasi-sleep and handed me a new Pepsi.
"It doesn't look like much from the outside, but there's a bomb shelter built fifty feet into the ground beneath it," he smiled a little. "There are proximity sensors secured to trees for several kilometres in all directions."
Nodding, I sipped at the carbonated caffeine but otherwise stayed motionless. "Is it sound-proof?" I muttered between swallows.
"The interior? Yes, for the most part. The bedroom is a sealed entity to itself with reinforced steel walls -- not even a squirrel can be heard in the trees. The main room, however, you can hear only the major things like a falling tree or a vehicle coming up the road," he clicked the buttons releasing both our belts.
"Bed
room
?" I repeated, emphasizing the singular.
"Unfortunately, yes. But it has been shown to decrease the likelihood of witness death," he blushed a little. "All agents are trained to wake at the slightest shuffle -- whether we have been drugged or not. The access panel to the subterranean bunker is also in the bedroom."
"Good to know," I sighed, reaching for the door handle.
"Let me get it. The ground in this area is covered in a thick layer of finely broken glass," he reached across the seat and stilled my hand; his arm pressing against my breasts.
"One quick question. Can I smoke in there?" I breathed shallowly, realizing just how thin the top Sharlene bought was.
"With a window open, yes," he didn't move his arm. "You still suck back Canadian Classics?"
"King size," I nodded. "How long do you think it will be before I can drink Rockstars again?"
"Impossible to say. A week at least," Andrews finally retracted his arm. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you when food's ready."
Nodding, I curled up in the seat and shut my eyes; sleep immediately sucking me back under. The world was soft and warm when something falling snapped the last vestiges of sleep from my brain. Bolting upright, a soft blanket fell off my shoulder and pooled on my legs.
"It's okay. I just dropped a pot," Andrews called over sheepishly.
"What time is it?" I asked, folding the blanket and standing.
"Quarter to seven," he looked over his shoulder at me. "Is tortellini okay for dinner?"
"Yeah, sure. I haven't had any since my grandmother's arthritis stopped her from hand-making it years ago," I smiled. "Do you know how good hand-made tortellini is?"
"My mother is purebred Italian. She and her mother made the best I ever tasted. Unfortunately, we're stuck with store bought tonight," he chuckled. "How do you like it topped?"
"Just some freshly grated parmesan if there is any," I took a seat at the little table.
"You're in luck," he put the pot by the sink. Turning, he placed a half-full bowl in front of me; cheese already dusting the top. Handing me a fork, he sat opposite me and kept his head tucked over his food. For store bought and factory made, it was pretty good.
Literally inhaling the food, I paused to grin at him over the salt shaker. Leaning over to the counter, he pulled open a drawer. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, he handed them to me and smiled widely.
"Window over the stove is open. Feel free to blow the smoke in any direction," he speared a piece of tortellini.
"Even down your throat?" I blurted out, blushing as I realized I had actually said it out loud.
"I'll smile, nod, and take that as a side-effect of your poisoning," he averted his eyes. "Random loss of vocal control noted and ignored."
