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."
"I don't know why I said that..." I returned to stuffing my mouth with food. Setting my fork in the empty bowl, I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Sucking in the initial plume of smoke, I held it and closed my eyes. Exhaling, I brought the cigarette back to my lips. The smoke was warm, almost hot, as it slid down into my lungs.
"How long have you been a smoker?" Andrews asked, putting his fork down.
"On and off since I was twelve, so about fourteen years," I shrugged, taking a breath of clean air before returning to the carcinogen.
"On and off?" he repeated.
"I stop and start. The more stressed I am, the more I smoke," I blew a ring into the air. "And no, someone who has just started can not blow smoke rings. Sometimes they happen by accident, but it takes a lot of practice."
"Good to know. Does your -- never mind," he shook his head.
"What? Did my family know? Yes. I was skimming out of their packs in the beginning," I inhaled. "They did their best to discourage me, but they realized cigarettes were better than the crack and meth being sold at my school. My brother eventually got tired of me sneaking his and bought two packs each time, giving one to me."
"Ah, the wonders of irritated older siblings. How much older than you was he?" he smiled.
"Seven years. Though it was one of his frat buddies who took my virginity when he came to visit one spring break," I stubbed out my cigarette in the little ashtray.
"How old were you?" Andrews's eyes were downcast.
"Still twelve. It was a week and a half before my thirteenth," I shrugged again. "I didn't even know what was happening. The guy was drunk and I woke up as he was pushing his dick into me. His only words were 'scream and die'."
"Did you tell anyone?" he growled, tensing in his seat.
"Sharlene, in grade eleven. We were playing Truth or Dare at a sleepover and I didn't want to do any dares," I lit another cigarette. "Other than that, I closed myself off from everyone and avoided all males except my family. Even then I stopped saying more than a few words to them."
