JAWBREAKER! - by Donald F. Glut

Author:Donald F. Glut
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Strange Particle Press

CHAPTER EIGHT: STALKED

Andrews wanted to sleep late again the next morning. The bed—a king-sized one set against the wall of the spacious bedroom his employer had awarded him at the Van Aaron mansion—felt especially comfortable today. His wounds and bruises, not yet entirely healed, and his still-weary bones enjoyed the comforts the bed had to offer.

Yes, he could and would—should—have slept much later, but he knew that employer Aaron Van Aaron was not about to let him slack off for two consecutive days. Van Aaron was paying Andrews—paying him quite handsomely, in fact—to perform his almost token duties as his bodyguard and chauffeur. Even if he were not actually guarding Van Aaron’s body or driving the multimillionaire someplace, Andrews had, at least, to be present on the job. He had to be there, ready to drive and escort his boss wherever and whenever he wanted to go. That was part of the verbal arrangement Van Aaron and the ex-stuntman shared with one another.

Also, it seemed, the Fates were against his sleeping in today. The morning sun was brutally shining through the bedroom window, flooding his eyes with light. His stomach growled, Andrews not having eaten anything since the previous afternoon. More than that, someone was pounding on his closed bedroom door, making it impossible for him to slide back into the realm of pleasant dreams. Eyes open to slits, Andrews gazed over to the clock on his nightstand. It was almost nine o’clock, an hour past his usual time of getting out of bed.

He ran his fingers through his black hair. His head moved across the pillow and, his eyes blinking, he focused his vision on the door. “Yeah?” he grumbled. “Whoever’s out there, you better be telling me the building’s on fire to get me up at this God-awful hour.”

The reply was spoken in a polite and proper British accent. “Mr. Andrews, Sir . . . it is I, Stanford.”

“Go away,” grumbled Andrews. “I’ll be up in a half hour.”

“But Sir,” Stanford went on from behind the door, “it’s the telephone—for you.”

“If it’s the White House, tell LBJ I’ll call back after I’ve had my coffee.”

“Uh, it’s not the President, Mr. Andrews . . . but Miss Foster. She would like to speak to you, Sir.”

“Tell her I’ll call her back once I’m completely awake,” Andrews groaned. “In a couple days.”

“Sir. . . .” replied the butler, “Miss Foster also phoned yesterday . . . several times . . . when you were sleeping.”

The man in the bed moaned. “Oh . . . Tell her I’ll call her back. But I need to get some caffeine in my system first.”

“Very well, Sir,” said Stanford. “I shall inform Miss Foster that you will call her back shortly when you have fully awakened—perhaps in a couple days.”

Andrews sat up in the bed and shook his head, as he heard Stanford’s footsteps diminish as the butler walked away from the door. He was never certain if the butler actually did have his own unique sense of humor or if he really did take most of what he heard literally.

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