Dead Running (3 page)

One or two tattoos? Could be attractive. Not an inch of flesh showing through the ink? A bit much for me. I swallowed hard and met his gaze.

He’d noticed my reaction, his eyes cooled from hot fudge to obsidian. “I’m a surgeon,” he said, “I was going to offer my services.”

“As long as it’s not as a tattoo artist.” I bit my lip the instant the words escaped.

His eyebrows shot upwards. “Excuse me?”

Raquel caught my gaze and shook her head. She waved to someone, fleeing the uncomfortable silence.

“Sorry,” I mumbled to the ground. Someday I would learn to control my tongue. “I’d love to have you doctor me.”

Dr. Tattoo gently grasped the un-bloody part of my arm and escorted me to the first aid tent. His hands were the beautiful male kind with tan, strong fingers. His face definitely had a rough edge to it, but was gorgeous nonetheless. But his body? I shuddered. I’d never been a huge fan of draping a healthy body with artwork. This professed doctor’s appearance screamed bad boy, but his kind eyes warred with the image.

We didn’t speak as he bandaged my scrapes, his warm fingers doing a number on my hypersensitive skin. Sadly for me, he finished, threw the wrappings in the garbage, and lifted his eyes to mine. “All better?”

If I focused on his face, I could’ve thrown myself at him and never looked at another face again. I swallowed and whispered, “I would be if I hadn’t offended you earlier.”

He glanced down at his multi-colored arms then back at me. “It’s understandable.”

I nodded, wanting to ask why he hadn’t stopped after the first twenty tattoos. “Thank you,” I murmured, standing and pivoting away.

Dr. Tattoo stood with me. “Hopefully I won’t see you again.”

I spun back. “How am I supposed to take that?”

He grinned, his dark eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’m a plastic surgeon and you obviously don’t need any work done.” He gestured to me and I reddened with pleasure.

“Okay, then.” I reached out and shook his hand. The pressure of his grasp made me wish I did need “work” so I could see him again, though he obviously wasn’t my type. “Here’s to never seeing you again.”

He winked. I walked away on unsteady legs that had nothing to do with my road rash.

*
         
*
         
*

Raquel and I sprawled under the shade of the bowery at Mack Park. After one of the most painful half hours of my life I was entitled to sip water and munch on Great Harvest Bread. I hadn’t seen the Nasty Muscle Man who I tripped on during the race. At the moment I was safe and satiated.

A woman with a cheap megaphone called out, “It’s time to annou . . . the prize win . . .” or something like that, her voice was so garbled I missed half her words.

Raquel dragged me closer to the picnic tables in hopes of hearing better.

Race Organizer Lady gave away a treadmill, gift certificates to iFrogz and Mio Global watches (crap, I wanted one of those), and a year of free ice cream from Casper’s Malt Shoppe (shoot, I
really
wanted that one).

I kicked at a clump of grass clippings. Same old routine. I never won anything. Then like a miracle, I heard it.

“Cassidy Christen . . . has won, garble, garble, garble.”

I shrieked and grabbed Raquel. “I won!”

Raquel faced me, eyes wide. “You
won
.”

We locked onto each other’s forearms and jumped up and down as if I’d just won the Idaho lottery. “You won,” she screamed.

“I won,” I yelled louder.

A tall brunette next to us asked, “What did you win?”

“I don’t know,” I laughed, gleeful in my ignorance.

A middle-aged, miniscule man chuckled. “Glad you’re so happy about it.” He pushed back his baseball cap and scratched at a tuft of blond hair. “You won the entrance into the St. George Marathon.”

Raquel’s mouth dropped open. A loud guffaw emitted from her pink-stained lips. I stopped jumping. My eyes widened. My heart fell to my running shoes. “A marathon entry? What kind of a stupid prize is that?”

Raquel released her grip on me, her entire body shaking with laughter. “A marathon? Why would
you
,” cackle, cackle, cackle, “enter your name into a drawing for a marathon?”

I dug my toe into the dewy grass, extending my lower lip. “I didn’t know it was for a marathon. I entered every drawing there was. I wanted the year of free ice cream from Casper’s.”

“And you got a marathon.” Raquel laughed so hard I was afraid she would hurt my future nephew. “Wait till Jared hears this,” she said. “Our Cassie. Running a marathon.”

A beautiful, hard-bodied redhead, in a sports bra and what could have passed for running shorts, if you added six inches of cloth to the backside, sidled up next to me. “I’d buy the entrance from you.”

I whirled from my cackling sister-in-law to look down at the woman trapped in a teenager’s body. “Why would you waste your money?”

A soft dimple appeared in her lovely face. “I didn’t get into St. George and I really want to. Actually, I’m desperate to get in.”

“I’d feel like a piece of trash selling you such a stupid prize.” I turned away, more frustrated with myself than the redhead. Raquel smirked at me and sauntered towards the refreshment table.

Hot Redhead rushed around in front of me. “You don’t understand. The lottery for the marathon entries is over and my name didn’t get pulled. Races like this,” she gestured around with her hand. “Are my only hope.” She smiled, revealing perfectly straight and whitened teeth. “I have a really big reason for wanting to run St. George.”

“Which is?” I demanded. I needed to know all the facts. Maybe I should be aching to run this race too. Maybeif I was a raving lunatic.

She tilted her head towards the end of the pavilion. A gaggle of women in shorter shorts than my new friend flittered around Fine-Looking Runner Man, the same perfect specimen who sailed past Raquel and I earlier this morning.
 

“
Damon
is running St. George,” she caressed his name like he was royalty.

Damon. I let the name rest in my brain. It was perfect.
He
was perfect.

I rolled my eyes at Hot Redhead, showcasing my lack of interest. “What a pathetic way to try and snag a guy.”
           
Hot Redhead glared at me. “He’s offered to train with any locals running St. George. It would mean hours with him.” She sighed. “And depending on who else gets into the St. George Marathon,” her voice lowered conspiratorially, “possibly hours
alone
with him.”

“Aha. It’s a fabulous strategy for picking up a man.” I tilted my head to the side, studying her. No guy would turn down a woman that perfect. “Why don’t you just ask him out?”

Her copper-tinged lips curled into a pout. “I just met him this morning. I’ll wait for him to ask.”

I clucked my tongue and pointed at the horde of women hanging on Damon’s every muscle. “Well, good luck with that one. He’s desperately searching for some female who holds back and waits for
him
to ask.”

Race Organizer Lady, an exotic-looking woman with her dark hair in cornrows, approached me. Thankfully, she carried the megaphone instead of screeching through it. “You’re Cassidy Christensen?”

“Yes.” How did she find me so quickly? I searched for the person who had ratted me out. Raquel grinned, gave me a thumbs up, and took another bite of bread. She was going to pay for that.

“Congratulations,” she gushed. “You’re going to love this race.” Her almond-shaped eyes and wide lips tilted upwards with excitement. “You’ll need to fill out the paperwork and then I’ll give you the address to send in the fee.” She offered a clipboard.

“Whoa, hold up.” I stepped back. “What fee are we speaking of?”

“The eighty dollar marathon fee.”

“Eighty dollars?” I gagged on the words. “Wh-what?” The sparrows twittered through the oak trees, adding their chirping laughter to my confusion. I frowned at the inconsiderate birds. “Reverse a bit. You said I won the marathon and now you’re trying to make me pay for it. Something is messed up here."

Race Lady rolled her dark eyes. “You just won the
right
to enter.”

“The right?” I blinked at her. “And people are excited about this prize?”

Hot Redhead tugged on my T-shirt. “I’m excited about it. Why not let me buy the entry?”

Race Lady was getting impatient. She pointed at me. “
You
have to pay for the marathon and you can’t transfer it as I’m sure you read when you filled out the entry.”

I hadn’t read anything or I wouldn’t be in this mess. “Seriously?” This woman was crazy. She couldn’t force me to run a marathon.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it,” Hot Redhead whispered into my ponytail.

I glanced back at her. “I think you want it more than that. One-twenty five.”

“I just told you that you can’t transfer it,” annoyed Race Lady said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Give us a second.”

Hot Redhead stared at Damon and sighed. “Okay, one-twenty-five.”

I glanced at Damon and his gang of feminine admirers. I wondered if they had a club. Maybe I could join up and buy me a Damon T-shirt. Nah. I’d never been much for organized man-chasing.
 

At that moment, Damon glanced over a blonde Barbie’s head and smiled at me. My stomach fluttered. It was a feeling I wouldn’t mind experiencing again. I guess I could understand why Hot Redhead was so intent on getting into this marathon.

Race Lady folded her arms across her chest, the megaphone dangling from her fingertips. “I’m
waiting
.”

“One-fifty,” I whispered at the woman hiding behind me.

“What?” Hot Redhead gasped. “You can’t raise your price.”

“I’m the one with my name on that entry,” I said, poking at the clipboard in my hands. I jerked my head in Damon’s direction. “I’m going to be the one training with Fine Damon. One-fifty or you can watch me drip sweat all over him.”

Race Lady slapped her megaphone against her thigh. I don’t think she found either of us comical. “The entry is non-transferable. I can’t believe anyone would try to sell this.”

“Sure you can.” I offered her a cheeky smile and a discreet wink. “Now I’ll give you a cut, say twenty-five bucks if you pretend you pulled her name out of the hat instead of mine.”

“That’s obscene.” She jammed the clipboard into my ribs. “Fill out your information here.”

“How do you spell your last name?” I whispered to the petite redhead.

“R-a-n-d-,”

Race Lady whipped her megaphone to her mouth and pressed it against the side of my head. “You
can-not
transfer it.”

Agony raced from my eardrum, spreading throughout my nervous system. I bowed forward, clapped my hand to my ear, and writhed in pain. “Did you seriously just do that?”

Race Lady dropped the megaphone, stole the clipboard from my hands, and printed C-a-s-s-i-d-y C-h-r-i-s-t-e-n-s-e-n. I watched helplessly. My head ringing. My eardrum splitting.

Race Lady gave the clipboard back to me. “Fill it out. If you didn’t want to run the marathon, you shouldn’t have entered your name.”

Hot Redhead leaned in. “Please.” It was a simple but heartfelt request for my tormentor to have some pity on our situation. Hot Redhead’s luminous green eyes were pretty convincing. I might have fallen for them.

“Get out of here,” Race Lady shooed away my shadow.

My mouth dropped in despair as the girl pivoted and scurried away. “She would’ve given me a hundred and fifty bucks,” I muttered. “Now I have to pay eighty and run an entire marathon?” Dang, this cruel Race Lady. She didn’t even have the courtesy to look apologetic about my hearing damage.

“You’ll love the St. George Marathon.”

Was that her idea of sorry? “I wanted the ice cream.”

She jabbed a long finger into the paper. “Get writing. I’ll be back.”

I slowly scratched in my address and phone numbers just to get her off my back so I could think for a minute. Maybe it would be fun to run a marathon and train with Fine Damon, or maybe I could throw the papers in the recycling when I got home and forget the whole thing. I shook my head and pressed several fingers against my eardrum. The ringing wasn’t going away.