Dead Running (5 page)

Tasha’s brow squiggled. Her lips flat-lined. I knew what she was thinkinga marathon entry didn’t really count as “winning” something, or maybe that’s what I was trying to convince myself
not
to think.
 
           
“Seriously?” Her blue eyes filled with doubt. “You actually
won
The Health Days Race?” She grinned. “And you didn’t throw up on any hot men?”

I shrunk lower in my seat. “No, I didn’t win
the
race. I put my name in a drawing and voila.” I splayed my hands. “I’m a win-
ner
.”

“I see.” Tasha returned to separating salad with her fork.

“St. George is a qualifier for the Boston Marathon,” I explained, “and just doing something big like this has inspired me to start a new business . . .”

My voice trailed off as my best friend stared at me like I’d grown chest hair. Tasha tilted her head to the side, blonde hair a gauzy curtain over her shapely upper arm. She poked at a chunk of chicken in her salad, set her fork down, took a long drink of water and then said, “
What
new business?”

 
“Training women in small groups so I can give personal attention but charge less per person.” Faced with Tasha’s discerning stare, my excitement fizzled a bit. “I read about it in Prevention magazine.”

Tasha rolled her eyes. “Your Prevention Bible?”

“Hey,” I picked up a fragment of tortilla chip and sucked on the salty goodness of grease, “I read the real Bible too.”

“More than Prevention Magazine?” She took a bite of her salad, the actual green part, and waited for an answer I wasn’t going to give. Swallowing, she shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”

“Anyway,” I said, “this is going to be fabulous. I’ve just got to find the right spot and get the word out.” I’d gotten the idea this afternoon when I was doing anything I could to distract myself from thinking about a man with no face. The excitement of getting back into personal training almost blocked the bad memories. Almost. “I’ll be able to use my degree again.”

“Which degree are you speaking of?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I know. The exercise science degree that you worked four years for, just had to complete, but after one failed business attempt, never use to make money? That degree?”

“Yes, that one.” I forced a smile, trying to stay positive and ignore the uppercuts. “It’s going to be brilliant. I’m trying to decide if I should design a website or flyers first.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Tasha held up her hand. “I understand the desire to break free of the receptionist job.”

“Loan
processor
.” Why couldn’t she ever get that right?

Tasha rolled her eyes. “Whatever you want to call yourself. A job that you hate.”

“I’m great at my job and I make loads of money.”

“Your boss is a pig and you aren’t happy.” She arched a perfectly plucked and dyed brow, waiting for me to contradict her, which I couldn’t do. “While I hate to admit it . . . this is a great idea. You’re a fabulous exercise scientist, an extremely fit person, and the best personal trainer I’ve ever used for
free
,” the lovely eyebrow almost reached her hairline, “if you can really convince yourself to charge people this would be the perfect job for you.”

“Thanks.” Finally, Tasha was giving me a little credit.

“But what does any of this have to do with running a marathon?”

“Running the race this morning just inspired me and I know I can do this new business and run a marathon.”

Tasha rolled her eyes. “You’ve never run over three miles in your life, especially since your high school debacle.”

“Yes, I have.”

“When?”

“I ran 3.1 this morning.” I stuck out my tongue. “So ha.”

“3.1? That is impressive.” She pushed her plate away and threw her napkin on top of it. “I smell a man in all of this. A sweaty man.”

A smile crept across my face before I could lasso it.

“Oh-ho. I’m right.” Tasha’s answering smile wiped the mirth right out of my soul. “That’s why you’re doing this. There’s a man involved. Don’t you love the smell of workout sweat? Fresh and salty. Yum.”

I swirled the orange straw through my ice water, though I hadn’t committed to the marathon for any man, Damon offering to train with me had helped influence the decision. “Well, there was this one
sweaty
guy at the race this morning.” I pushed away the vision of Dr. Tattoo. I couldn’t think about him. If I focused on Damon I could discount my attraction to Dr. Tattoo. I really wanted to see him again but thinking of him reminded me of what he saved me from and it was all I could do to not start screaming again.

Tasha moved her chair closer to mine. “I love it. Spill details.”

I twisted my lips closed.

“Now,” she commanded.

I opened up to defend Damon. “It really was a good kind of sweat.”

Tasha grinned, grabbing my hand. “What did he look like? Tell me now before I wrinkle from the wait.”

I obeyed, more out of excitement over Damon, than a desire to comply. “He was perfect. Tall, fit, strawberry-blond hair.”

She laughed, loud. “Did you really just describe a man with strawberry-blond hair? What kind of a
man
has strawberry-blond hair?” She shook her head. “You always loved the redheads.”

“It wasn’t red. It was dark-blond with reddish highlights.”

Tasha leaned away as if I had the flu. “Great, now you’ve found some kind of wuss who highlights his hair.”

“Natural highlights, you punk. He’s leap-years from wussy.” I smiled. “He said he’d call me so we could train together.”

Tasha grinned. “It all makes sense now. All that crap about qualifying for Boston.” She glanced around the restaurant, scoping out the men seated at the table next to us. They both gaped at her blonde beautifulness. Big surprise there.

“I should’ve known better,” Tasha said. “You’re running this marathon for a man.”

I tossed my head, Tasha claiming I couldn’t run just made me want to prove I could. “Am not. I’m running this marathon to change my life. I’ve finally found my calling, my destiny.” I’d lost her to her cell phone. I threw my hands in the air. “Can you at least look at me?”

My phone beeped. I glanced down and rolled my eyes. Tasha thought it was funny to annoy me by texting when we were sitting right next to each other. “Nasty men staring at you.” Her head nudged toward the south.

I snuck a quick peek over my shoulder. I shouldn’t have. The disgusting men looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen them.

I wrapped my arms around my abdomen. My fear from this morning was pushing my imagination into hyper-drive. They probably weren’t even interested in me. “Gross,” I whispered to Tasha. “Why do you point out men like that?”

“You always say I’m shallow and only care about looks.” She dashed me a chemically-whitened grin. “I’m proving you wrong.”

“You’re a weirdo. What was I saying?”

Tasha opened and closed her hand several times, imitating a flapping mouth. “You’ve found your destiny.” Her gaze strayed to the good-looking men again.

I stabbed my fork into a tomato, thrust it into my mouth, and enjoyed the zing of juices. “If you can’t focus on me, at least you listen well,” I muttered around my bite.

Tasha laughed and stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “This better?”

“Yes.” I bent across the table, dousing my loose-fitting shirt with a salsa spill. “Dangit, Tash. This isn’t a joke. This marathon is going to be a good thing for me. I’m finally excited to do something with my life and you laugh, degrade me, act like it’s all for a man.” I leaned back in my seat to sulk, grabbed my cloth napkin, and rubbed at the spot on my chest.

“Okay, you’ve found your destiny and it’s
not
for a man.” She broke a chip in half and popped it in her mouth. “Give me another good reason why you’d run a marathon?”

I pushed my salad around with my fork. “I want to do something my parents could be proud of.”

“Oh.” Tasha took a deep breath and fiddled with her own fork.

I shifted in the hard wooden seat and looked around for the waitress, speeding my eyes past the spot where those gross men hovered. One of the men Tasha had been ogling at the next table snagged my eye and tried to hold it. I tossed him an embarrassed smile before turning back to my friend.

“I’ve been working that angle for fifteen minutes,” Tasha said, shifting her eyes towards the men. “You and the dark one would make a perfect couple. You know, the kind of couples who look like brother and sister. Why’d you turn away?”

My eyes flitted to the olive-skinned man. He was several notches above cute, but unlike Tasha, I didn’t need to drool over every man who glanced my direction. Damon and Dr. Tattoo were enough to think about right now. “I’m not picking up a guy at Sabor.”

“Why not?” She turned and gave the man and his friend each an invitation with a glance.

The waitress came with our bill, saving me from an answer. I threw some cash on the ticket and grabbed my purse.

Tasha laid a hand on my arm, restraining me. “Cassie, are you okay, you know, after . . .”

I stared at her. My rayon shirt felt like it was squeezing me. I pulled at my collar. “After what?” This morning’s grisly discovery was imprinted inside my eyelids. But how did she know? How did she always know?

“Nana called me.” She carefully folded her napkin. “She wanted me to make sure you were okay,” She cleared her throat, still studying her napkin, “About the body.”

I swallowed hard to keep my salad where it should be. Sweat rose on my back and neck. Would the image of that deformed corpse ever dim?

“You should get some counseling,” Tasha said. “There’s this guy I used to date who specializes in trauma. He’s a fabulous psychiatrist.” She grinned. “But unfortunately for him, a lousy kisser.”

 
“If you’ve already tried him out, I’d better not sign up for his services,” I managed to say in a semi-light tone. Clutching my purse, I stood and rushed for the door. I burst into the summer night air and ran into a solid wall of flesh.

Large hands steadied me. “You okay, young lady?”

I looked up at the Nasty Muscle Man who had been studying me at the restaurant and suddenly it clicked. He was the scary guy who I’d tripped on at the race this morning. My heart thumped faster. I jerked from his grip. “Yes, um, excuse me.”

Tasha exited the restaurant, gave the hulking man an imperious glare, and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Cassie.” She marched me away. “Let’s get you home.”

I shuddered and glanced over my shoulder. The large man hadn’t moved. He stared at me. He wasn’t smiling.

I crept down the stairs, cringing at each and every step. There was no way to avoid the groans of this old house. Hopefully I hadn’t awakened Nana. She hated early mornings.

Hurrying across the chipped linoleum with running shoes in hand, I touched the back door before I smelled her. Banana bread with a heavy shot of vanilla. I wondered how many loaves Nana must’ve baked in her life to actually smell like banana bread. Not that I’d complain. Love banana bread. Love the smell of my Nana.

“Cassidy Christensen, what on earth are you doing sneaking out of my house at this hour of the morning?”

Can’t say I love her screeching voice quite as much as her smell.

After my dad was attacked by Panetti, I hired professional cleaners to get the blood off my living room walls, sold my house, and moved in with my dad’s mother until I could find a new home. Nana, my brother, and my parents were so thrilled with the arrangement I had a hard time moving out. Then my parents died and Nana was diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes. I couldn’t leave her alone.

With my share of the life insurance money I could have bought us a mansion and enjoyed positive cash flow for a long, long time. I refused to touch the money created by my loss, especially when I still missed my mom and dad so much. I socked it into a safe investment fund and lived with Nana. Someday I’d find a worthwhile cause for the money, right now I was grateful I didn’t have to be alone. Well, sometimes I was grateful.

Flipping on the light switch, I paused by the back door. Rain pounded outside the window, did I really want to run in that? No, but I had no choice if I wanted to prove to everyone that I could run this marathon. “What are you doing awake?”