Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) by Pamela Beason Read Free Book Online

line of GluSkin into my cut.
    With a jolt, my nerve endings come back to life. My leg hurts like someone just thwacked it with an axe. Sebastian uses his fingers to hold the skin of my thigh, pressing the edges of the wound together, the tube of GluSkin caught between his teeth. I can’t help hissing at the flare of pain, and I put my hand on his shoulder to keep from falling down. His flesh feels solid and warm beneath his wet shirt. The pressure of his strong hands on my leg burn almost as much as the GluSkin on my raw flesh.
    At least The President’s Son is proving to be gutsy and helpful. And he’s not hard to look at, either, even with his hair all wild and a crimson bruise quickly turning purple on his right cheekbone. But that damn helicopter…
    When the white-hot pain recedes enough that I can talk instead of screech, I say, “That chopper almost got us disqualified.”
    “I didn’t ask for it,” he says through clenched teeth.
    The steam wafting around his head looks like smoke rising up off his temper, but I know it’s the tropical sun baking our wet hair and clothes. I’m steaming, too.
    “I’m kind of glad you didn’t drown,” I say to soften my criticism.
    “Likewise.”
    I can’t resist needling him a little. “Isn’t a good thing that one of us kept her climbing rope clipped on?”
    “Isn’t a good thing the other of us grabbed the end of that climbing rope?” he shoots right back. Then he checks his wrist unit. Dramatically.
    We’re behind schedule. The first checkpoint is still ten miles away.
    By silent agreement, we rise, peel off our running shoes, wring out our socks and then put them back on, tie up our running shoes again. We pack the harnesses, the rope, and our one functional life vest, squeeze more gel and water into our mouths, check our watches again, and then dash into the forest that rises up over the hills in front of us.
    Two hours, three spiders, and four and a half flocks of pissed-off parrots later, Sebastian and I stagger up to the first checkpoint just as the sun sinks beneath the western horizon. The actual check-in station is simply a flag planted next to a folding table, manned by two attendants lounging on lawn chairs. These two are a married couple, aging marathoners I’ve seen at other events. When Sebastian and I burst out of the woods, their weathered, creased faces are startled into alertness. They push themselves up from the chairs.
    A short distance away there’s a cluster of tents dotted with a few battery-powered lights that do a poor job of illuminating the area. Mr. Wrinkle blows the whistle hanging around his neck, which brings a couple of camera operators scrambling from one of the tents. They snap what will be incredibly unflattering pics and capture vids of us as Sebastian and I stagger around like zombies, trying to work the kinks out of our overstressed muscles.
    “Together.” The photographers knock forefingers together as if we don’t understand English.
    So we stand next to each other. I gasp like a beached fish, trying to get my breathing under control. Sebastian wipes sweat out of his eyes. Yeesh, he stinks, but I’m reasonably certain I reek just as bad. I’ve got a blister the size of Washington State on each foot from running in wet socks, and I’d guess Sebastian does, too.
    “Well?” I finally huff, unable to stand the suspense any longer.
    “Team Seven,” Mr. Wrinkle intones dramatically, “enjoy your ten hours of mandated rest.”
    “You are in first place!” Mrs. Wrinkle chortles.
    Sebastian and I straighten, turn toward each other and high-five. The cameras click. In the illumination of the flash, I see the Secret Service goons waiting on the sidelines, whispering to each other.
    I’m starting to worry about what they might be saying. In theory, they should protect me if it would benefit The President’s Son, but they also have good reason to thoroughly check me out. Although my fictional background fools the average