Page 4 of Body Shot

I watch the woman bolt down the sidewalk. Kind of a mousy little thing, though she appears to have a nice rack beneath that white button-down shirt. Her awkwardness was kind of cute but she’s not someone I’d usually notice. Although her legs are ridiculous, from what I can see beneath the hem of a knee-length black skirt.

I shrug and turn to continue walking down Miramar toward the Speed Bowl. Hopefully she was being honest when she said she hadn’t hit her head, because she’d definitely looked dazed and confused.

I dismiss her as I walk into the Speed Bowl, prepared for a couple of hours of racing go-karts on the track.

“Hey, man, you’re here.” My buddy and business partner Marco Solis greets me in the lobby. At the far end of it are a bunch of arcade games. A snack bar lines one long wall, and opposite that, windows overlook the track.

“Yeah, sorry. Traffic was nuts and then some chick just about knocked herself out by walking into a sign while texting. Or something.”

Marco huffs. “Jesus.”

“Where’s Cade?”

“Boys’ room.”

“Ah.” I rub my hands together. “You ready to get your ass kicked?”

Marco snorts. “As if. You can’t drive your way out of a paper bag.”

“What does that even mean, dumbass?”

Marco shrugs.

I’m not worried about who’ll win our races. I’m the one who excelled in Advanced Driving Skills in our SEAL training. Also, there’s a reason Cade’s nickname/call sign is “Crash.” No question I’m the best driver.

Not that I’m competitive or anything.

Every couple of weeks, we all get away from the bar and do something fun. Since we’re adrenaline junkies who need a fix now we’ve left our Navy SEAL days behind us, we’ve found a variety of activities that satisfy our needs—rock climbing, hang gliding, go-kart racing, paintball, mountain biking . . . well, not mountain biking lately. Not Cade, anyway. Cade hasn’t been back on a bike since his epic wipeout a few months ago, no matter how much we try to use that horse and saddle analogy on him.

I can’t blame him. I still wince with sympathetic pain at the injuries Cade sustained to a sensitive area. In fact, it’s such a sensitive area we can’t even talk about it.

But at least we can do other things. It’s good for us to have some downtime where we’re not focused on profit-and-loss statements, accounts payable, and why nobody orders food anymore when they come to Conquistadors.

Cade appears. “You made it,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

We head through to the track and are soon wearing helmets and roaring around hairpin turns and fast straightaways. The karts have timers that electronically record our lap times to the thousandths of a second, giving us detailed information for each lap completed. Which we will compare after. Loser buys the beers.

A couple of hours later, we meet up at the Condor, a microbrewery nearby with a small pub. Sitting at a high-top table, I roll my shoulders around, feeling relaxed from the little adrenaline rush the racing gave me. “You’re buying,” I tell Cade. “Slowest time.”

“Fuck,” Cade mutters. “By two seconds.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, now.” I grin.

“How was your date last night?” Marco asks Cade.

“It wasn’t a date. Just a hookup.”

“Right.” Marco nods. “Do you even know her name?”

Cade gives a sly grin. “Does it matter?’

“Man, you need to slow down. You’re gonna end up with the clap or something.” Marco shakes his head.

“Hey, I practice safe sex. No glove, no love.”

“Yeah, I don’t think what you’re doing is ‘love,’ ” I say, two hands curving around my cold glass of amber ale.

“I won’t deny that.” Cade leans into the back of his stool, smiling with satisfaction. “Okay, then, let’s say I cover my stump before I hump.”

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