Author: Jan Sikes

Chapter One
Tires squealed against rugged asphalt, mere inches from his car, and jolted Jag Peters from his thoughts.
He stared in horror and braced for impact. At the last second, he jerked the wheel to the left, sending him into the next lane.
A candy apple red Harley skidded to avoid a collision. The rider struggled to maintain control as the
powerful bike fishtailed.
“Watch where you’re goin’, you crazy bastard!
You nearly killed me.” With that, the rider flipped Jag off and sped down the street with a roar.
Jag’s heart pounded. The white-knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel did little to still the shaking
of his hands. Where had the motorcycle come from? He hadn’t seen it when he entered the intersection.
But, to be honest, his mind had been preoccupied with work and the project to which he’d been assigned.
Another troubling problem had him preoccupied as well.
No question. He was in the wrong. With his biggest goal in life to keep his karma slate clean, he had no
choice. He had to find the bike rider and apologize for putting him in danger.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned in the direction the bike had disappeared. Using a basic
meditation technique his mother had taught him as a young child, he forced his breath to slow and calm the
thumping of his heart. He might easily have killed the bike rider, and that thought unnerved him.
He crept along, up one street and down another. A few blocks down, he spotted a group of Harleys parked
in front of a small corner pub. Sure enough, there sat the candy apple red Harley with a shiny black helmet
dangling from the handlebars.
His heart in his throat, he circled twice before finding the courage to take a parking space. Long
seconds passed before he managed to pry his hands from the steering wheel and open the car door. He took
one more deep breath, swallowed hard, and headed toward the entrance of O’Malley’s Irish Pub.
He hated confrontation almost more than he hated the taste of whiskey.
Inside, he slid onto a bar stool and surveyed the room. Leather-clad bikers yelled to be heard over ZZ
Top blasting from the jukebox. Bottles clinked as the bartender chunked them into an empty bin. The air
thick with cigarette smoke, Jag blinked to keep his eyes from watering. Two burly men at a pool table slammed the balls with a resounding clap.
The bartender raised his voice to be heard over the noise. “What’ll it be, mister?”
“I’ll have a mineral water, please,” Jag yelled.
“This ain’t no damn country club, kid. Ain’t you a little out of your white-collar territory?”
“Sorry. Give me a draft beer.” Dammit! What had he been thinking to come in here?
“Humph.” The bartender held a heavy mug under the tap, filled it, and placed it in front of him.
Jag continued to look around, wondering which of the leather-clad group was the one he’d almost hit.
After a sip of the bitter ale, he stood and walked toward the faded restroom sign, hoping no one paid him
any attention. He had to finish what he came here for and get the hell out!
Just as he turned the corner toward the door, he collided with a stunning dark-haired woman who wore
a scowl to match her hair color.
“Excuse you.” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue.
“Oh sorry,” Jag muttered. “I wasn’t looking.”
“Yeah, well that makes twice today I’ve nearly been run over by some bastard that wasn’t looking.”
She stomped toward the bar, her black motorcycle boots thudding on the wood floor while the jukebox
lapsed into a short-lived silence.
Stunned, Jag turned slowly back to the restroom. It was a girl. He’d almost run over a girl.
Inside, he splashed cold water on his face and stared into the dirty, cracked mirror. This business of
keeping his karma straight turned out to be a lot of work. If he lived through the next thirty minutes, he’d
be lucky.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. A deep sigh escaped as a text message flashed
across the screen. His boss, Yvette, posted a private message that read, ‘Happy Hour! All Employees must
attend!’ His thumb moved quickly to the delete button when the picture attached revealed boobs that were
close to falling out of her silk blouse and a smile that was of the naughty kind.
He’d have to deal with that later. For now, he had to apologize to the beautiful girl he almost ran over and
get the hell out of this place.
With squared shoulders, he wiped his hands on the remnants of a paper towel. When he stepped around the
corner, he spotted the girl perched on a stool at the bar.
He picked up his mug and slid onto an empty stool next to her.
Clearly annoyed at the stranger, she turned to him. “Aren’t you a little out of your league, dork breath?”
He winced at the insult but met the flashing anger in her eyes that made a guy wish he wasn’t anywhere
within range. She was the most pissed off woman he’d ever seen. “I suppose. But, I’m here for a reason.”
“Yeah, and what would that be? Computer system down in the office?”
“No. Although I most likely could fix it.” He took a swig of his beer praying she didn’t notice how
uncomfortable she made him.
“Well, you sure as hell ain’t here to party with a bunch of bikers who have the ability to break you in
half.”
“No. I’m here to apologize to you.”
“I don’t even know you, dude.”
“I’m Jag Peters.” He stuck out his hand.
She stared at his palm as if he held rattlesnake fangs.
He continued. “I’m the bastard that nearly ran over you at the intersection down the street, and I came to
apologize.”
She slammed her longneck bottle down on the bar. “You damn near made me lay the bike down. I could
have been seriously hurt. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He stammered, “I have no excuse. I was thinking about some problems at work, and I didn’t see you.
Please accept my apology so I can get out of here.”
She barked, “You’re totally freaked, aren’t you?”
“More than you know. If you’ll just accept my apology, I’ll be on my way.” Jag wiped his sweaty
palms on his pants. Perhaps he should ditch this whole karma stuff. What would it hurt? People did it every
day and nothing bad happened to them.
“And what if I don’t?” She took the last swig from her beer, then reached for his mug and finished it off.
“Then I’ll go either way. At least I tried.”
Jag stared at the small spitfire of a woman beside him, and desire mixed with emotion stirred deep inside.
Something he’d purposefully avoided for years.
Silently, he pleaded, No, God. Please don’t let me get involved with this one. I’d be in way over my head.
With a sudden change of heart, the woman stuck out her hand. “Rena Jett. No one, except my brother,
has ever gone out of their way to apologize to me for a damn thing.”
“Then I have the honor of being the first, Rena Jett, except for your brother, that is. I hate to ask, but is there
somewhere quieter and less smoky that we might go and talk?”
“Don’t press your luck, Peters.”
“I just thought…I mean…is this smoke bothering you as much as it is me?”
“Yeah, this is pretty much a shithole, ain’t it?” She cast a glance around.
Jag nodded.
“There’s a little café down the street. You aren’t some serial killer, are you?”
Jag grinned. “No, I can assure you I’m not. Are you?”
“That’s a stupid question,” Rena muttered as she reached for her jacket from the back of the barstool.
Jag motioned to the bartender and handed him a credit card. “I’ll pay for my drink and the lady’s.”
The bartender grumbled under his breath. “Damn young folks don’t carry cash anymore.”
Once the card was back in Jag’s wallet, he stood and followed Rena to the door.
Before they left, she turned and yelled, “Hey, Brindle. Look after Candy Kicker. I’ll be right back.”
A grunted reply came from a hairy man at the pool table.
Outside in the bright sunlight, Rena rushed down the sidewalk.
“What’s the hurry?” Jag panted, taking longer strides to keep up.
“What do you mean? This is the way I walk. Can’t keep up? That’s your problem, not mine.”
Hypnotized by the sway of her hips beneath the tight blue jeans and the saucy way she tossed her head,
Jag winced. Oh, this woman is too hot to handle. What am I doing?
Two steps behind her, he reached the café as she shoved the door open before he reached it.
“I usually open the door for a lady.” He puffed behind her.
“Yeah, well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not much of a lady, and I can open my own damn doors.” She slid
into a booth by a large window. A set of dog tags around her neck clanked together.
Jag maneuvered his tall, lanky frame into the seat across from her. He bumped the table, which sent a
catsup bottle flying. He grabbed before it hit the floor then motioned to a bleached blonde waitress. “What
would you like, Rena? This is on me.”
“Just a coffee would be fine.”
Once Jag placed their order, he leaned across the table and folded his arms in front of him. Now that they
were out of the smoky loud bar, his tongue seemed to have lost its ability to speak.
When she raised her eyes to look at him, he almost gasped audibly. She had striking features, with a full
pouty mouth that he suddenly had a strong urge to kiss, short dark hair that framed her pixie face, and the most mystifying brown eyes he’d ever seen.
When he finally found his voice, he realized the words falling out of his mouth were the dumbest thing
he could have said. “You’re a beautiful woman, Rena. But I’m sure you get that all the time.”
She turned to stare out the window. “No, actually I don’t. The people I hang with don’t give out
compliments unless they’re trying to get in my pants.”
She swung around and pinned him with a piercing glare as black as night. “Is that what you’re trying to do,
Peters?”
A hot flush crept up his neck onto his face. He hated how that always happened when he got
embarrassed. He stammered, “Well, no I’m not. I mean, not that I wouldn’t find you attractive enough to, I
mean I’m not that kind of guy…”
“Just stop talking.” She turned with a half-smile.
“Wow! You’re embarrassed.”
Jag lowered his eyes and stared at his folded arms, hating the moment of social ineptness.
She laughed. At first, it was a quiet chuckle, then grew into a full-blown laugh-out-loud.
Jag glanced around the café hoping no one heard. The flush grew hotter on his face. He had the urge to
get up and run. After all, that was what he did best when he found himself in a confrontation. Instead, he
hung his head.
Finally, she got quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’ve spent my whole life living with
that, and I try not to do it to other people. You just made it so easy, I couldn’t help myself.”
Jag groaned and looked at her, pleadingly, “Can we just start over?”
After a long minute, she smiled. “Okay. Sorry about calling you dork breath back there.” She offered
her hand.
Jag let out a held breath. “Sorry for nearly running over you. I had a lot on my mind. That’s no excuse, but
it’s all I’ve got.”
Even though he did his best to ignore it, the pressure of her small palm against his twisted his
insides into a knot. If only he could turn back the hands of time one hour and stop this madness.
But the Universe had strange ways of bringing two souls together, and some were simply too obvious to
ignore.
What was Rena Jett trying so desperately to hide behind her ferocious anger?
He wanted to learn more about this spirited woman who rode a red Harley and wore dog tags. And it didn’t
hurt that she was stunning in a rough sort of way.