When Two Worlds Collide

WHEN TWO WORLDS COLLIDE CHAPTERS 1-3

Chapter One

Squealing rubber on rugged asphalt, mere inches from his car, jolted Jag Peters. 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 inside his chest. The white-knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel did little to still the shaking of his hands. Where did the motorcycle come from anyway? He hadn't seen anyone when he started into the intersection.

But, to be honest, his mind had been preoccupied with work and the project he'd been assigned to. That and another troubling problem distracted him.

He had to go apologize to the rider.

Without a second thought, 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 pounding of his heart. He could easily have killed the rider and that fact 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 Sportster 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 could pry his hands from the wheel and open the car door. He took one more deep breath, swallowed hard, locked his car 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 cast a glance around. 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 at the end of the bar. The air thick with cigarette smoke, Jag blinked to keep his eyes from watering. Two burly men played pool, slammed the balls with a resounding clap.

"What'll it be, mister?" the bartender approached.

"I'll have a mineral water, please."

"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."

"Humph", the bartender pulled a heavy mug off the shelf and filled it.

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 noticed him. 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. "Excuse me. 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.