"It's not always," I admit. "But unless you're doing something illegal yourself, you're fine. They don't bother locals. Actually, they're pretty decent guys once you get to know them. Can theybe violent? Sure. But they're also fair. They have a code, and they stick to it."
She's still looking uncertain, and I can't really blame her. If you're not from here, the Savage Riders probably look like exactly the kind of people you should avoid.
"I know King, their president," I add. "The MC has always had a good relationship with the ranch."
"You know the president of a motorcycle club," she repeats.
"Small town," I remind her with a grin. "Everyone knows everyone. Including the guys in leather cuts with skulls on their backs. And honestly, I have no idea what King's real name even is. Everyone just calls him King."
She takes a deep breath, then seems to steel herself. "Okay. But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you."
"Fair enough." I pull open the door, and the smell of burgers and fries immediately hits us. "Come on. You're gonna love this place."
Inside, Murphy's is exactly what you'd expect. Worn booths, checkered floors that have seen better decades, and a counter with stools where Old Man Murphy himself is flipping burgers on an ancient grill. The two Savage Riders members are sitting in a corner booth, backs to us, focused on their food and conversation.
Murphy looks up as we enter, and his weathered face breaks into a surprised grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Colt Sullivan with a girl who ain't running for the door."
"Nice to see you too, Murphy," I say dryly, guiding Harper toward the counter stools.
"And a pretty one at that." Murphy wipes his hands on his grease-stained apron, looking at Harper with open curiosity. "You new in town, sweetheart?"
"Just got here yesterday," Harper says, and I can hear the nervousness in her voice. She's still suspicious of the two MC members in the corner, even though they haven't so much as glanced our way.
"Well, welcome to Blackwater Falls." Murphy slides two plastic menus across the counter. "Any friend of Colt's gets the good treatment here."
"I didn't know there was bad treatment," I joke, settling onto a stool and pulling one out for Harper.
"There ain't, but don't ruin my moment." Murphy turns back to his grill, chuckling to himself. "Been running this place forty years, and this is the first time I've seen you bring a date, boy."
"It's not—" I start, then catch myself. Is this a date? We never actually defined what this is.
I glance at Harper, wondering if I should ask her if this is actually a date. But who the hell asks that? Seems like the kind of thing that would make everything awkward, put pressure on something that's been easy and natural so far.
She's holding the menu up in front of her face now, and I can't tell if she's actually reading it or just hiding behind it. Probably embarrassed by Murphy's comment about me never bringing a date here before.
Which is true, for what it's worth. But explaining that feels like it would make things worse.
"The bacon cheeseburger is the best," I offer, trying to break the tension. "Though honestly, everything here is good. Murphy might look like he doesn't give a shit, but the man can cook."
"Bacon cheeseburger sounds perfect," she says, still not lowering the menu.
I reach over and gently push the menu down so I can see her face. Her cheeks are pink, those dimples barely visible as she tries not to smile.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah, just... processing the fact that apparently this is the first time you've brought someone here." She sets the menu down. "Which seems weird for someone who supposedly has a different girl every weekend."
"I never said I have a different girl every weekend," I protest.
"You didn't have to. I could tell." She's not accusing, just stating a fact. "The way you moved on that dance floor. The confidence. You're not a guy who lacks for female attention."
"Maybe not," I concede. "But there's a difference between hooking up with someone and actually wanting to spend time with them. Wanting to talk to them. Wanting to show them things that matter to you."
Murphy appears before she can respond, pen poised over his order pad. "What'll it be?"
"Two bacon cheeseburgers," I tell him. "Extra pickles on mine. Harper?"
"Normal amount of pickles is fine," she says, smiling at Murphy. "And fries?"
