5) Unfamiliar Territory

There were several things I hadn't planned on doing today. Driving a practically perfect stranger to his motorcycle clubhouse was pretty high on that list.

Yet here I was, hands gripping the steering wheel, wondering if I'd officially lost my mind. Ryan sat beside me, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had managed to turn my otherwise ordinary day upside down.

I shot him a sideways glance. "You always make a habit of inconveniencing women who rescue you?"

He straightened in his seat, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable.

Buck huffed from the back seat. Some protector he was. I should have let Buck eat him. At least I would have been asleep right now.

As the mountains gradually gave way to rolling hills, the blacktop beneath my tires improved. Buck began hanging his head out the window like this was the best day of his life.

Traitor.

The town appeared in the dim glow of my headlights almost out of nowhere. We were the kind of place where stoplights didn't exist and there wasn't even a middle school because our population was too small to justify one.

I knew perfectly well where the club resided without Ryan having to tell me. Judging by the surprised look he gave me when I made the turn, he hadn't expected that.

A small crowd of muscular men in leather vests stood gathered around a collection of black motorcycles in the little parking lot beside the bar. The clubhouse itself wasn't much to look at, and most of the town's population had never stepped through its doors unless they were looking for trouble.

Their black leather kuttes stood out beneath the parking lot lights. The backs carried large patches, with RIDERS OF THE BADLANDS arched across the top, a winged skull dominating the center, and MONTANA stitched along the bottom. The leather looked worn and well-traveled, much like the men wearing it. Smaller patches and lettering decorated a few of their fronts, though I couldn't make out what they said from where I sat.

Every head turned as I pulled in, my truck rolling to a stop in front of the bikes. I had my own strange mountain of a man sitting in the passenger seat and his partially dismantled motorcycle in the bed of my truck.

Buck rumbled a low growl behind my seat.

Ryan glanced helplessly over his shoulder at him before sliding his unwavering gaze back to me.

I opened my driver's-side door, and almost immediately, several hands drifted toward the guns tucked at their sides.

Buck leaped out of the truck and planted himself between me and the perceived danger. His teeth were bared, and he snarled until a string of drool escaped his lips. His hackles stood straight up along his back.

I held up my hands and sighed.

This is what I get for being a good Samaritan.

Ryan quickly rounded the hood of my truck, apparently intent on defusing the situation before somebody did something stupid.

"Whoa! Don't shoot her!"

His voice carried across the parking lot, firm enough that nobody seemed interested in testing him. He held both hands up, but there was something in his expression that made it clear he wasn't asking.

"She's with me. Put them away."

The reaction was immediate. Hands moved away from weapons, and the tension that had settled over the parking lot eased. A couple of the men exchanged amused looks, but nobody questioned him.

That was interesting.

"Well, hell, Sarge. You bring home the strangest things," someone called.

An explosion of catcalls and whistles followed.

I rolled my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Buck, however, wasn't nearly as convinced. He remained planted in front of me, still looking like he was considering which one of them to eat first.

Honestly, let him. It might save me a headache.

Ryan approached him cautiously, but Buck backed into my leg, maintaining his protective stance. Whatever little trust he'd managed to earn during our strange exchange earlier had apparently evaporated.

Exasperated, I released Buck's collar and snapped my fingers toward the truck.

He looked at me like I'd finally lost what little sense I had left.

"I mean it," I told him sternly. "Go. You can't eat them."

Even though we both wanted you to.

Buck reluctantly turned and climbed back into the cab, settling himself in the driver's seat. He gave our audience several suspicious backward glances through the window.

"Where'd you pick this one up, Sarge?" a younger guy with shaggy blond hair called out, goading Ryan.

He looked to be a little younger than me, with muscles that stretched beneath his leather vest. His own kutte was decorated with the same club colors, though his youthful face and mischievous grin made him look considerably less intimidating than some of the others. He lifted a beer bottle to his mouth, clearly enjoying whatever entertainment we'd brought with us.

"Been riding the mountains again?"

"Yeah," Ryan replied with a grin. His eyes slid in my direction. "This time, the mountain fought me back."

A few of the men laughed. One of them shook his head, muttering something I couldn't quite make out.

"Watch your mouth, kid," another man said to the blond, giving him a playful shove. "That's Sarge."

The blond simply grinned into his beer, apparently not the least bit concerned.

I rolled my eyes and used my tire to climb into the bed of my truck.

That was apparently a mistake.

A chorus of catcalls and whistles erupted around me. I ignored them, concentrating on the task at hand. Ryan, the bastard, actually had the nerve to look embarrassed.

"Knock it off, boys," he called without even looking up.

The whistles died down, although a few chuckles lingered.

He wandered over and rested his forearms against the side of the truck bed while I began undoing the straps around his motorcycle, rolling them up as I went.

"Hey, they don't mean anything by it. They're harmless."

I paused and looked up at him, meeting those gorgeous sea-glass eyes. I pinned him with a look I hoped communicated exactly how unimpressed I was.

Buck was still growling from his window seat behind the steering wheel.

I glanced around and noticed a dozen or so pairs of eyes following my every move. They seemed to be trying to decide whether I was a threat or just another hick from a farm that Ryan had somehow managed to stumble across.

There was something else, too. They watched Ryan differently than they watched each other. There was an easy familiarity between them, but when he spoke, they listened. Even their teasing seemed to have boundaries they weren't particularly interested in crossing.

A few of them had gone back to their conversations, but I noticed they still kept an eye on what was happening around us. Nobody seemed particularly concerned about the commotion we'd caused anymore.

I wasn't sure what exactly his position involved, but it was becoming pretty obvious that Sarge wasn't just some nickname they'd given him. There was a certain respect attached to it, and judging by the way they'd immediately lowered their weapons when he spoke, it wasn't something he'd earned overnight.

I wasn't particularly interested in sticking around long enough to find out.

Wanting this exchange over as quickly as possible, I hopped off the tailgate and positioned myself beside the motorcycle. Before anyone could offer a masculine objection or rush to help, I lowered the kickstand and carefully settled the bike onto it.

The missing pieces were tucked alongside it, ready to go.

Silence fell over the parking lot.

Not the ordinary kind of silence, either. The kind that could have been cut with a knife.

A couple of the men exchanged looks. The blond lowered his beer, his eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline.

"Well, I'll be damned," someone muttered.

Ryan looked between me and the motorcycle, a slow grin spreading across his face.

I brushed my hands together and looked up just as he approached, towering over me in what appeared to be some sort of demonstration of dominance in front of his little friends.

I glared at him.

"Can I go now, Sparky? You seem to be in good hands."

I glanced past him at the collection of stunned faces. The blond guy who'd been giving Ryan a hard time earlier had his mouth hanging open, his beer bottle momentarily forgotten in his hand.

I almost smiled.

Almost.

"Yeah," Ryan muttered, seemingly aware that this wasn't the last of whatever torture he was about to receive. "Thanks again."

"Anytime," I replied dryly.

I reached into the truck and grabbed the grocery sack containing his clothes, shoving it toward him.

"Try not to wreck at the bottom of my driveway anymore."

Without waiting for a response, I climbed back into the cab and shooed Buck over to his proper seat. He was considerably better as a passenger than a driver.

I put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot without so much as a backward glance.

In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of Ryan standing beside his motorcycle, the grocery sack dangling from one hand. The blond was saying something to him, and Ryan shook his head before looking in my direction.

I couldn't make out his expression.

I didn't particularly care.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Somehow, though, I had the distinct feeling this wasn't the last encounter I'd have with my Sergeant-at-Arms.