Tyler finally noticed me. I’m 6’3”, 240 pounds, leather vest with decades of patches, gray beard down to my chest. I look like exactly what I am—an old biker who doesn’t back down.
“Yeah? Mind your business, old man. This is my girlfriend and my car. I don’t need your charity.” He yanked her toward the car. “Get in. Now.”
Tyler sneered. “Seriously? Brandi, tell this old dude you want to come with me.”
“Brandi,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on him, “do you feel safe with him right now?”
“She’s fine!” Tyler barked. “Tell him, Brandi. We’re fine!” But she didn’t respond, just hugged herself, crying.
That’s when Tyler made his mistake. He reached past me, trying to grab her arm again. I caught his wrist. “I asked her a question. Let her answer.”
“Get your hands off me!” he snapped, struggling. I held firm, not hurting him, just stopping him.
“Brandi,” I asked again. “Do you want to get in that car?” She whispered two words that changed everything: “Help me.”
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