Tyler flew into a rage. He hit me once before I turned him and pinned him against the car. Forty-three years of riding, twenty in construction, four in the Marines—he didn’t stand a chance.
“Call the cops! He attacked me!” Tyler screamed, while people pulled out phones.
Brandi collapsed against the pump, sobbing. An older woman wrapped her in a comforting embrace.
Sirens came. Two squad cars pulled in. Officers assessed, weapons ready.
“Sir, release him and step back.” I let go. Tyler yelled, “This psycho attacked me! Arrest him!”
The officer asked me. “Is that true?” “I stopped him from grabbing her. That’s true. The rest is lies.”
“Lies!” Tyler shouted. “Brandi, tell them he’s crazy!” But she sat silently, hugging herself, staring at the ground.
A female officer approached her. “Are you okay? Need medical help?”
She shook her head. Then nodded. Then cried harder. “I don’t know. I just want to go home… to my mom’s house.”
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