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Then she froze.
He was coming.
A young man stepped out of the convenience store with the swagger of someone who survives on intimidation. Tank top, cheap tattoos, a posture built entirely on control. The moment he saw the full tank — and me standing beside her — his expression twisted into fury. He grabbed her arm hard enough to make her gasp and accused her of begging strangers for help. She sobbed, trying to explain. I stepped forward, calm and steady, telling him the gas was on me.
That only made it worse.
He reached into his waistband and drew a gun.
For a heartbeat, the world slowed to a crawl.
He fired a warning shot into the pavement — close enough to spit gravel onto our boots. Customers ran in every direction. The clerk sprinted to trigger the silent alarm. The girl — Brandi, I later learned — stood frozen, shaking so violently I thought she might collapse.
And then, just when everything was about to implode, highway patrol cruisers screeched into the lot. Officers leapt out with weapons drawn. The boyfriend dropped the gun and hit the ground before they even reached him.
Within seconds, he was in cuffs.
Brandi, still trembling, finally exhaled as paramedics checked her injuries. She looked at me through red, swollen eyes and whispered, “You saved my life.”
But I shook my head. “You saved your own the moment you stopped protecting him.”
The officers connected her with a domestic-violence advocate who could get her somewhere safe — truly safe — for the first time in years. Before she left, she hugged me with all the strength her shaking body could manage.
“I used to think bikers were scary,” she said.
I laughed. “Most of us are just old men who love the open road.”
And that day, the road brought me exactly where I was meant to be
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