I yanked my five-year-old son Ethan’s hand so hard he stumbled when he pointed toward the old biker in the gas station parking lot and shouted, “Mommy, I want a picture with that man!”
The biker looked every bit like trouble — leather vest covered in patches, gray hair spilling past his shoulders, a thick beard, and tattooed arms. Everything about him screamed danger to me. I could practically hear my father’s voice — a retired police officer — warning me to stay away from “men like that.”
I tried to hurry Ethan back to our car, but he dug in his heels. “But Mommy,” he said through tears, “he helped me in the bathroom.”
My heart stopped. What bathroom? My mind spun with fear as I looked from my son to the biker, who now watched us calmly from beside his Harley.
“What did he do, Ethan?” I demanded, crouching down. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Ten minutes earlier, I had been paying for gas while Ethan used the restroom around the corner — close enough that I thought he’d be safe. But when I heard older boys’ voices from the men’s room and my son cry, “Stop it! That’s mine!” I’d been seconds from bursting in — until a deep voice boomed, “Hey! What do you boys think you’re doing?”
Moments later, two teenage boys sprinted out, nearly knocking me over. Inside, Ethan stood with his blue slushie, safe and smiling. Behind him was the biker — tall, gruff, and covered in leather — but with surprisingly gentle eyes.
Conitnue reading on next page…