Biker Pumped Gas Into Crying Girls Car And She Begged To Stop As Her Boyfriend Will Kill Her!

Then she froze, staring at the entrance. “He’s coming. Please leave. Please just go.”

I turned and saw him walking toward us. A skinny guy trying too hard to look tough — tank top, cheap tattoos, that angry swagger some men use to disguise cowardice. He took one look at his girlfriend, then at the gas pump, and his face went sour.

“The hell is this?” he barked right in her face. “You begging strangers for money again?”

She flinched. “I didn’t ask him for anything. He just—”

He grabbed her arm so hard she winced. “Nobody fills up your tank unless you’re offering something.”

I stepped in before he could yank her again. “I filled it,” I said. “She didn’t ask. She didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”

He finally looked at me. Really looked. Six-foot-three, two forty, leather vest covered in forty-plus years of patches, gray beard down to my chest. I looked exactly like what I am: an old biker who doesn’t scare easily.

He puffed his chest. “Mind your own business, old man. This is my girlfriend. My car.”

“She doesn’t look like she wants to go anywhere with you,” I said, stepping between him and the door.

He barked a laugh. “Brandi. Tell him you’re coming with me. Tell him we’re fine.”