A Biker Dragged My Son Out Of A Party By His Collar And I Almost Called The Cops

Biker had my son pinned against the hood of a truck when I got to that party, and I nearly ran the man over pulling into the driveway.

His name is Jake. My son’s, I mean. He’s 17. He’d told me he was studying at a friend’s house that Saturday night.

At 11:47 PM I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. A woman crying. She said, “There’s a biker taking your son. You need to come to 4412 Ridgeway. Right now.”

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I made that drive in six minutes. I still don’t know how I didn’t kill someone on the road.

When I turned onto the street, I saw the bike first. Black Harley, parked sideways across the driveway so no other car could leave. Then I saw the biker. Big man, gray beard, leather cut with patches I couldn’t read.

He had Jake against the hood of a pickup truck with one hand on his chest. Not hurting him. Just holding him there. Jake was crying.

I threw the car in park and I ran at that biker with my keys between my fingers like a weapon.

“GET AWAY FROM MY SON.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. He just kept his hand on Jake’s chest and turned his head slowly toward me.

“Ma’am. I’m going to let go of your boy in a second. But I need you to look at me first. Look at my face.”

I did. He looked exhausted. Like he’d been up for three days.

“I’m the one who called you,” he said. “That was my wife on the phone. We were driving past when we heard what was happening in that house. Your son didn’t know. I promise you he didn’t know. But if I hadn’t pulled him out when I did, in about ten minutes he was going to be dead.”

I don’t remember what I said

I don’t remember what I said. I don’t think I said anything.

The biker moved his hand off Jake’s chest and stepped back. Jake sank down onto the hood of the truck like his legs had quit on him. He put his face in his hands and started sobbing in a way I hadn’t heard since he was maybe six years old.

I looked at the biker. I looked at the porch of that house. Kids were spilling out onto the lawn now, watching. Music was still going inside.

“What are you talking about,” I said. It didn’t come out like a question.

He nodded toward the porch. “You see that red cup on the top step? The one that spilled?”

I saw it. It had rolled down and stopped against a potted plant. There was a wet stain spreading across the wood.

“That’s what your boy was about to drink.”

I heard footsteps behind me. A woman came around the side of the house. She was maybe 60, silver hair pulled back, jeans, a plain black t-shirt. She was holding a phone. Not hers. She was holding Jake’s.

“I’m Diane,” she said. “I’m the one who called you.”

She held out the phone. I took it. My hands were shaking so bad I nearly dropped it.

“I’m going to tell you what I saw,” she said. “And then my husband is going to tell you what he did. And then we are all going to sit down together because I don’t think you should be standing right now.”

On the driveway

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