The bike was impressive, but its rider even more so. The man had to be well over six feet for he straddled the bike and did not stretch at all to place both his booted feet solidly on the ground on either side. Everything about him seemed to carry a threat of power and violence, at least to Michael’s perception. Memories of the father he’d feared until he’d finally left home swept over him, memories that still had him mentally cringing. He could feel the slam of a heavy fist, a metal-studded belt slashing across his ass or a backhand slap that sent him flying. Folks in his hometown had called them scooter trash, trailer trash and worse because his mother had been half black and his father a leader in the most bad-ass biker gang in the area.