Page 38 of Silver Fox Daddies

And that terrifies me.

I crawl further under the bed until I reach the back wall. A vent lets in a sliver of light. It’s not much, but enough to give me an indication on what time it is—the break of dawn.

How long are feuds like these supposed to go on for?

The footsteps make another appearance.

Terrified for my life, I roll up into a ball to minimize my appearance and clutch my legs. Scared that my loud breathing is gonna be picked up, I return a hand to my mouth and freak out in silence.

This is all my fault.

I should have left the number alone. I never should have saved it to my phone and made matters worse by sexting them and sending them nudes. When they asked to meet up with me yesterday via text, I should have stuck to my word and not let my desires get the best of me.

There’s a rip at the bottom of my dress from hurrying over here after the fighting broke out. Running it through my hands, I resent myself even fucking more for wearing a dress that Mom made.

I was only five years old when she died, so I don’t even remember her dying. Daddy never told me much about her and I never knew why, but when he finally told me how she died, I understood. It was an accident. Years ago, Daddy got tied up in some shit, spawning a few enemies at his back. He said it was all business, not over anything much, but the enemies were ruthless and coldhearted and ended up killing her because they wanted to see him fall for the first time.

He's kept to himself since then. He doesn’t tell me what’s going on, because he knows it will all go over my head, but I also think he stays away from the topic because he doesn’t want to upset me—his business might remind me of Mom.

I don’t know much about my mom aside from the bits and pieces Daddy has told me about her. She was into fashion design, apparently. I get the feeling Daddy threw all of her designs out after her death. It must have been strange having all of her designs around the house without her there anymore. I was in the attic one time and came across this red dress, the garment lodged between two dusty boxes of old CDs and other miscellaneous objects. He must have forgotten to throw this one out.

So I kept it for myself, vowing to wear it for only special occasions.

I look at it now, heart ready to leap out of my chest. I guess you could classify death as a special occasion.

It’s like the footsteps are teasing me, padding up and down the hall.

I try to steady my breathing, but it’s no good. I don’t have control over it anymore.

A whistle hoots outside.

“I smell something sweet,” says a cold voice.

My stomach feels ready to fold in on itself, chest compressing to the size of a prune.

What was I thinking? I should have never gotten involved with them. Motorcyclists are dangerous. I knew this from the get-go.

But I just couldn’t help myself, like my pussy and brain had switched places.

The door rattles, still holding together in one piece thanks to the lock.

I only hope it can withstand a strong biker.

BANG! BANG!

I squeeze my eyes shut. This is it. I have to accept my fate now. In a few moments time, there’s a big chance I’m gonna be dead, bleeding out the same color as Mom’s dress.

Will she forgive me in heaven, for wearing her dress to my death?

Will I even make it to heaven? Rubbing my clit in the bikers’ tattoo chair isn’t something I can imagine God considering to be good.

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Ugh. Why must evil things taste so delicious?

The door gives way, the wood cracking. A large figure stands in the doorway, striding in with a weapon. Seeing me cowering away under the bed, he slots the gun back into his holster and smiles, but it’s not a pleasant one.

“What do we have here?” He squats. “Hm?”