Page 26 of Silver Fox Daddies

Bishop is inches from my face when the sound of an engine grows outside.

“Shit.” Simultaneously, they take me down from the table and escort me away from the main room, down a corridor. “This way, c’mon.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Diesel kicks open a back door that opens up to more desert. There’s another building, separate from the rest.

“What are you doing? Let’s just stay here,” I say.

“No, I don’t want anybody to find us,” Diesel says.

“I’m not hiding in an outhouse.”

“It’s not an outhouse.” He yanks my hand, pulling me toward the building.

“Then what is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Bishop, after looking over both shoulders, unlocks the door and bursts inside. It’s an old building with peeling wood, and the door creaks back and forth on the hinge.

With no say in the matter, I’m shoved inside, the door lock clicking behind us.

I catch my breath—somehow I lost it on the way over here. The room is dark, lit up only by thin rays of sunlight that penetrate through gaps in the wood. It smells of mildew a bit, but mostly of something chemical.

As my eyes come into focus, I see a flag of some kind—no, a badge. A huge one stuck to the wall. It’s the Venom Vultures logo, the eagle’s wings outstretched like it’s about to take off. Next to it is the flag of the United States. There’s also some miscellaneous motorcycle parts hanging from the wall. Those must be vintage.

I continue looking around, expecting to see a hanging human head next.

It smells strongly of antiseptic. That’s a big indicator that they’re trying to cover something up.

“What is this place?”

A light zaps on in response to my question, a deep brown color that doesn’t really make a whole lot of difference. It reveals more items in the room, though—tables with syringes and ink cartridges, and adjustable chairs, the kind you expect to find at the dentist.

“It’s where we do all of our artwork, darling,” says Bishop.

My eyes catch the back wall. It’s a mosaic of all different kinds of designs. I don’t know what they mean—if they even have meanings—but the work is definitely impressive.

“We have quite a few skilled artists here in the club,” Bishop adds. “Diesel is one of them.”

Diesel takes a step closer to me. “Do you have any tattoos, sweetheart?”

I shake my head. “None.”

Daddy has strongly advised against it, which is strange, considering he has many himself. He says he was young and stupid and regrets getting them, and says he doesn’t want me to follow in his footsteps and make the same mistakes.

“We can give you one, if you like,” Diesel suggests. “Whatever you want.”

This spikes my pulse.

The thought of them getting up close to me…

Putting their hands on me…

Removing my clothes…

Come to think of it, it’s not the tattoo as such. It’s them touching my body.

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