Page 102 of Silver Fox Daddies

Even though the lights have been switched on, visibility in the basement is still limited. Cobwebs fill every corner. The place stinks of dust and rotting wood, but also, as we step further down, something chemical. I sniff the air, the strong smell going straight to my head.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, clutching the gun in my holster as the ground levels out. “How much fentanyl does the fucker need?”

“Enough to keep him rich,” Cash says, stepping down with me.

Glass shards crunch underfoot. I halt, immediately stepping back before we reveal ourselves any more, but it’s no good. I only backtrack into more glass, crushing more pieces. As my eyes adjust, I see the trail of spilled liquid.

It stops just short of another entrance.

I hop forward out of the way of the glass, sticking my head into what appears to be another staircase.

“Feels like the part in aFinal Destinationmovie right before the kill,” whispers Cash.

“If anyone’s getting aFinal Destinationdeath, it’s me,” I say.

Diesel shoots me a look to say that this isn’t funny.

“Hey.” I stick up my hands. “We gotta make light of this situation. I’m already more fucking scared than I need to be.”

“Nice of you to join us, boys.”

I whip around, and there he is in all his finery—Jax.

Anger gets the better of me. I lunge forward, ready to put an end to this once and for all. Taking advantage of my steady hands, I slip the gun from the holster and set it right in front of the bastard’s face, finger about to pull the trigger.

That’s when I’m knocked back by somebody else. Jax steps forward, his smug face glancing down at me from above as I endure another kick from one of his club members. No—two of them. Four feet.

A bullet is fired, the gunshot echoing through the basement. I scramble to my feet just as Cash shoots past me, gunning down one of Jax’s men.

But that only encourages more of them to join in on the fun. They materialize from the darkness, reaching the top of the second staircase where they spill out like armed insects, guns at the ready.

I hear a crack, then the thud of a body hitting the concrete.

Diesel must be getting to work.

“You are a sick, twisted prick.” I spit in Jax’s face.

It floods back to me full force. I was thirty when my father lost his life at Jax’s expense. Jax knew that my father was vulnerable and that he wouldn’t survive another fix of fentanyl, but he kept going, draining his bank account dry until there was nothing left for my father left to do but go into overdraft. The debts made him even more reliant on the drug—he started using it as a coping mechanism, but this in turn dug him into even deeper debt, and Jax kept going.

The anger I felt ten years ago seeps back into my veins, boiling my blood. My heart beats rapidly, but it’s not fear anymoreof what we could lose—it’s rage in its purest form. I shouldn’t have second-guessed Melissa. Shouldn’t have wasted time being pissed, stuck up my own ass thinking about how she kept the information from us. Her father is a sick man—the signs have always been clear. If he can sell drugs that can kill a man, more concerned with money than morals, he can capture his own daughter and turn on her.

But I’m not going to let him.

“Where is she?”

Jax’s weathered face looks grim in the faint light, especially when the amusement starts to work its way up his face. “Come on. You’re smarter than that. You know I’m not gonna tell you where I’m keeping her.”

“Something is seriously wrong with you.” I look him up and down, putting on my best disgusted face.

“With me?” He cackles. “What about you? Two hundred of my men never got to say goodbye to their families before you tampered with our water supply, killing them. Only people who have mental disorders are capable of mass murder.”

“I murdered murderers. That doesn’t make me mentally deranged. That makes me a hero.”

Another cackle. “Is that what you tell yourself every night?”

Another crack fills the atmosphere. Another dead body thumping to the ground.

I grab Jax’s collar, pulling him with brute force out into the room. He growls, using his body weight to refuse me, but I have something he does not—anger. A person who doesn’t know how to love doesn’t have anger.

---