Page 79 of Bridesmaid to Bride

With one bare-bulbed light above us, the trail leads us to a nondescript door at the end of a dim hallway. I can’t help but think it looks like the kind that requires a blood sacrifice to open. But no—Kat simply slips a key from her pocket and unlocks it with a click.

After she enters, the door begins its swing to a close, but one of West’s Vans wedges into the gap faster than a hiccup. “Nope,” he whispers.

“That’s my boy.” Skye’s all cool confidence, and I can tell this is making her entire month.

We tiptoe through the threshold, me bringing up the rear. My heart’s pounding like it’s on steroids, and I’m trying not to think about what we’re going to find. “What is Kat doing?”

“Underground fight club?” Skye offers.

“Shit, what if she’s holding Zach hostage?” I whisper.

“Then we rough her up.” Skye peers ahead.

“Shhh,” West scolds in a whisper. His shoulders tense, and his hands ball into fists, like he’s ready for anything.

The boiler room is the setting of every horror movie I’ve never had the guts to watch. Dim light flickers, casting long shadows that could belong to anyone—or anything. The air smells like rust and mold, and a faint murmuring echoes off the pipes. This place is a spider’s paradise, a definite nope.

In the dim light, Kat’s figure moves with purpose. I squint, trying to piece together her plan, but the puzzle’s missing too many pieces. Whatever it is, we’re about to blow the lid off it.

We inch forward, the murmurs growing louder, more insistent. My heart thunders against my ribs, part fear, part thrill.

“Found the light switch,” West whispers, and Skye gives him a nod.

“Do it,” I say, never more grateful to have these two as my friends. We may be an odd trio—computer dork, hippie, and control freak—but we get shit done.

West’s hand moves to the switch, and with a decisive flick, the room floods with light. We all freeze, our collective breath hitching.

“Surprise!” Skye announces, a smug satisfaction curling her lips.

“Party’s over,” West adds, his eyes narrow.

Kat spins around, caught mid-whatever-the-hell-she’s-doing. Her eyes practically pop out of her head at the sight of us.

“The Kat’s out of the bag,” I say, before my eyes can comprehend what they’re seeing. Once they do, I scream, “Oh my God, my eyes! My eyes!”

There, in the harsh fluorescence of the boiler room’s unforgiving lights, is my father. Naked, minus a crown and some fur loin cloth, which is a sight no daughter should ever have to see, chained to a pipe like fifty shades of wrong.

“Dad?” My voice ricochets off the dungeon-like walls. I’m already foreseeing years of therapy.

The ball gag lodged in his mouth muffles his response, but his eyes—they’re wide with pure panic.

Kat stands frozen, her hand still raised mid-swing, the leather whip looking like a prop.

“Not what I expected.” West’s voice cracks on that last word.

“I see nothing’s changed.” Skye’s gaze ping-pongs between my dad and Kat.

“Wait.” I can’t help it—my mouth states the obvious. “Is this some kind of kinky cosplay thing?”

“And there she is,” Skye deadpans.

“What about your heart, Dad?” I focus in on his face only, flinging a hand on my hip. “Did your cardiologist approve this?”

Dad doesn’t answer because of the ball in his mouth.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Kat’s voice is pure acid.

West jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ll just let ourselves out.”

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