Creed

Woodbury, Minnesota

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Creed
© 2011 by Trisha Leaver and Lindsay Currie

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First e-book edition © 2014

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“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want
to go far, go together.”
—African proverb

Thanks, Bri, for eighteen years of going far together.

—Trisha

To my husband and kiddos. I hope I can make
you guys even half as proud as you make me.

—Lindsay

Three days.

Three of us went in.

Three of us came out.

None of us even a shadow of who we once were.

ONE

The car rolled to a stop on the side of the dirt road. I swore, frustrated that I’d left my jacket at home rather than cover up my new shirt. The rain we’d been driving through had quickly turned to ice, leaving the edges of the country road glossy and slick. It was cold and wet out there. And now I had to walk. Without a coat.

Luke yanked his earbuds out and tossed them onto the dashboard, then slammed the car into park. Not that it was going to go anywhere in drive. It had pretty much sputtered itself to a slow death.

“Where are we?” I asked, stepping out of the car. My feet slid out from under me, and I had to grab onto the mirror to keep myself from falling.

“No idea,” Luke said as he tapped the gas gauge to see if he could get it to move. “Probably somewhere between Watertown and Albany.”

“Way to narrow it down,” I said, popping the trunk in search of a sweatshirt or jacket. “That’s what … a three-hundred-plus mile range you’ve rattled off?

I turned to Luke’s brother, Mike, hoping he’d been paying better attention. “Where are we?”

Mike shrugged. “No clue, Dee. Sorry.”

I sighed. Not that I’d been watching the signs either. I’d spent the last hour with my head buried in my Spanish book, more worried about Monday’s test than directions.

I rifled through my bag in the trunk, looking for something warm to throw over my shirt, but it wasn’t like I’d packed for hiking. All I had was a pair of heeled boots, some jeans, a silky thing that couldn’t even pass for pajamas, and no one to blame but myself. It’d been over four years since I’d had to worry about having a
just-in-case
bag packed, and I’d gotten lazy. Or maybe too comfortable. Now I was looking at a case of frostbite as punishment.

I reached for Luke’s duffel bag and pulled out a pair of boxer shorts, a toothbrush, and a string of condoms. “Seriously? That’s what you packed?” I giggled as I shoved the condoms back into the bag, praying Mike hadn’t seen them. Luke’s choice of items was perfectly fine with me.

Luke smiled, his grin more devious than sorry. “It’s not like you gave me any idea where we were going or what you had planned. What else was I supposed to think?”

Nothing. He’d pretty much nailed it.

“Mind if I borrow this?” I asked as I pulled on one of Luke’s practice shirts. I gave it a quick sniff and decided the brown patches were actually dirt from the football field. Old dirt at that. It was warm, the fabric soft as if it had been recently washed, and it smelled 100 percent like him.

I snuggled deeper into the fabric. Something about this small part of him surrounding me made me feel safer and less on edge. “What time did we leave?”

“Two, maybe two thirty,” Mike responded. “Why?”

“No reason,” I said as I climbed back into the car and dug myself into Luke’s shoulder. It was a little past five, which meant we’d been on the road for about three hours. The concert was at seven in Albany, so I assumed we were about halfway there. But we’d stopped twice. Once because Mike had to pee, the second time because my stomach was growling louder than the engine. I figured about five minutes for the first stop, more for the second—the whole Twinkie vs. Ding Dong debate at the gas station and all—so that would put us about …

Who was I kidding? I had no clue where we were.

Leaning over Luke, I jammed the keys back into the ignition. I barely had enough time to get a look at the gas gauge before it died again, leaving us in frozen silence.

“How is it that we stopped at a convenience store two hours ago, ended up with a pound of Twinkies, and not a single one of us thought to get gas?”

Luke’s mouth turned upward into one of those sexy, lopsided grins that usually got him off the hook. “Don’t look at me. I’m map-guy, remember? Once we pulled off the highway, I had to focus on the directions. Gas … supplies … Twinkies, that was all you and Mike.”

He fumbled around on the floor of the car and pulled up the crinkled map. I-90 was jammed with traffic, so we’d pulled off about an hour ago, hoping to make better time. Unfortunately for me, map-guy and gas-guy couldn’t co-exist.

“You know how you asked me why colleges don’t allow hot plates in the dorm rooms?” Mike teased.

“Yeah, why?” Luke replied.

“Well, you’re the reason.”

I fought off a grin as I watched Luke think, his fingers tapping against his leg. Luke was brilliant, could solve an advanced calculus problem with very little effort. He had every play for the last three football games stored in his head and had scored a full academic ride to college. It was the simpler things like gas gauges and programing the DVR that threw him off. It was one of the thousands of details I loved about Luke. Somehow, it was both cute and irritating at the same time.

“If you’re saying that an unattended hot plate is a greater fire risk than, say, an iron or a candle, then you’re wrong. I gotta think that, statistically speaking—”

“Let it go,” I said, cutting Luke off. If we were betting on odds, then statistically speaking it’d be Mike and his bong that burned down the dorm.

Luke turned to me, his eyes softening as he took in my shivering state. “Sorry, Dee. I was listening to music and zoned out. I didn’t even think about gas.”

“It’s not your fault,” I groaned.

It wasn’t his fault; it was mine. You’d think after four years of living with the Hoopers, I would’ve learned to keep the gas tank full. They were old, old enough to be my grandparents, which meant each time their Buick left the driveway for the two-mile trek to bingo it came back with a full tank of gas. No exceptions. Mr. Hooper would scold me seven ways to Sunday if he knew we’d run out of gas, then he’d take Luke’s car to the station himself and fill it up. I’d be embarrassed and Luke would feign guilt, but neither of us would’ve complained.

The Hoopers had taken me in, a ward of the state with no home and no real family to speak of, and made me feel like one of their own. They didn’t need to, and God knows the miserable four hundred and fifty dollars a month the state paid them didn’t begin to cover my expenses, but they still let me stay. For that, I’d sit there quietly and let them rant about how irresponsible it was for us to get stuck on the side of the road because of something so stupid.

Mike leaned into the front seat and scanned the horizon. “It’s no biggie. We’ll call a tow truck.”

I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and stared at the screen. No signal. I don’t know what I was expecting; there hadn’t been a signal since we’d pulled off the highway.

It was getting dark, there wasn’t a person in sight, and we had no clue where we were. Great, now all we needed was a skinny, pale girl in a bikini, a big guy in a mask sporting a chain saw, and a sheriff turned zombie and we had the makings for a perfect horror movie.

“No signal,” I said, holding up my phone for Mike to see. “Try yours.”

“Nothing,” they both said in unison.

Wiping the thin layer of fog from the window, I looked out into the vanishing daylight. Except for the three-foot-high stalks of dying crops shaking gently in the wind, I saw nothing. Heard nothing.

“We’re in the middle of Nowhere, New York, with a good fifty-mile walk to the last gas station we passed,” I said, inching closer to Luke. “We need a plan, or we’re going to miss … ”

I trailed off, not wanting to ruin Luke’s surprise. He had no clue where we were going. No idea I’d been scraping money together for the better part of five months to get him those concert tickets.

“Miss what?” Luke asked, pulling me closer. He dropped a line of kisses on my neck, his breath heavy and sweet in my ear. He was taunting me, trying to get me to spill my secret.

“Nothing, but we need to get back on the road,” I said, unwinding myself from his grip.

Luke eased back, dropping that happy-go-lucky attitude of his. It’d taken him a long time to get to this point with me, to recognize the fear in my voice and understand that I wasn’t the defiant, hardened foster kid everybody assumed I was.