Page 93 of Creed

That realization morphs into alarm, which morphs into a low buzz of panic as I recall all the messages about the girl running on campus.

“That’s a big suitcase,” I reassure myself. “If Soph were going off the grid, AKA getting railed all weekend, she wouldn’t need that big one.” I smirk. “A duffel bag would do.”

My eyes lift, and my smirk falls. Sophie’s duffel bag is sitting on the shelf.

“Okay, don’t panic.” I back out of the closet, staring at the duffel bag as if it’s packed with C4 set to blow. “Maybe she didn’ttake anything. Maybe she doesn’t need clothes because the guy is going to keep her naked. Or they’re at a nudist convention or some shit.”

Talking out loud to myself when I’m emotional is my thing, and I know I’m rambling.

“Or maybe she’s off with some rich guy who has everything she needs. Yeah, a mega-rich billionaire, and he’ll lavish my girl with all sorts of luxury clothes and whatever her little heart desires.”

My mind scrambles to keep myself calm.

But then I look at her bed and the desk beside it… and both the idea and reality of calm flies right out the window, and I leap headlong toward hysteria.

Sophie’s phone charger is here.

Okay, yes, that’s not a big whoop in the scheme of things, but Sophie isreligiousabout keeping her phone charged in case anyone in her family needs anything. Not only is Sophie a goodie-two-shoes, but she’s a saint when it comes to being there for her family.

Roommate boundaries and respect for privacy be damned. I rush to her desk and paw through her papers stacked neatly around her closed laptop, looking for a clue about who she might have gone away with. Granted, she didn’t say she was going with someone in her text, but who goes off the grid for the weekend alone?

But I find nothing.

I pull open her desk drawer and my heart stops. “Oh, fuck.”

My hand shakes as I pull out Sophie’s phone. She wouldn’t have left without her phone or any way to connect with her family. There isnofucking way.

Was that even Sophie who sent me that text?

Or maybe someone forced her to send it?

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I’mfull-outpanicking now. I drop Sophie’s phone like it scalded me and slam the drawer shut.

I don't know what to do. Or who to call. Sophie's social circle is small as she focused entirely on her studies. Other than me, the only other person she sometimes hangs out with is Zac Watkins.

“Maybe Zac knows where Sophie is. Who she might have went away with,” I ramble out loud as my panic threatens to explode. “Maybe he can talk me off the ledge or know what to do.”

My hand shakes harder as I take out my phone to see if I still have Zac's number from when we had a group assignment together last year. I’m not sure if I kept it because the guy is too much of a pussy-slayin’ man-whore, even for me, and I like taking dick.

I find it in my contacts and click ‘call.’ It rings five times before he finally picks up.

“I’m too high to get it up, but Walt next door can fuck you if you want.”

“Goddamnit, Zac, what the hell is wrong with you?” I snap, anger replacing my panic. The guy has the world at his feet—rich and connected family, hot as hell, athletic and talent coming out his ass, girls dropping at his feet.

“Who dis?” he sniggers. “Ma, is that you?”

“Get your shit together and focus you… youdouche canoe,” I sputter and call him what Sophie has called him.

“Soph?” It sounds like he perks up and is a bit more coherent.

“Not Sophie, her roommate Ollie.”

“Why you calling? Honestly, I’m too high to get my dick up—”

“I’m not calling to make an appointment to ride your diseased dick,” I hiss, then take a deep breath to calm down. “Have you talked to Sophie?”

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