Roam (Roam Series, Book One)

by Kimberly Adams

  Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Adams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or things, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

  ROAM (ROAM SERIES, BOOK ONE)

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs, Editing by Undivided Editing

  TO MY SUE

  Prologue

  July 14, 1995

  West sailed past another mile marker on Route 77 as the sun set on a record hot day. REM was finishing up their song on his SUV radio about the end of the world. He exhaled, gripping the steering wheel as he sped past a cop. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he watched as the cruiser inched forward and flashed his lights. He ignored the brake but lifted his foot from the gas.

  The end of the world. He sighed, trying to clear his head.

  “We’re nowhere near the end if you ask me!” the DJ chortled. “The news today talked about a new invention… it’s called an MP3… a high-quality, digital recording of a song. Are you ready for your future?! Well, let’s hear what TLC has to say about that!”

  “Waterfalls” began for the ninth time that day, and he punched the radio dial to off.

  The heat drugged his mind. He cranked the window down an inch more, and the instant vacuum pulled the scent of baby powder from his body. He recognized the smell, and his chest clenched involuntarily, sending bile into his throat.

  Violet.

  She’s better off not knowing me. He repeated this familiar mantra as he remembered the infant’s deep blue eyes, so like his own. Her tuft of blond hair felt like silk against his cheek. When he nuzzled her bare belly, a kitten-like mewl grew to a genuine giggle, a reward that occupied him for hours.

  Resentment boiled for her, the one that he was charged with finding again and again.

  Growling, he reached between his shoulder blades and pulled his white t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

  West met Laurel the year before in a coffee house just outside Charleston, West Virginia. Her blond, spiral curls poured over her shoulders and met the center of her back, and he was caught gazing at them as she served coffee to another patron.

  “Do you like my curls?” she had teased, winking at him. West was startled; he’d never been called out while staring at a woman.

  Not in over six hundred years.

  “I do,” he confirmed. Recovering, he employed his ageless charm. “Are they real?”

  She chuckled smartly, settling the coffee pot back into the warmer. “Really real. My dad called me Shirl, for Shirley Temple, when I was growing up.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grinned, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His biceps flexed naturally, the gesture creating a challenging flirtation that he was sure that this girl would be unable to resist. “Do you sing and dance as well, Shirl?”

  She quirked a dark blond eyebrow and walked closer to his table. Eyes the color of an early spring sky stared him down. “Depends on the audience, sir.”

  Laurel became his wife within a month.

  He built a cabin for them less than a mile from the main road in Jefferson, near the Kanawha River. She continued working at the coffee shop while he fixed cars for a local mechanic. Their time in the woods was a paradox in his mind. He had begun to rationalize his immortality. He had at least another five to ten years, depending on how fast she aged, before she’d realize that he wasn’t aging.

  If he told her, would she understand?

  When Violet entered the world, West watched Laurel change in a way he’d never expected. She refused to hold the baby and would cry for hours. West changed the infant, fed her, and cared for her regularly until he lost his own job.

  The cabin was paid off, but hospital bills and living expenses loomed before him. He begged her to see a doctor, but she refused. For five long months, Laurel existed in the cabin, barely able to care for herself.

  One day, he found her standing by the crib, gazing down at their five-month-old daughter she’d never held.

  West recalled the morning with revulsion. The sound of death had been in the air.

  He’d learned the sound long, long ago.

  Death began with a whisper, rising to a drumming of blood rushing through ear canals. He gathered Violet into his arms and shouted at Laurel to call for an ambulance. As she did, he carefully tilted the infant’s head back and performed CPR.

  When the ambulance arrived, Violet was breathing again.

  Wrenching back to the present, he realized what was happening as the itch and tingle began in his left forearm, just below his wrist. Soon the fiery pressure spanned about ten seconds, just long enough to register the pain. Every vein in his arm screamed with fire. Involuntarily the gas pedal hit the floor, and he swerved off the gravel road just in time, vision blurred and panting.

  The numbers are coming.

  When he regained consciousness, only seconds had passed, but his ’89 Blazer had already started drifting further into the woods to the right of the highway. He slammed the gear shift into park. Once the throbbing began to subside, he glanced down.

  Black numbers stamped his skin in a precise line starting at his wrist, never quite reaching his inner elbow.

  They read in the traditional left-to-right English characters, each digit no more than a half-inch in height. He gasped for air, brushing the back of his damp forehead with his shoulder. Please let it be the United States, he thought, lifting his arm.

  41.7724 -81.049576.

  He knew immediately that it was North America. He kissed his arm piously, welcoming the sting from his lips.

  She was born.

  Chapter One

  August 27, 2012

  “AP World History?” Morgan bit into a green apple, rolling her eyes. “Seriously?”

  I flicked away a stray chunk of fruit that fell out of my older sister’s mouth. The apple left a wet shadow on my freshly printed senior schedule. “You’re so classy.”

  “Roam Camden. You already know you’re going to be valedictorian. Why not just ease up a little? It’s senior year. You’ll be holed up in a dorm next year like I am, studying your ass off. Take it easy, Socrates.”

  I scowled at her godforsaken nickname for me and gathered my new binder to my chest. “You’re right. I should just quit school and search for everything on Wikipedia.”

  She laughed, pointing my way. “You just sniffed that binder!”

  I tried to slap her shoulder, but she jumped an inch to the left just in time. “I did not sniff my binder!”

  “Ooh, the smell of fresh plastic the day before school starts,” she teased while tossing the remainder of the apple into the open trash can. She continued to dash just out of my reach.

  “Would you stand still so I can hit you?” I demanded, feigned anger breaking into giggles. Morgan obliged, and together we fell to the couch in a fit of laughter.

  “Aw, we’re like a Hallmark Channel movie.” She sighed and grabbed her car keys and cell phone from the coffee table. “Alright, sis. I’m going back to campus. Tell Logan I said happy birthday. Good luck tomorrow and remember to bring your laser level for organizing your locker.”

  “Shut up,” I responded with a sweet smile. She kissed my cheek before heading for the back door.

  The evening sun lit the wes
tern window, and I settled back into the couch, watching the rosebush that my mother and I had planted together scrape against the glass.

  Logan Rush had been my best friend since our forced, diaper-clad play dates. We were both in fifth grade when my mother had died.

  That was the first time that he had asked me to be his girlfriend. I was devastated by his request and gently explained that I didn’t feel that way about him. For boys, I had two strict categories: Family and Cooties. Logan had always been in the former.

  He asked me again in eighth grade, after a particularly flirty evening watching fireworks on the street curb in our neighborhood. I promised to think about it, but the next day I pretended that the conversation hadn’t taken place. We ignored each other for a week, but things were pretty much back to normal after that.

  By our sophomore year, the tension was palpable between us. Logan was honest with me and said that he wanted me to be his girlfriend, but I was determined to keep our relationship what it was. Making the swim team gave me very little time for anything other than homework, practice, and swim meets, and I was already exploring colleges.

  On New Year’s Eve, Logan’s parents held their annual neighborhood game night. After Logan served me my first glass of champagne ever, our Hollywood-style almost-kiss as the big apple dropped on their TV left me in a fit of anxiety. Pretending to be sick, I ran one street away to my home, writing feverishly in my diary about the strange and unfamiliar emotions coursing through my mind about Logan Rush.

  By Valentine’s Day, Logan was dating Abby Lawrence.

  I couldn’t help but be devastated. I spent weekends in my bedroom pouting and rationalizing. Suddenly, Logan wasn’t just plain old Logan. He was so handsome with his dark, curly hair and matching dark brown eyes, chiseled jaw, and muscled chest and abs from working out during baseball season. I told him I wasn’t interested in anything other than friendship, right? I had never had a boyfriend.

  When boys asked me on dates, I couldn’t help but feel incredulous every time. What exactly did they see in me? My eyes were too big, my hair was a boring dark brown, and I rarely went to dances or football games. I lived in the pool as much of the year as possible, when I wasn’t reading or studying. I didn’t want Logan as a boyfriend, but I hated Abby Lawrence enough to defile my yearbook with obscenities across her petite, freckled face.

  Finally, it was the B plus on my interim report in Calculus that jolted me back to my senses. I began spending as much time with Logan as possible, determined to make Abby jealous. Inevitably, she became a controlling freak, demanding that Logan refuse to see me anymore. The fight lasted the entire week of spring break, which really was perfect timing on my part. Abby’s family owned a cabin in southern Ohio, and she had invited Logan to join her for the week. During the fight she had angrily uninvited him just in time for me to arrange for a fun-filled day together for just the two of us at the Cedar Point amusement park.

  Karma followed me to the park. Logan spent the entire day depressed, talking about Abby nonstop. They got back together that weekend, and I was almost positive things got serious between them. Logan distanced himself from me immediately. Morgan told me that the “prospect of booty will make a boy do crazy things.”

  She turned out to be right.

  When the summer after our sophomore year had arrived, Logan and I began working at the King Cone in our small town. In my tiny shorts and matching, tight V-neck uniform, I tried every way I that I could to drive Logan crazy. After about two weeks of my flirtatious counter-leaning and shelf-reaching, we finally fell into our comfortable camaraderie. The drama eased between us.

  When Logan told me about his plans, we were sitting on the split-rail fence in his backyard, pulling leaves from the oak tree branches hanging overhead. This was an activity that we’d done so often, I was surprised there were any leaves left by the end of the summer.

  The sun harbored in the exact same position in the sky as I gazed out the window, remembering almost a year ago to that day. Logan and I had spent the entire day at the lake, lounging in the sunshine. Lake Erie lined our Ohio town to the north, so we had plenty of public shore to choose from. Of course, we ended up at our favorite spot; a secluded part of the local park that required a dedicated mile’s hike to get to.

  Abby was hundreds of miles away with her family on vacation in Myrtle Beach, so Logan had felt that there was no need to incite his girlfriend’s jealousy by telling her about spending the entire summer day with me. We talked, napped, and listened to music in the late summer sun, just content to be in each other’s company.

  At the end of the day, we hurried back to Logan’s house to change and watch the sunset from our place on the fence. That was when he turned to me, leaned in so close that his lips touched my ear, and said, “I’m enlisting. After graduation… the Marines.”

  I gripped his hand until my knuckles were white.

  “You’re… what?”

  The buzzing in my ears left a prickly sensation, and I desperately lost focus as Logan’s face disappeared within a tunnel of darkness. When I woke, he held my head up as I sprawled in the grass.

  He looked down at me, his dark eyes narrowed. “You just kind of melted. I couldn’t catch you in time.” He helped me up, chuckling. “You do this too much. You’re like those fainting goats on the Discovery Channel.”

  I broke into panic-stricken laughter, and we held each other while I finished crying. He began talking about the decisions he’d made over the past few months, and how he’d kept it all a secret, even from Abby.

  We stared at a cardinal bobbing on the grass, our fingers intertwined. Finally, I turned to him and whispered, “Would your girlfriend mind if I kissed you?”

  Logan looked at me, stunned. “Huh?”

  I smirked at the grass, focusing on a sandy anthill. He had always bought himself time to think with ‘huh.’

  “I want to kiss you.”

  He stood up, my hands still in his. He tugged me to my feet, checking my balance.

  I met his eyes; hopeful, frightened.

  Pleading.

  He swept me into his arms and dipped me so quickly that my natural instinct was to struggle. I resisted the feeling of falling with nothing but his arms holding me.

  “Alright, hold still. Let’s see, sunset… check,” he began, gesturing to the sun behind us with a nod.

  My heart clenched at the recognition of his words. We were only eight years old when I had told him the checklist of the requirements for my first kiss.

  He remembered.

  “Wearing a dress… well, this skirt will have to do. Check. Wait… hair blowing in the wind,” he recalled, and he tugged my hair band, releasing my still-damp, coffee-colored locks from my ponytail. “Check. I guess you’re ready, Roam Camden. Here goes nothing.”

  His kiss, and all his kisses since, made me wonder why I’d waited so long for us to be together. Things changed between us for the better. He respected my boundaries, and I allowed kissing and nothing more. I accepted his decision to join the military, though when I thought about him leaving, I was plagued with anxiety and dove into books to distract myself.

  Logan was picking me up at eight, and I had less than fifteen minutes to change my clothes. He promised me that we were going somewhere special that night to celebrate his birthday, which had made me laugh. We couldn’t have been going very far since he also promised my dad he’d have me home before eleven.

  My closet was organized by color and style, so in less than a minute I had chosen a simple, white boardwalk dress that stopped just above my knees. I slipped a thin elastic band onto my head. My heavy hair fell pin-straight over my shoulders, stopping just past my shoulder blades. I knew that Logan loved my hair down.

  “…Boot camp. Parris Island. I’ll be leaving on August sixteenth of next year.”

  He was talking to my dad as I walked down the stairs. My father had served in the US Marine Corps for ten years and had become Logan’s inspiration. My stomach
knotted at his words.

  He hadn’t told me a date yet. How long has he known?

  I had spent weeks learning about the war in Afghanistan, trying to predict our role in 2013 and 2014. Everything that I had read had indicated that the United States would still be over there, waiting for Afghans to take control of their own security…

  Unless the Mayans were right, and the world ended in December. Fingers crossed.

  I slipped into the kitchen. My dad glanced at me and cleared his throat dramatically. His conspirator smirked, holding his arms out for me.

  “Hey.” Logan hugged me, smoothing my hair with his palm as he always did. I squeezed him back, grinning up at him.

  “Hey, happy birthday,” I replied, accepting his chaste kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Cam. Ready to go?”

  “Just need to grab my purse.” I winked at my dad, stealing him as my ally. He grinned, his eyes sparkling with fun. His gaze was more hazel than my green, and his short haircut revealed flecks of gray throughout the dark brown.

  “Yeah, get your purse, honey,” he said, drumming his fingers on the laminate countertop. He knew tickets for the Cleveland Indians game were in my purse, our birthday gift to Logan.

  “You Camdens are the worst actors,” Logan pronounced, lifting a dark eyebrow at me. “What did you do?” he asked in a teasing tone.

  I smirked. “Well… we could either do whatever you had planned for the evening… or we could go here.” I handed him the tickets, and the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes came alive.

  He scanned the tickets. “Cam, these are right behind home plate.”

  “I hear that’s pretty good seating,” I taunted. He grabbed me so suddenly that I dropped my purse to the ground and laughed.

  “Yeah they are! We have to leave… a half an hour ago! Mr. Camden, thank you so much.” He reached to shake my dad’s hand, but my dad pulled him into a hug.

  “Be safe, don’t be too late, and text me constantly. That’s all the thanks I need.”

  By the time we were on the road in Logan’s black Camry, it was almost dark. “Just curious… where were we going tonight?” I asked.