Roam (Roam Series, Book One)

by Kimberly Adams

I am older.

  The sound of metal clinking against metal draws my attention. Someone is sitting at the foot of the bed, feeding what appear to be coins into an old television set. “Of course, time runs out when I need the news,” he spoke, dragging the thick cigarette in his hand with his mouth. Is that a cigarette?

  “What are you smoking?” I speak, and my voice is deeper, more mature. I do not recognize my own voice. He turns to me.

  “Relax, I’ll roll you one in a second,” he responds. I widen my eyes. I think that he’s freshly showered because his hair is wet. He is wearing a white undershirt and jeans.

  It’s Mr. Perry.

  “What? Drugs?” I sit up, remembering the only time I’d ever smelled pot. I had sneaked into my parent’s bedroom, watching my mother smoke in her bed. She hadn’t wrapped her head in a scarf that day, so I could see the clumps of hair mixing with the bald spots. When she saw me, she began to cry and told me that she didn’t want me to see her like that.

  He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Drugs?” he repeats.

  “What is this?” I look around, asserting that I am definitely in a motel room. The furniture is cheap, aged, and very dirty.

  He moves quickly toward me, and I dart backwards, slamming my head against the head board. I am mortified to realize that I am completely naked.

  “Hey, hey, calm down…”

  “Don’t touch me!” I try to scramble out of the bed, but there are invisible chains strapped to my legs. I see an article of clothing on a chair next to the bed, and I am reaching.

  And suddenly, I am vomiting. I wretch and contort, splattering the carpet with bile. He has taken my strange hair in his hand, smoothing another hand down my back.

  “It’s okay, baby, I’m here,” he whispers, gathering me into his arms.

  I am naked and cold.

  . . .

  “Roam!”

  I blinked, gasping for air. Someone shook my shoulder. I realized that I had fallen asleep in my contacts, and that they were glued uncomfortably to my eyes. I rubbed at them, confused. “Logan?”

  His brows snapped together, and his dark eyes filled with concern. “I came to pick you up. Your dad already left for work. I heard you screaming from downstairs. Please don’t tell me your vampire boyfriend dumped you again,” he begged.

  I breathed an attempted laugh, shaking my head. “I was having a nightmare… or dream, I don’t know-”

  “It’s seven-fifteen,” he interrupted.

  I sat up, my eyes wide. My face was damp with tears, but my entire body was clammy with a thin layer of sweat. “I slept in? No…” I flew out of bed towards my closet but stopped midway. Nausea. “I… I feel sick…”

  Logan directed me to the bathroom, and I made it just in time to the toilet. “I’m sorry!” I cried, convulsing.

  He cringed, gathering my hair. “I’m turning on your shower,” he said, his fingers circling over my back, comforting. “Hang in there, Cam,” he said softly.

  “I’m okay,” I managed. I was okay but needed to shower. “I’m getting in. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

  “Roam, you need to call off. You have the flu or something.”

  “I’m not sick anymore,” I promised. “Go, I’ll be right down.”

  He looked doubtful, but nodded, closing my bathroom door. I peeled off my t-shirt and shorts, dropping them into the hamper after a careful inspection to see that they were not soiled by my puke-fest. The stream of hot water stream felt overwhelming, so I adjusted the temperature to a cool spray.

  What just happened?

  I closed my eyes, recalling my atrocious dream. I had always dreamed vividly, but never that vividly.

  Naked, in a hotel room, with my history teacher?

  That was more Ally-May’s style.

  I usually dreamed of receiving scholarships, or seeing my mother again, or shopping with Morgan… all recurring, all comfortable, all me. The only nightmares that repeated again and again were of my mother’s death. Normally, I dreamt little snippets of my day, so insignificant that they weren’t worth remembering.

  I began to mentally dissect my dream, piece by piece. I dealt with turmoil by turning it over in my mind until I was comfortable with the facts. My hair was blond. What did that mean? Ally-May had a dream dictionary app on her phone, and I’d check with her later. Blond. Seemed irrelevant, but oddly disturbing.

  Skip.

  In a motel room, kind of dirty, with no sheets and a coin-operated television set. Did they even make those anymore? Maybe in another country? I would research that on the internet later.

  Mr. Perry.

  Smoking pot, watching the news. Offering me pot!

  I reached for the conditioner. Did I already shampoo my hair? Darn it, I have to start over.

  Me, naked.

  This was most disturbing of all. I never slept naked. I was not a prude, but you never knew when someone had to wake you up from a horrifying nightmare… or into one, to tell you that your mother has died.

  Skip.

  Skip the entire memory of my mom smoking in her bed, clumps of hair missing. I couldn’t handle it.

  Me, vomiting everywhere.

  Mr. Perry calling me baby.

  I sighed disgustedly, slamming the faucet too hard to turn off the water. Sordid. There was no dissecting the nightmare, and I needed to get to school by at least second period.

  Logan was waiting in his car, talking on the phone. He ended the conversation before I slipped in the passenger’s seat. “I’m so sorry, I’m making us both late.” I pulled the visor mirror down, working on a messy braid.

  “It’s okay, I’m just worried about you. Do you feel alright?”

  “I really do, I have no idea what that was.” My dark braid was wet and heavy, but at least the back of my t-shirt would stay mostly dry. Long strands of drying hair framed my face.

  “I just talked to your dad. I wanted him to know that you were sick, in case you got worse and we needed to call him. I have that appointment with the recruiter this afternoon. I have to leave school at one.”

  “Thanks.” I was worried, knowing that my dad was probably stressing about me. My father worked for a local car dealership managing the service area. He was very good at what he did, and therefore made it a point to always find a vehicle that was a “deal but needed some TLC.” We had an ongoing joke that the Camden’s were cursed with half-dead cars. Logan insisted that it was because my dad always bought a fixer-upper, but never had the time to “fix ‘er up.”

  “I’ll ride the bus home, no big deal.”

  “We missed first period, so I am forever in your debt,” he teased, leaning over to kiss my cheek softly before shifting his car into reverse. I smiled, remembering his long rant the day before about his first period English class. The teacher had them open their books and take turns reading out loud from Beowulf. He complained that he felt like he was in third grade.

  “I’m not too disappointed, either.” I was relieved to not spend forty-five minutes in class with the subject of my nauseating dream.

  “Mr. Perry must be pretty bad if you’re not upset with missing history.”

  I had complained to Logan yesterday about the arrogant, pacing Mr. Perry. Logan offered his feigned condolences, having already heard Ally-May blather on about his “holy hotness” all through lunch.

  “Yeah,” I said absently.

  Relax, I’ll roll you one in a second.

  I shivered, reaching into the backseat to fumble for the hooded sweatshirt that I knew that I had left in Logan’s car.

  “Are you cold? It’s eighty-five degrees out, Cam.” He gestured to the digital temperature gage on his dashboard.

  “I’m fine.”

  “O-kay,” he replied, sighing. I tugged my hooded sweatshirt over my head and then fastened my seatbelt.

  Madison High School was quiet, and the parking lot already mostly filled. Logan pulled into his assigned spot. We kissed quickly before rus
hing to class.

  The bell was ringing to end first period, so I headed straight to second period statistics. The course was offered through the local community college and would transfer at college level to my transcripts.

  The oversized clock above the classroom door ticked in slow motion. Scribbling on the margins of my notebook paper, I worked on an abstract sketch of a tall castle as Mr. Abernathy recapped the basics what we’d gone over the day before. My mind still replayed the dream, but suddenly Mr. Perry was the focus of my thoughts.

  He’d been sitting at the foot of the bed in an undershirt with his back facing me. His shoulders had been incredibly broad, his arms so cut and defined. I wondered if he really looked like that under his dress shirt, or if my mind had done some movie star airbrushing.

  He looks so strong.

  Wincing, I snapped my attention back to Mr. Abernathy.

  Third period study hall was held in the vast cafeteria, so I settled down into a seat to begin my first statistics assignment. Diving into schoolwork had always distracted me from unpleasant thoughts or worries, but that day, the dream looped on a reel that refused to quit.

  Clicking the plastic tab on my mechanical pencil with my fingernail, I glanced at the study hall facilitator. She was engrossed in grading papers at her table, rarely offering observant looks at the oversized class. I quietly slipped my iPhone from my backpack, Googling dream dictionary. I didn’t put a lot of stock into the meanings of dreams but had always found them insightful in the past.

  I chose the first result returned. Touching the search function, I entered hair. The results were no help. Hair dresser, red hair, hairy hands, but nothing about having different hair color or blond hair. I scowled, this time searching vomit.

  Results showed that I would be inflicted with an illness that would turn me into an invalid, or I’d be connected to a ‘racy scandal.’

  Racy scandal? I pictured prohibition-era Chicago, my bawdy shenanigans making the front page of the daily newspaper. Giggling silently, I scrolled further down the entry.

  Dreaming that you are vomiting could mean that someone who seemed nice is actually lying to you.

  Frustrated, I jumped back to search and typed teacher. The definition suggested that I was seeking ‘advice, knowledge, or guidance, and I was heading into a new path in life, ready to learn by example or from a past experience.’

  Hmm. Maybe Mr. Perry represented men in general, and I’d be meeting new men in college? Was I processing my fears about missing Logan through my subconscious? I had just started to recognize the fact that Logan would be going to boot camp right after graduation, and though I was whole-heartedly committed to him, there was the nagging worry that… maybe… he wouldn’t want to stay together.

  “Miss Camden.”

  I jumped, startled, my heart lodging in my throat.

  Mr. Perry sat one seat away to my right, his eyes lifted in my direction.

  “Hi,” I managed to whisper, my cell phone still in my hand. He looked at it expectantly.

  “Skipping class and surfing your phone in school? I wasn’t expecting that from you,” he said discreetly, glancing around. “I’ll take that. Please come with me.”

  Are you kidding me? I clenched my teeth, placing my iPhone on the table. He nodded his approval, taking the device and slipping it into his pocket. Flushed, I gathered my books and stuffed them in my backpack, following him.

  As close as he was, I could smell fabric softener on his clothing, a brand that triggered memories of my mother.

  When she had died, my dad had stopped buying fabric softener. I never knew if he did that because it smelled like my mother, or if he considered fabric softener an unnecessary step when doing endless loads of laundry for two preteen girls.

  I expected Mr. Perry to turn left, toward the office, but instead he headed toward the doors that led outside. I’ve never been in trouble in my life, I thought, suddenly sick with anxiety.

  The oppressive heat blasted us both, and I shifted my backpack over my shoulder, squinting into the sun. “Where are we going?” I asked, squinting his way. My thick braid, still wet on my shoulder, felt refreshing in the late summer sun. My sweatshirt was sweltering, and I wished that it zipped so I could quickly take it off.

  “Mad Snacks. I volunteered to unload the shipment of chips and candy that arrived this morning, and you can help me… since statistics seem to bore you,” he added, sounding amused. Mad Snacks was a concession stand nestled between two sets of bleachers at the football field, selling refreshments during the Friday games in Madison.

  I sighed, glaring at the back of his head. “I did not skip your class this morning, Mr. Perry. I was ill before school and was late. Excused.”

  He searched his pocket, removing a blue and white lanyard with a key attached. “I’m sorry to hear that. Feeling better?” he asked as we reached Mad Snacks, circling the small building to get to the back door. Unlocking it easily, he reached around the wall to the left side first, and then to the right before finding the light switch that simultaneously turned on an overhead fan.

  I narrowed my eyes, frowning. “Listen, you’ll need to open the window if I’m going in there with you,” I warned, gesturing to the sliding aluminum window on the concession stand.

  “It’s pretty warm in here,” he agreed, assessing the piles of boxes just inside the door with irritation.

  “Yes, that, and the fact that I have common sense… and an unscathed reputation.”

  He looked up suddenly, as though finally realizing what I was implying. No racy scandals for me, I thought.

  He quickly moved to the concession window, unlocking and throwing it open. “Of course,” he said briskly, slipping the lanyard into this pocket. He wore a similar outfit to the day before, this time with a blue shirt that matched his eyes.

  Those eyes.

  I had to wonder if he knew how incredibly attractive he was. Maybe his overconfidence was just part of his teacher act?

  “When do I get my phone back?” I asked, dropping my backpack by the door and kneeling to a box marked Lays Chips.

  He pulled my phone from his pocket, holding it up in the air. “We discussed this yesterday, right?”

  “I was using my phone for research.” I knew the excuse sounded lame, but I was counting on my pristine record and my natural charisma with teachers to carry me through.

  “Really.”

  He slid the unlock screen, and I mentally cursed myself for not locking my phone with a pass code.

  He began browsing the last page that I’d accessed.

  I shriveled, remembering my search.

  “A dream dictionary,” he murmured, and I gritted my teeth, focusing on opening the thick, plastic packing tape on the chip box. As he read silently, I tried to will myself to evaporate into thin air. “So, you had a dream about a teacher?” he asked, his eyes shifting to mine.

  I was thankful that the corner of the building was shadowed. Waves of red embarrassment scorched my cheeks. Adrenaline, mixed with the turmoil of being forced to recall the details of my dream, ignited my temper.

  “Yes, I did. It was very disturbing,” I replied, my voice inevitably trembling. “It was about… you and I woke up… vomiting.”

  Moments of silence felt like hours, and his cloudy blue eyes told me he was shaken. Unexplainably, guilt corroded my confidence and I focused on my feet. “I was sick in my dream, in some hotel room… it smelled…”

  “Roam?” he urged softly.

  I stopped short, not wishing to discuss the smell of marijuana with my teacher. “It seemed so real that I woke up… sick. It was really short but kind of… kind of scary,” I rambled, eyes down, abhorred that I had shared so much personal information with this almost complete stranger.

  Maybe I was going insane.

  I looked up suddenly. He was kneeling, holding my phone out to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  His tone was sincere, and I replied with a shrug. “Yeah,
” I managed tentatively.

  “Here.” He placed my phone on the potato chip box, and I reached for it.

  No lecture? No final warnings? I lifted my eyes to his, unsure. “It’s not your fault. The mind is a strange place.”

  He considered my words for a long moment. Finally nodding, he brushed his palms against his knees as if they were sweating. “Very true. I’m sorry that I embarrassed you.” He fished the lanyard out of this pocket again, handing it to me. “Here, just put away these two boxes and lock up when you’re done. I’ll let Mr. Kingston know that you volunteered.” Mr. Kingston was the school principal.

  I gazed at him, wide-eyed. “You’re… leaving?”

  “I just remembered something that I need to take care of. You’ve got this?”

  I nodded, standing to face him. He towered over me, at least six-foot-three to my five-foot-six. “Thanks for being so easy about this,” I said, my words soft and careful.

  He nodded.

  I reached for the key, noticing that he seemed desperate to leave as quickly as possible. He held the key out to me carefully, but the thin, fabric lanyard slipped through my fingers. We both bent, sweeping the air to catch it at the same time.

  My ring finger grazed the back of his hand.

  Chapter Four

  The summer that I was eleven, I was swimming in Ally-May’s pool in her backyard. We were tossing a ball back and forth, and her older brother, Jason, had hit the ball into a wooded pine area next to their property. I volunteered to get the ball, and not ten feet into the pine, I fell into a yellow jacket’s nest in my bathing suit.

  When the hornets were through with me, I had been stung over twenty times. Jason was stung almost as many times dragging me to the pool.

  The memory of the pain resurfaced as I screamed, grasping at my right arm.

  I was vaguely aware that Mr. Perry was grabbing my waist, yanking my sweatshirt over my head. I wore a short-sleeved, yellow t-shirt underneath, and when the sweatshirt came off, I expected to see my inner, right forearm covered in yellow jackets.

  “Damn it!”

  Mr. Perry was cursing. Why is he cursing?

  I was screaming, the sound was foreign to my ears. I hadn’t screamed since I was a child. I really let go, unable to control the sound. The crash of the aluminum window over the concession stand slamming to the metal bar jarred my senses.