Roam (Roam Series, Book One)

by Kimberly Adams

  “It won’t be easy, or inexpensive. And though Logan’s idea of taking the material from the past was clever, there’s too much gray area.”

  “This is all gray area,” I mumbled, zipping my backpack. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We ate quickly, both of us lost in our own thoughts, and then took another taxi to the fountain. Our conversation during the ride was minimal, other than the impromptu question-answer session that I subjected him to about our life in 1977.

  “Julie was in journalism. Maybe I could get a job for a magazine or newspaper?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I wouldn’t still be… addicted to drugs, would I? Is addiction part of the mind, or the body?”

  “Don’t worry about it right now, Roam.”

  “Was the baby healthy? Was I showing at all?”

  He reached for my hand, and I lifted my eyes to his as the taxi weaved in and out of traffic. “She was healthy, and you were showing. A little. I don’t know what to expect, either,” he told me, his responsive tone calming the thick tension that hung in the air around us. “We’ll be together. I’ll protect you,” he added, pulling me to his shoulder.

  The Peterhof Fountains emerged before us in a majestic spread of water and bronze, the sunlight playing off both in magnanimous style.

  “It call the Russian Ver-size,” the taxi driver offered in broken English, gesturing out the window with a sweeping hand. I smiled and thanked him, but West ignored him. His eyes narrowed as he looked out the dirty windows.

  “Let us out back here,” he ordered the driver. We were blocks from the entrance, but the driver obliged.

  As we stepped out to the sidewalk that led to the entrance, he turned to me. “Do everything I say. Without question,” he reminded me firmly. Already, the bruise around his eye was lighter.

  “Okay,” I agreed, my nerves clamoring in fear.

  “We’re going right in. Do not let go of my hand.” He gripped my fingers tightly, and I nodded, walking with him.

  The buildings were breathtaking, all in white, yellow and bronze gothic designs with tall, arched windows and ornate fixtures. West navigated the crowd easily, moving with them as we made our way closer to the palace.

  Once inside the grounds, I gasped, tightening my grip on West’s hand.

  The view was breathtaking. Glimmering bronze statues of the Gods emphasized the glorious fountains, and far beyond the landscape, the water flowed to the Marine Canal. The Grand Cascade was a series of step-like stones that created a waterfall from the palace down to the lower fountains. Flowing into a semi-circular pool, the water burst from Samson and the Lion, a mesmerizing display as his radiant arms tore open the mouth of the lion.

  “Russia’s victory over Sweden,” I murmured, awestruck by the authority that the grand display commanded.

  “What, baby?” he asked. The crowd created a low hum, and I spoke louder so he could hear me.

  “Samson and the Lion. It represents Russia’s victory over Sweden.”

  “And the lion is a part of Sweden’s coat of arms, so symbolism is a large part of this display,” he added absently.

  I thought of Sweden’s colorful coat of arms, lifting my eyes to his. “I didn’t realize that.”

  His urgent expression sobered me. “Come on. We need to go to a fountain that we can access. There,” he directed, pointing. “The Roman Fountain.”

  His grip on my hand tightened, and I hurried to keep his pace. In minutes we were at the Roman Fountain, a great two-tiered marble sculpture surrounded by a round pool shallow enough to wade in. Several children, with the help of their parents, dipped their feet and hands into the water.

  I watched a beautiful little girl with curly, red hair giggle, splashing water at her mother, and my chest tightened. “West, it’s too big, and all these people…” I whispered, shaking my head. “It would take several bombs to destroy, and the devastation-”

  “Shh,” he whispered, pinching my fingers softly. “Don’t talk about it.”

  I nodded again, but I knew that I was right. The grounds, the security, the scale of it all was too enormous to consider a single bomb. I had no idea what connections he had, or how large of a plan he had waiting, but a single bomb would not touch the grounds. The destruction of such a historical and beautiful element of Russian culture sickened me. There was no way we could allow such a thing.

  “We can’t do it,” I pleaded softly. “We can’t. Please, West.”

  His sapphire eyes glistened in the sunshine, and he reached for my face, holding my cheek in his hand. His thumb brushed over my lips, and I blinked away my frightened tears. “Roam, I’ll do whatever it takes to save you.”

  He clasped his left hand with mine, across my body as if we were shaking hands.

  Letting go of my cheek, his eyes met mine as he lowered us over the water.

  I nodded, rolling my shoulders back and taking several quick breaths. “Do it,” I whispered bravely.

  He thrust our arms, fingers still intertwined, into the basin. I watched the cool water cover the last of the numbers on my arm.

  And we were gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Just as Logan had described, we were standing in a small fountain in the middle of a city park. West was pulling me out of the water as I gaped at my surroundings. “We’re in Central City Park… it’s Woodruff Park now,” he said, urgently tugging at my arm. “Come on, hurry, before we’re noticed.”

  “Isn’t there a bigger fountain here?” I asked, glancing around. I slipped, falling against him, and he caught me and lowered me to my feet in the grass.

  “Not until 1996. A peace fountain for the Civil Rights movement. This is just an unnamed fountain,” he replied. Struggling to keep up with his pace, I yanked on his arm.

  “West, I need a second, I’m a little dizzy…”

  “We have to get out of the open area, where he could be watching.”

  As his words dug in, I broke into a run. Tall buildings flanked each direction, and people dressed in suits, ties, and dresses marched on the surrounding sidewalks holding umbrellas and briefcases or purses. The sky threatened to pour at any moment. The bottoms of my jeans were soaked from the fountain, giving my flip-flops no air to dry. I trembled as the chill set in.

  As I looked down at my feet, blond hair fell over my shoulders. I grabbed a lock, holding it up in front of my face. “I’m… my hair…”

  “Roam,” he ordered, his authoritative tone jolting me from my impending panic attack. He gestured up ahead to a row of checkered taxis lining the city street. “We have to get a cab.”

  “Do I look different? Am I Julie?” I turned my head to glance into the store window reflection, my eyes widening.

  I am Julie.

  How can this be happening? Until that moment, everything that we’d talked about had seemed surreal, imaginary, like a fairytale… or a nightmare. As I began to comprehend that we’d actually done it, we’d moved through time and I was myself in a past life, I was beginning to panic.

  “Roam,” he urged, ushering me into the back-seat of the cab. “Breathe.”

  “I- I can’t-”

  He turned to speak to the driver. “Byway Motel.”

  The driver chortled. “That’ll costya, friend,” he called, southern accent thick with forced hospitality.

  “No problem,” West snapped, pushing me back against the seat. The driver shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

  I held my hands up and spread my fingers, my palms facing my eyes. “I don’t even recognize my own hands. They’re so different,” I managed, touching each of my fingers, admiring the long nail beds and tracing the unfamiliar lines. I resisted the urge to cup my breasts. They were twice as large as my own and were heavy in my tight shirt.

  “She high?” the driver demanded, thumbing the backseat accusingly. West took my hands in his, shaking his head.

  “No,” he answered, giving me a warning glare. “Turn on the radio,” he ordered the drive
r.

  Obviously conscious of his tip, he obliged. ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” filled the cab. West relaxed his grip on my hands.

  I looked at West with apologetic eyes. He gazed down at me for a long moment before turning to look out the window. As we took a sudden exit, my stomach lurched, and I fought a wave of nausea.

  “I think I’m sick,” I whispered, covering my middle with my hand. My fingertips met a slight, hardened mound beneath my shirt, and I sucked in my breath, lightheaded with realization. “I’m pregnant,” I comprehended out loud.

  He nodded, pulling me closer. “I know. This was the day that you died,” he said against my ear, so that only I could hear. When I tensed, he shook his head. “We’re already ahead, since I’m sober, and I know that you have no intention of aborting our baby.” His whispered words were barely audible over the music.

  “Of course not,” I replied, covering my mouth with my hand. “Talk to me… West, I’m going to throw up,” I cried, my mouth beginning to water in that horribly acrid way. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

  “Don’t hurl in my cab, bunny,” the driver called, his nervous glance in the rear-view mirror leaving me flushing.

  “Pull over,” West ordered. He did, just in time, and I made it to a tin trashcan in the middle of the street, voiding my stomach of everything that I’d eaten for breakfast at the little Russian café.

  “Poor girl,” the driver commented.

  From somewhere near the cab, I heard West talking to the driver. “My wife. She’s been sick from day one.”

  I gagged, dry heaving into the can again.

  “Couple months, it’ll pass. My wife was sick for months with our boy,” he remembered. West nodded, his hand smoothing over my back. The driver spoke through the window to us. “I’ll shut the meter off for ya ‘till she’s ready.”

  “We appreciate that,” he replied, offering me a tissue that must have been provided by the driver.

  Wiping my mouth, I climbed back into the cab. The rest of the ride was quiet as we listened to the top hits of Thursday, April fourteenth, 1977. Rain finally began to dot the windshield, and I watched the wipers as they rhythmically scraped back and forth.

  West’s tip was generous. He had prepared that morning at the hotel in Russia, gathering American dollars all dated before 1977 from his bag. He had an entire wallet with fabricated driver’s licenses for both of us… and Logan. The preparation work that he’d put into the entire situation intimidated me, and I realized I knew very little about what he was truly capable of.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked as we walked to the front office of a seamy motel. The word BYWAY flickered in orange neon, threatened to go out, and then lit brightly in a continuous pattern.

  He stopped mid-stride, turning to me. Taking a step forward, he slid his hands into my long, blond hair, searching my eyes.

  “Come here.”

  He lowered his lips to mine, kissing the corner of my mouth so very delicately. I let my eyes close, my entire body responding to his simple kiss. “West?” I asked, breathless.

  He gave me a calming smile. “Just checking to see that my little Roam is still in there,” he whispered against my lips. “Offering to help was so out of character for Julie. It reminded me that it’s still you.”

  I warmed, touching my unfamiliar lips. “I’m sure that I’ll cry or faint any moment, rest assured,” I promised, trying for humor.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Stop it. You’re being too hard on yourself. So many things have happened to you in just a few short weeks, baby. You’re stronger than you think you are. I’ve told you that.”

  I sighed, leaning forward in his arms. “What do we do now?”

  He hugged me tightly, kissing the top of my head. “Now, I get our key from the office, and we go to our room. And we… think.”

  The motel manager must have recognized us. He seemed nonplussed when West asked for another key. “Y’all better find the other one!” he warned, handing over an actual key, not a card that slid into the door.

  Once we were inside the motel room, I backed against the wall, my heart racing.

  Horrifying scenes of West’s attack took over my mind. The bed was still rumpled where we must have slept the night before, and our clothes were strewn about the motel room. He felt my hand tense in his and pulled me against him.

  “This… was where…”

  “Roam.”

  “West, I can’t,” I breathed, closing my eyes tightly.

  “Baby,” he hushed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His tortured words were at my ear, and his hands slid over my stomach, cradling. “Jesus, I can’t believe you’re here. Like this.”

  “West,” I hushed, looping my arms around his neck and pulling him to me. “I forgive you. It wasn’t you, just like it wasn’t me.”

  We stood against the wall, silent, with his arms wrapped around me.

  Something happened between us, something that I couldn’t quite identify, as he tightened his hold on me. He was clinging to my body, his breathing labored, his hands in my hair.

  “Roam,” he whispered achingly, “please don’t ever forget me. Everything I’ve done… and everything that I’m going to do… is for you. I love you, and I will always love you.”

  His words, so final, sent chills through my body. I tried to pull away to read his eyes, but he wouldn’t let me go.

  “I love you, West… with all of my heart,” I cried, breaking down as his lips met mine. I reached for his shoulders, gripping the material of his shirt as if holding on for life. His lips parted over my mouth as he crushed me to him, and I exhaled a painful cry.

  Three pounding knocks on the door startled us both.

  I felt the blood drain from my head, and he cringed, reeling back and pushing me behind him.

  He threw the door open.

  Troy burst into the motel room, shoving a blond girl forward. She was my age, and he held her viciously by her hair as she struggled in his grasp. The girl kicked and fought, and he gave her white-blond curls a hard yank as he threw her into the room.

  “Well,” Troy sneered, nearly as tall as West and almost as broad.

  He grinned at me, and I flattened against the wall, trying to not to scream.

  Trying to breathe.

  He jammed a gun into the girl’s side, and she moaned.

  “No,” I begged, my eyes darting to West.

  Troy shook his head my way. “Fucking amazing. Julie. Or Roam, back from the dead. This is the first time I’ve ever had to kill you twice. Maybe I’m making up for my missed opportunity with Julie. What do you think, West?”

  “You sonofabitch,” West seethed, his eyes darting to the girl. “Where did you find her?”

  God, West was furious, and as he moved toward the girl, Troy yanked her hair even harder. She cried out, her bright blue eyes pleading with West silently.

  Troy laughed and cocked the gun, and I broke into hysterics. I knew that I was going to faint, and I panted, trying to breathe evenly. When he smacked the back of the girl’s head with the gun, she fell to her knees before him, and he caught her by her hair as she screamed in agony.

  “Stop!” I cried, longing to help the poor girl. Tears streaked down her face, and her eyes blazed with pain and fury. She was dressed in clothing that I recognized. Her t-shirt held a splashy name brand…

  From 2012.

  “You just brought her here to wait for me. So confident,” Troy scoffed, gesturing with his head to a beat-up Buick parked behind him on the curb. “Get in the fucking car. You know where we’re going.”

  “Stay behind me,” West ordered, his jaw ticking as he stared Troy down.

  I nearly fell to my knees. “What? No! We can’t go with him!”

  “Without question,” he breathed, turning to meet my eyes.

  I choked back a sob, shaking uncontrollably as I followed him to the car.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “West,” I whispered, pressed as tightly as I could
against him in the backseat. “You knew he’d go to the hotel.”

  He said nothing, keeping his eyes locked on the girl in the passenger’s seat.

  “West?”

  “Yes,” he growled, between clenched teeth.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I begged, my frantic whispers barely audible over the sounds from the highway.

  “You wouldn’t have trusted me,” he said, and I turned away from him, covering my mouth with my hands.

  I was getting sick again.

  “Stop whispering or I’ll blow her pretty fucking head off.”

  Troy’s voice turned my bones to lead. I curled against West, trying with all my strength not to cry. He had his gun aimed at the girl’s chest, and I could tell that West was calculating the consequences of going for the weapon.

  “Move the gun away from her,” he told Troy. “I wouldn’t do anything that would make you hurt her.”

  I lifted my eyes to his. He obviously cared for her, and I sensed that there was something deeper there than compassion for another human being.

  Her blond curls dipped below her shoulder blades, and her eyes…

  I gripped West’s hand, and he knew that I had finally realized.

  It was Violet.

  His daughter.

  She finally turned to him, her jaw clenching the same way that I’d seen West’s do a thousand times. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I know that I have nothing to do with this so just please, let me go-”

  “Shut up,” Troy snarled, pressing the gun into her temple, and West lost it.

  As he moved to attack Troy, I threw myself in front of him, turning to her. “You’re Violet?” I asked, my heart racing as I met her eyes.

  Troy moved the barrel away from her face, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. West sat back again, still completely rigid at my side.

  Violet narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

  She slammed against the window as he swerved around a curve. I held onto West, trying to stay calm and determine where we were headed. The rainy evening had rolled into dusk, and after a moment, I finally realized that we were driving back the way that we came.