Sunset Savage: A Dark Possessive Romance by Hamel B. B

Author:Hamel, B. B.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Blair

The homeless encampment is bigger than I expected it to be and better organized. Tents stretch in all directions beneath the overpass, their brightly colored shells a contrast to the grubby brown concrete, mud, and trash strewn in the lanes that wind their way through the makeshift alleys.

Baptist stands on the edge of the maze and frowns at a cardboard sign. Abandon All Hope. Please give whatever you can. “He’s in here,” he says quietly.

“How are you sure?”

“Just got a feeling.” His fingers flex into fists. “You should wait in the car.”

“Baptist.”

“I know. You’re not going to.” He shakes his head and glances back at me. His gaze is half fire, half worry, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “Don’t move more than a few inches from my side. Come on.”

He steps onto the path and heads into the jumble.

There’s stuff strewn all over: boxes, shopping carts, empty water jugs, fast food wrappers and garbage, chip bags, needles, spoons and forks, tarps and plastic bags. It’s dizzying all the objects thrown all over, and how the whole place still retains a sense of central planning like one person’s been maintaining order this whole time. Baptist moves slowly, looking around at the tents for any visible people, but the place is quiet.

I should be angry with him. I should be furious that he’d kiss me without any provocation back in the hotel, but instead it’s like his touch left an imprint on my lips and they’re buzzing with his taste. My head is dizzy and I should be scared, but I’m not.

Instead, I’m elated. I feel more alive now than I ever have before. It’s like Baptist kissing me woke something up and now I’m too intensely aware and in the present moment to dwell on all my problems. I’m still pregnant, I still haven’t told anyone but Marie, and I still don’t know how we’re ever going to make sure this movie happens.

And I don’t care, because I’m here with him and I feel good.

Up ahead, a few people are sitting outside of a large blue tent covered in a green tarp. They’re lounging on chairs, sharing a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor, and talking quietly. They stare as we approach, not looking hostile, only curious. Two are men and one is a woman, probably in their thirties or forties, and all three have that skinny, pale, mottled look a long-time street user gets after too much time between decent meals and too many hard drugs.

“We’re looking for someone,” Baptist says, standing at the edge of their circle. “Maybe you folks can help.”

“Maybe,” the woman says. She’s got short dark hair and sharp eyes. Her skin’s pale, and she might’ve been pretty once, but now she’s got sores on her lips and her fingers keep tugging at what’s left of her threadbare jacket. “But we don’t like to talk about folks in the camp.”

“We’re all about privacy,” the closer man says, grinning. He’s got a ratty beard and tattoos on his neck.

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