Angie could barely contain her surprise. “You’re a poet?”
“No,” Bryce said, holding up a finger, a gesture intended to correct her mistake. “I’m a former student of poetry. I’m actually a terrible poet. As in roses are red, violets are blue, terrible. But I can appreciate good work. Emily Dickinson, Dylan Thomas, Wordsworth, Whitman.”
“I’m not too familiar with poetry. If I were to pick a poet to read, where would I start?”
“Starter poetry? I’d go with Judith Viorst.”
“Ok. Which book should I buy?”
“Try Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.”
Angie squinted. “Wasn’t that a movie with Steve Carell?”
“Blasphemy,” Bryce said. “It was a children’s book first and foremost. But I did see the movie with a nephew, and it was pretty good fun.”
“No kids?” Angie flushed with embarrassment. Oh God, Angie, you really had to go there? She wanted to slap her forehead as her face turned hot and probably red.
Bryce just smiled. “No. No Mrs. Bryce, either, in case you were wondering. I’ve had my opportunities, but I let them pass me by. And before you think it, I’m not afraid of commitment.”
Angie gave him a crooked smile. “Well, what is it with you, then?” She’d already dipped her toe in the water. Why not dive in?
Bryce’s gaze revealed nothing. “You’ll have to read my poetry to find out.”
“You said it was terrible.”
“And that right there could explain why a handsome devil like me is still single at thirty-three.” He winked.
Angie returned a laugh.
“No, the truth is I haven’t met the right person. Nothing more exciting than that. There’s no great drama to my joining the Marshals Service either. I grew up in Bethesda. Green yard, loving parents, an annoying sister who is now my best friend in the world. I went to college, studied poetry, and one day realized I didn’t know a bit about this world. The grit. The grime. The underbelly. I knew quads and ultimate Frisbee and beer and bands like Nirvana, so after college I applied for the Marshals. Seemed like a good way to get that kind of experience. Okay, I watched The Fugitive, and then I applied.”
Angie laughed again. If he was trying to worm his way into her good graces, he was doing a good job. “At least you admit it,” she said.
“Anyway, I’ve been with the Marshals ever since. Worked in a lot of different cities—cue another reason I’m single—and somehow I ended up here in lovely Baltimore.”
Angie held up her phone. “This usually doesn’t stop ringing. My dad thinks that’s the reason I’m still single. He may be right.”
“Since we’re on the subject, maybe I could buy you a drink sometime.”
Angie liked his confidence. There was no reason to dance around attraction. People got picked up in bars and online, so why not after helping to break up a human trafficking ring?
“I live in Virginia,” Angie said.
Bryce did not seem deterred. “I have this contraption called a car. I swear it makes long distance seem like nothing.”
Oh, that smile.
“Yes. You can take me out for a drink some time.”
“McSorley’s,” Bryce said, an eyebrow arched, finger pointing at the wall behind her as if to imply the bar lay just beyond.
“Some time, but not tonight. It’s been a heck of day and I’ve got to get home, check up on my dad. I just have to wait for Nadine’s parents to show up. They’ll be here soon.”
“It’s not going to be an easy re-entry for her,” Bryce said.
“Tell me about it. Her parents are the anti-Waltons.”
“The Waltons? Who are they?”
Angie felt a flush of embarrassment from the joke that had fallen flat.
Bryce gave a little laugh. “I’m kidding. I know the Waltons. Good night Bobby Sue, good night John Boy, goodnight moon.”
“Another of your favorite poets?”
“Margret Wise Brown. One of the best.”
Angie found Bryce refreshing. She had gone on plenty of dates where after three sips of a drink she was eyeing the door. She had the feeling she could talk to Bryce for hours and never tire of his company.
“What about the crew?” she asked. “How long will they be off the streets?”
Bryce gave the question some serious thought. It wasn’t all jokes and games to him.
“The trafficking charges are going to be easy. Any girl under the age of eighteen involved in sex for money is by law being trafficked. That’s years in the clink right there.”
“What about kidnapping?”
“Good point,” Bryce said. “None of the girls were chained up, but there were bars on the windows and most of the apartments locked from the outside. So there’s a case to be made for forced confinement.”
Angie’s eyes turned fierce. “It’s not a question there. It was forced.”
“Hey, I’m on your side,” Bryce said, holding up his hands. “I’m talking in the eyes of the law. You and I both know Nadine did what she believed she had to do to survive.”