Chapter 2

ChapterTwo

Everything still ached,both pleasantly and unpleasantly. The walk back to my townhouse was uneventful, though my mind never stopped processing what had happened. I fully consented to the search, but that certainly wasn’t standard operating procedure. So, I wouldn’t be able to let it go, to let US Marshal Jax Smith use his position like that. But I wasn’t sure what to do.

I unlocked the front door to my townhouse, checking behind me for any unwanted attention, and then entered and relocked the door. It was only midday, but the shower called to me after my encounter. I shed my blouse and jeans across my bedroom while I walked. Turned the knobs for the water to as hot as I’d be able to stand without incurring actual burn damage.

While the water warmed, I stared at my reflection in the oval mirror above my counter. No evidence on my face of the encounter. I turned my head in both directions, watched my long dark hair move with the motion. No outward sign anything had happened. That seemed weird to me, and I didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. Angry that no mark existed as proof of the frisking? Or relieved that there was no mark for people to see?

Steam formed around me, signaling how long I’d been staring at myself. I stood under the hot water, enjoying the feel of it sluicing over my skin, between my breasts and my legs. The silkiness of the water tracked the same paths as Jax Smith’s hands, and I found my own hand between my legs, rubbing the same spot he had.

In shock, I pulled my hand away. How was I repulsed by and drawn to him at the same time? Who could have guessed I’d have a frisking kink? I lifted my hands, the dirt beneath my nails finally some evidence of the encounter in the alley. I scrubbed at them with lavender soap and water, until they showed pink and clear, though by the end my skin also wrinkled like prunes from the extended wash. After rushing through the rest of my shower, I dried off and wrapped myself in a robe.

Who was US Marshal Jax Smith? It was time to investigate. Naturally, I’d have to start with the internet. The name Smith was common as fuck in the United States, but Jax sounded more unusual, so perhaps the combination would be fruitful. I camped out at my white oak kitchen table, almost arms’ length close to the bottle of wine waiting on the black quartz counter.

Internet searching turned out to be a mix of boring and illuminating. It took almost an hour and two glasses of red wine to find everything public on Jax Smith. And that was exactly nothing.

No social media accounts.

No job information.

No home ownership.

I tried every public avenue I was aware of and inputted his name. Nothing. How did a man not have any internet presence?

My mind ran through possible explanations.

One, he told me the truth about working for the US Marshal’s office and didn’t have anything online. That would make sense, since the movies taught me their officers needed to maintain a low profile.

Two, he told me the truth about his job and had profiles and information online, but under another name, maybe his real name. If that was the case, I’d never figure it out. That would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.

Three, he lied about working for the Marshals, and nothing would be under Jax Smith because I was right that it wasn’t his real name. That would be another immediate dead end, like number two, because I couldn’t search for what I didn’t know.

My wine glass empty, I jumped from my chair and poured myself another from the bottle on the counter. I swigged the glass, enjoying the flow of the fruity red wine down my throat.

Oh, wait.

There was another option.

I sat back at the table and considered my laptop. Of course, one of the first places I’d checked was the actual US Marshals Service website, but not surprisingly, they didn’t list all their agents.

But they did list district contacts.

And they had an article posted warning people about schemes where individuals posed as fake marshals.

I grabbed my cellphone and dialed the number for the US Marshals Office for the Northern District of Georgia.

“Good afternoon,” a pleasant southern voice answered the phone.

“Good afternoon,” I responded, and then froze.

“Ma’am, are you still there?”

I hadn’t planned this at all and stumbled over what to say.

“Ma’am?”

“Apologies, I have a tricky connection,” I lied, stealing myself another moment. It wasn’t necessary to give all the information. I’d stick to the facts.

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“I wanted to confirm that someone is a US Marshal.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t disclose the identities of agents,” she said, sounding genuinely sorrowful. She was either very empathetic or a very good actress.

My stomach clenched. I knew if I told her about the invasive search, that would get her attention, but something held me back. “What if he’s impersonating an agent?” I asked instead.

“Now that we’ll look into,” she said, her voice sharper, less saccharine. “What’s the name of the individual claiming to be an agent?”

“Jax Smith.”

“Hmm. Give me a second.” A thud sounded, and I wondered if she’d set the receiver on an office desk. “He’s not out of this office,” she said to herself, though it came through the line. Tapping on a keyboard followed, and I strained to listen.

My leg bounced, my heel banging on the tile in time to my thumping heart.

“Ma’am, thank you for this information. We’ll take it from here,” the woman finally said.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me if he’s an actual agent or not,” I wondered aloud.

“No, ma’am, but the US Marshals thanks you again for the information about the possible scam.”

I recognized the sound of a brush-off and thanked her for her time, before ending the call. Worry spiked at the dead end. I’d searched the vast internet as best I could with no success. I called the US Marshals and directly asked if he was an agent. And I found nothing. Now what? There had to be something else I could do.

There was. I had to admit I needed help.

I scrolled through my contacts and found the name I wanted. Tapped the entry and pressed Call.

“Hey lady! Long time, no hear,” a voice blasted through the phone. Thank goodness I knew to use the speaker with my best friend, Sherry Blanton.

“Hi, Sherry, sorry I’ve been out of touch. Job searching.” It wasn’t a great excuse, but it was mostly true. After graduate school, my sole focus had been finding a job. I crossed my fingers and sent a wish into the universe that my background check cleared soon for my new offer.

“Understood. What can I do for you?”

I didn’t take offense at the immediate down-to-business tone. Sherry was a Sandy Creek police officer. If she was on duty, which I assumed she was, time was always tight, even in a small town, because our force was equally small.

“I know it’s last minute. Any chance you could meet for dinner or drinks tonight?” I asked. “Or both?”

“Believe it or not, I can do both.”

“Will wonders never cease?” I quipped.

“Right? It’d be nice to catch up.”

A frisson of guilt washed over me. I sucked as a best friend. It hadn’t been that long. Had it? “Yes, it would. Our usual?”

“Oh, man, that’s asking for trouble, but, sure, why not?”

“What’s a little trouble between best friends?”

Sherry’s laughter boomed through my phone’s speaker. “I can be there by six. A little late for happy hour.”

“We can make that work,” I assured her.

“I know that’s right,” she agreed, and I heard the smile in her voice.

I might have barely seen her since graduation six months ago, but it was as if no time at all had passed. That’s what being a roommate for three years did for you.

“I’ll see you at six at The Rusty Nail,” I confirmed.

“Stay out of trouble,” she said in response.

It was her usual way of saying goodbye, but my mind flashed to the alley encounter and my fingers tightened around the wine glass’s stem as a glimmer of desire surfaced.