Ben - Who is Maggie Quinn?
She wanted the light on. I wondered if that was usual for her or if she was scared. I pressed my palms into my eyes. The thought of her being scared made me feel guilty, the same way that her winces of pain and flinches from touch cut me at the knees and made me feel like a complete and utter failure.
We should’ve figured out a way to get in and take down the organization before she was attacked.
I should’ve found a way.
Maggie was a fighter. I knew that much from how she wanted to walk out of that hellish apartment on her own two feet, and from how she continued to stand up for herself throughout the day, making sure I knew her boundaries.
But I saw the moment she realized the full extent of this situation. When she squeezed her eyes shut and refused to see the rest of the apartment, I practically saw the fight leave her. She seemed… lost, beaten down, broken. And I hated it.
And then I had to go and see her in a damn towel. I hated myself for how badly I wanted her at that moment. Because she was in a vulnerable state, and my dick fucking twitched. I was thirty-two fucking years old, not a teenager with impulse control issues.
I shook my head. How had we let it come to this? Coleson and I had been so close to finishing this case. And now I was relegated to babysitting. Strapped here, I felt helpless. Wouldn't I be a better asset in the office with Coleson? Then again, Maggie was now key to the trial. But she clearly despised the situation, which made her a flight risk.
I could practically see those thoughts whirling in her. Questions of how to get away from me. How to lose me.
My jaw clenched. I needed to know more about her. To figure out where she’d go if she ever ran. Because that would turn this into a race to get to her. Me versus the organization.
What had she said earlier? That she moved here “to live”? What was so bad about her life before?
I itched to ask her, but that wouldn’t be happening. It seemed like every time we talked we ended up arguing. It was my fault. I was supposed to be a shadow, just watching her, but I continually stepped over lines because I wanted to help her. But I had to shut that down.
I grabbed up my laptop.
This little research was needed for work, I told myself. It definitely wasn’t because I liked the way her green eyes went to mine to seek reassurance at the hospital, and it definitely wasn’t because I liked the way her body felt against mine. Each touch was burned into my brain. The way she smoothed past me to get into the getaway car– the breath was practically punched out of me. It was so unexpected. To feel this weirdly soft presence in my space of world that was usually so rigid and war-like. To feel warmth in my dark world.
And the way she requested me as a bodyguard without even knowing it made me feel about ten feet tall.
But that sassy mouth of hers. Damnit. She had a way of pushing my buttons. When she stood her ground against me, I had to fight the temptation not to grab her and kiss her until she yielded, which I knew was sick. I fully knew it, and yet… I wanted her to listen to me, to trust me to keep her safe.
Trust.
We needed to build trust. I needed to somehow earn hers.
I groaned. That was my fault too. By not closing this case earlier, I allowed Timothy to shatter her perception of the world. She was trusting to a fault before him– I could tell from her story back in the interrogation room. But seeing the dead body, taking a beating, having her wrist snapped, it all rattled her up.
A quick search revealed some online teaching videos of hers, probably uploaded during the pandemic.
I clicked on the first video, dated April 2020. From the background it looked like she was teaching in a garage. She wore overalls over a bright green shirt. Her long black hair was pulled back in a low pony, tied off with a bow, revealing her delicate neck and collarbones. She had a lovely voice, it sounded different here. It wasn’t coated in tension and sass. And she was smiling with unbridled joy while holding up her paintbrushes. I hadn’t seen that smile from her. And it… it stole my fucking breath. As she went through instructions and then demonstrated on the canvas in front of her, she laughed at her own jokes, and it was cute, endearing. I never would’ve thought watching someone paint could be so captivating, but it was. She probably brought light to these kids during quarantine. She provided a little escape from their day.
After a few more minutes of searching, I found her name in a couple mentions of weddings at St. Patrick’s. And then I went on a deep dive through St. Patrick’s website, which revealed a picture of her from what had to be her first communion. Cute fluffy white dress and her hair in bangs, a sweet little smile on her face. She had to be in second grade there. That explained the whole “don’t take the Lord’s name in vain” comment. St. Patricks. She was starting to make more sense. She was very much from an Irish Catholic family.
I snorted to myself. Eileen would get a kick out of this.
Eileen.
Guilt struck into me.
I forgot to tell her I wouldn’t be by or able to call for a while. I usually warned her when work was about to make me go ghost mode so she wouldn’t worry.
I pulled out my phone and shot off a quick text: I’ll be tied up for a couple weeks, sorry for not giving you a heads up.
Her text came back a few minutes later: Stop by when you can, but don’t forget that Tilly’s birthday is in two weeks!
Shit. How had I forgotten that?
Without question, I knew I needed to be there.
But I couldn’t leave Maggie’s side until the court date– whenever that was. I texted Coleson telling him to hurry it up and force the state to get moving on the case.
Turning to go to bed, I laid on my side and forced my eyes closed. But I couldn’t ignore a prick at the back of my spine that told me something was missing… My arms ached to hold someone. I could practically feel the ghost of what my body wanted. It’d be nice. To hold someone in at night. Maggie’s green eyes flashed in my mind. To hold her at night. She was right across the hall…
Fuck.
I was going soft.
I didn’t need anyone, I forced myself to think.
Turning over on my back, I dragged a hand down my face.
This never would’ve crossed my mind if she hadn’t touched me. My body was starved of touch and her brief contact awoke the need inside of me. But I needed to push it down. Far fucking down.
I swallowed hard. Holding someone at night would be nice. So what? Acknowledging that wouldn’t change things. I wouldn’t go down that road. I wouldn't go after a relationship, ever . For the good of everyone, I needed to fall asleep alone.