Breaking the Beast by Nicole Casey
1
Isabel
New Yorkin autumn was always my favorite time of the year. In the summer, the heat grows so oppressive it becomes almost a physical weight.
No matter how light and breezy your sundress, beads of sweat pop up along your back the second you stepped foot outside, running down your spine to collect in the waistband of your underwear, which remained damp and uncomfortable all day.
Winter nights were long and, since I moved out of Luis’ house, lonely; good only for curling up with a space heater and a book as wind shook the window panes. I used to love storms, loved tucking in with a long book and a cup of tea and listening to the rain and snow raging outside, while I was warm and safe inside.
But now, with the specter of Luis lurking around every corner, sudden noises made me jumpy and anxious. Inside no longer felt quite as safe as it used to.
But autumn was New York’s sweet spot, when the sticky summer months quickly faded from memory and the chill of winter still seemed a lifetime away. A crisp breeze met me as I emerged from the subway station, raising pleasant goosebumps along my arms.
I tucked a library paperback under my arm for the short walk to my office building. Though I had long ago mastered the art of reading and walking, even I was not skilled enough to navigate the streets of the city with my nose buried in a book; I was liable to walk directly into an open manhole.
I arrived at the office with a few minutes to spare before my early morning meeting with Bonita, so I ducked into the ladies room for a quick once-over.
I surveyed my reflection with a critical eye: My dark eyes gazed back at me from my slightly heart-shaped face. A bit of my eyeliner had smudged during my commute, giving me a slightly sleepy appearance, but that was quickly remedied. After applying another coat of lipstick, I gave myself an experimental pout.
Dimly in the back of my mind, I heard one of my sisters chastising my vanity, but I pushed it away as I dropped my lipstick back into my purse. It wasn’t a crime to want to look good at work, I reminded myself.
As if to prove my point, Bonita looked even more elegant and put together than usual that morning; her hair sleek and expertly styled, not a strand out of place. She wore a dark skirt suit that I suspected cost more than I made in a month, as well as designer glasses that almost made me regret my own 20/20 vision.
My mother used to warn me that if I kept reading with a flashlight under the covers, I was going to need glasses, but so far her dire predictions had proven unfounded.
Bonita glanced up as I entered her corner office.
“Give me just a moment,” she said, quickly looking back to her monitor, one perfectly manicured hand tapping an irregular beat against the desk. I nodded, though Bonita was no longer looking at me, and took a seat in one of the plush leather chairs that faced her desk.
I looked around the office, taking in the framed articles, photos, and awards that cluttered the walls. Bonita was a legend in the investigative journalism world, and there were days when I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to work under her. I wondered if I would ever have an office like this, if I could even dream of a career that compared to Bonita’s. Someday, I promised myself then.
After what seemed like an age, Bonita finally looked up, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“It’s no problem,” I assured her. “I know you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for Isabel Perez, my star journalist,” Bonita exclaimed.
Self consciously, I ducked my head, unused to such effusive praise. I felt a warm flush begin to spread up from my neck.
“Don’t be so modest,” Bonita chided gently. “Your piece on that horse trainer out in Wyoming was truly remarkable writing. The reception has been amazing. You should be proud.”
“Thank you, I am,” I assured her. And I was. I had put my heart and soul into my article on Ruby Parker, finding the work to be a welcome distraction from my ailing father, estranged husband, and a mounting pile of bills and student loan debt. Now that the piece was finally published and I was forced to emerge once again into the real world, I was eager for a new distraction. I hoped that was what Bonita had arranged this meeting for.
“Your writing is detailed and compelling,” Bonita continued. “You have a real knack for portraying your subject in such a way that your reader comes away feeling like they really know them. I have every confidence that you’re going to go far in this field.”
My heart fairly glowed at the compliment. “Thank you so much, Bonita. That means a lot coming from you.”
Bonita flashed a quick grin in my direction. “But I didn’t just call you in here this morning to sing your praises, though of course they should be sung. I have another assignment here that I think you would be perfect for.”
Instinctually, I sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”
“How familiar are you with the world of pro wrestling?” Bonita asked.
I felt my brow furrow. A sports piece? I didn’t know anything about sports. Surely Bonita knew that. You didn’t know anything about horse training until a few months ago, either, I reminded myself. You can learn. “Not very familiar at all, I’m afraid,” I admitted. “The nuns at school encouraged more...feminine interests. Do you have any assignments on baking? Or maybe knitting?” I joked.
Bonita didn’t crack a smile. “Does the name ‘The Beast’ ring any bells?”
I frowned, wracking my memory. The name did bring to mind a few dimly remembered tabloid covers from a decade ago. “I think so,” I said. “There was some sort of scandal a few years ago, if I remember correctly.”
Bonita nodded. “He was a pro wrestler. Real name Jacques Martin, from France. Remarkably talented. He rose to stardom incredibly quickly but burnt out just as fast. Drugs and alcohol, of course, as well as a very messy, very public divorce about five years ago. After that, he completely disappeared from the public eye, and no one has heard from him since.” Bonita took a deep breath. “Until now.”
Bonita slid a thick folder across her desk, which I took and flipped through. The first page was a publicity photo of the Beast himself. A massive brute of a man, it was easy to see where his nickname had come from. He stood stiffly, arms crossed over a thickly muscled bare chest, every inch of exposed skin covered in scar tissue and harsh, black tattoos. Dark eyes glowered at the camera from under a hooded brow.
The next photograph was grainier, an obvious photocopy from an old tabloid. The Beast stood toe to toe with a woman almost as tall as him. Even with the poor quality of the photo, I could see the dark fury that raged in his eyes. His teeth were bared as if in a snarl. A shiver ran up my spine at the intensity of his glare. “Beast and Enchantress Arrested After Public Brawl” read the headline.
Bonita continued: “We’ve been offered a unique opportunity to profile The Beast, the first contact he has had with the outside world in half a decade. I want you to cover it.”
I blinked. This was certainly not the type of assignment I’d been expecting. A creeping tendril of self-doubt began to grow inside me. “I appreciate your confidence in me,” I began slowly, “but I have to ask: why me?” I wasn’t naive. I knew that Bonita had taken a chance on me when she’d hired me. With no journalism experience since my college newspaper, my portfolio was thin, almost nonexistent. But I’d seen this job, applied on a whim, and now here I was. It was hard sometimes not to feel totally out of my depth.
Bonita’s expression softened at my question. “I’m sorry, Isabel. I forget sometimes that you haven’t been doing this work for very long. The truth is, you remind me so much of myself when I was just starting out. You came in here for your interview with that intense expression on your face, and I knew I had to have you. Always follow your intuition, Isabel. Mine hasn’t failed me yet.
“In answer to your question, first of all, as I said, you’re an extremely talented writer,” Bonita continued. “But of course, I have many talented writers on my team, and there is another reason I want you for this. You were a substance abuse counselor before you came to us, isn’t that right?”
I nodded. “Seven years.”
“What brought on the sudden career change, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I had developed a rote answer to this question during the time I’d spent interviewing for a new position, but I decided now to give the full, unsanitized truth: “I couldn’t handle other people’s trauma anymore,” I said. “My marriage was falling apart at home, and I wanted my work to be an escape from the chaos, instead of just more of the same.”
Bonita nodded, as if she’d been expecting this answer. “You were experiencing burnout,” she said.
I nodded, and a flicker of the old guilt flamed low in my stomach. It was hard not to feel like a failure, when my clients had depended on me to help them overcome their problems and I’d run away instead.
“That experience is precisely why I want you for this assignment,” Bonita said. “Martin is sober now, and I want a journalist on this who really understands what that means and who can make the audience understand, too. I think that writer is you.” Bonita leveled her gaze on me. “But I do want to make sure that this assignment won’t be in any way detrimental to your own mental health. Can you promise me that, Isabel?”
I was quiet for a moment, remembering the numbness that had gradually taken over the empathy I’d felt for my clients, eventually replaced by impatience, even anger. I had known going into counseling that burnout could happen to anyone, but on some level I guess I’d always thought I would be the exception. When I left counseling, it felt like a surrender. This could be a chance to overcome my past, to put to rest the remaining feelings of guilt that still occasionally kept me up at night. “Yes,” I said finally, “It won’t be an issue.”
Bonita nodded, pleased. “And you yourself don’t drink, is that right?”
“It is,” I said. I had watched my father succumb to alcohol when my mother died, and while he was doing better now, that memory, as well as the struggles I had seen with my former clients, was more than enough to put me off alcohol forever.
“Excellent,” Bonita said. “The Beast has agreed to be profiled on the strict condition that the journalist on the assignment be completely sober. He won’t let them into his home otherwise.” Bonita paused. “I won’t lie to you,” she said. “This won’t be a simple job. Martin is still entirely reclusive, so you’ll need to relocate to his...estate for the duration of the piece. Is that something you’re comfortable with?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t exactly like the idea of leaving my father for possibly several months. Papa had six children, three boys and three girls, but it was me he always depended on, especially since my mother’s death nearly five years ago. But… Luis was still sniffing around, refusing to accept that our marriage was over, that I wasn’t coming back. I had all but given up on him ever signing the divorce papers I’d sent almost a year ago. I had to admit, a few months of Luis being unable to contact me did sound appealing. Maybe then he would finally, finally get the message.
I flipped slowly through the folder in front of me, skimming the information it contained. The Beast had begun his career as a media darling, the subject of glowing fluff pieces and flattering photos. His marriage to a fellow wrestler was treated with all the fanfare of a royal wedding.
But as time went on, the public turned on him as he descended into the world of drugs and alcohol, all meticulously documented by the paparazzi that followed him everywhere. In addition to the publicity photos and tabloid articles, there was also a brief bio on the ex-wife, Agatha, who went by the stage name Enchantress. Never quite as mainstream successful as The Beast, she was still a powerhouse in her own right. After a messy divorce, she had gradually faded from the spotlight as well, though not so dramatically as her ex-husband.
As I kept skimming, I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, he lives in a castle?” I said.
Bonita nodded, grinning. “Complete with full household staff,” she said. “I don’t think living there for a few months would be any kind of hardship for you.”
“A castle,” I repeated, slightly dazed. “Who on earth is this guy?”
“As I understand it, he made some...questionable financial decisions as part of his downward spiral,” Bonita explained. “A lot of the usual: expensive cars, a private plane, and yes, a bonafide castle a few hours west of the city.”
Throughout my perusal of the file, I found myself returning again and again to the second page, the picture of The Beast and his ex-wife. The expression on his face both chilled and fascinated me. “Is he…” I paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, is he dangerous?” I had had enough of dangerous men to last me a lifetime.
“There were never any allegations of domestic abuse, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bonita assured me. I nodded, biting my lip apprehensively. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t dangerous.
A new question suddenly occurred to me: “What changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you say he’s been completely reclusive for five years,” I said. “Why does he want to come back into the public eye now?”
Bonita shrugged. “That’s your job to find out,” she said. “The man essentially disappeared for half a decade, why? What has he been doing all this time? And most importantly, why should we care about him now?”
I still felt uneasy. The file in my hands painted a picture of a man who had been badly, perhaps irrevocably broken, and I knew better than most how fragile a breakdown like that could leave a person, even so many years later.
I couldn’t imagine the demons that would prompt a man to withdraw from society completely, but I knew that a piece like the one Bonita wanted could easily cross the line into exploitation, and that was a line I refused to cross.
As if sensing my hesitation, Bonita dangled her final carrot: “This could be the story that makes your career,” she said. “The Ruby Parker piece was good, but it will be forgotten unless you follow it with something bigger, and quickly.”
I swallowed hard. She was right, I knew. Bonita was always right. Still: “Can I think about it?” I asked. “Just for a little longer?”
Bonita regarded me for a long moment. “Sleep on it,” she said finally. “But don’t wait too long. This could be an amazing opportunity for you, and I don’t want you to waste it, but I will give it to someone else if I have to.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. I thanked Bonita again before leaving her office with the Beast file tucked under my arm. I had the distinct feeling I’d just let Bonita down, but experience had taught me that decisions rashly made rarely worked out in my favor, and I was determined to give this opportunity the consideration it required.
