Breaking the Beast by Nicole Casey
Étienne
“Thank you,Bonita, you’ve been very helpful,” I said.
“You’re more than welcome,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Isabel is a talented young writer, and I have every confidence in her.”
Thanking Bonita again, I hung up the phone and turned to the window, heart pounding hard in my chest. This could work. It could really work.
Relax, I reminded myself. Don’t get too excited. Remember the last time.
I knew it was a mistake to get too hopeful, but still. My fingers tapped an anxious beat against my desk. It had been so long. So long since we’d had any kind of companionship, any contact with the outside world. I was starting to get desperate. We all were.
This girl, this journalist, could be the answer to our problem. Or she could cause even more, like the last one.
Bleakly, I recalled how hopeful we had all been when she’d shown up. Bridget. When we’d found her on that dating app, we should have known that she was too good to be true. She’d shown up, and immediately, things had started to fall apart. It was like she took some kind of perverse pleasure in setting us against each other. Instead of bringing us closer together, she wedged herself in between the seven of us, pushing us further and further apart. Towards the end, we could barely be in the same room as one another, and Jacques … Well, we’d almost lost Jacques.
This girl would be different, I was sure of it. Well, almost sure. I knew that Bernard had misgivings. Of the six of us, he had known Jacques the longest, and was the most protective. It wasn’t worth the risk, he would say. I understood his hesitance, but we had to try. The potential reward outweighed the risk. It wasn’t good for Jacques, being cooped up in this castle for so long. It wasn’t good for any of us.
We needed someone to help us release this tension.
But it had to be the right someone. Bridget had taught us that. She needed to be strong, kind, open-minded, and of course, adventurous. She needed to be able to handle all of us. Someone young who was looking for something fun, without getting too attached. And finally, she had to be sober. Jacques hadn’t allowed a drop of alcohol to pass through his doors in five years now. It was a sacrifice, to be sure, but that wasn’t the aspect of the outside world that those of us in the castle missed the most.
When the six of us entered the castle under Jacques’ employment, we agreed to stay confined to the castle grounds. At first, Jacques’ sobriety was simply too fragile to have constant comings and goings.
“I think it would be best for us to all stay on the grounds for the time being,” Bernard had told us. “If he leaves the castle, I don’t know what he’ll do. And it would be too hard for him to watch us come and go if he can’t.”
That had seemed more than reasonable at the time. All of us wanted Jacques healthy and safe, and we were willing to give up a modicum of personal freedom to ensure it. But then “for the time being” had become five years, and Jacques’ insistence that we all remained by his side seemed more of a compulsion than a real need. I sometimes wondered if he was afraid that if we left, we wouldn’t come back. Over the years, Jacques had convinced himself that he needed all of us by his side in order to stay sober. I wasn’t convinced, but Jacques’ sobriety was too precious to risk.
Still, there were aspects of the outside world that I missed, and I suspected, deep down, that Jacques missed them too. He was just too scared to admit it, but I wasn’t about to give up on him. Jacques would be hesitant, but I knew he needed this more than any of us.
I thought back on my phone call with Bonita, about her young writer. Isabel Perez. I did a quick Google search and found a few of her recent articles. Under her byline, a headshot of a young Latina woman gazed back at me from my screen, and my heart beat faster as I examined her. She really was beautiful, much more so than Bridget. Milky brown skin, heart-shaped face, high eyebrows arching over intelligent eyes. But it was her lips that drew most of my attention. Full and pouty, they practically begged to be kissed. I imagined those lips closing around my cock and groaned. Five years was a long time to remain celibate.
I pushed the image away. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I needed to make sure she was the right fit. I couldn’t let the wrong person in, not again. I settled in to do my research. If I was going to convince Bernard and, more importantly, Jacques that this was right, I needed to be sure.
An hour or so later, I shut my laptop, confident that this time, we had found the right girl. It was time to bring in the rest of the group.
Dinnertime in the castle was a generally pleasant affair. All of us men gathered together after a long day of work and enjoyed each other’s company, not to mention Isiah’s excellent cooking. Our conversations shifted easily between French and English, almost without our noticing.
This particular night was no different than any other, but I knew that everyone else could sense that I had something to discuss. An air of breathless anticipation hung over us.
Alexandre, whose work in the garden left him ravenous most days, tucked into his potatoes with great appreciation. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Isiah,” he said. The rest of us murmured our agreement. Isiah beamed at our praise, his dark eyes sparkling.
When everyone was served, I cleared my throat. “It’s starting to get colder these days.” The men around the table turned to me, brows raised. Certainly we weren’t so stumped for conversation that I would resort to something as banal as the weather? Undeterred, I went on: “I always thought that a good woman was the best way to keep warm through the cold winter nights.”
Understanding dawned on five faces, and we all turned as a group to gauge Jacques’ reaction. He continued eating, as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s interesting,” he said finally. “I’ve always found a goose down duvet more than serviceable.”
Raphael, the youngest of the six of us, joined in tentatively. “Étienne is right,” he said. “It may lack the romanticism of spring, but winter is by far the best time for love.”
Jacques snorted. “Are you a poet now, Raf?” he asked. Raphael flushed to the roots of his wavy brown hair.
“Jacques, listen, s’il vou plaît,” I glanced around the table at my friends, willing them to have my back. “I know it didn’t work out before.”
Jacques snorted. “That’s quite an understatement,” he said.
“But an opportunity has come up,” I continued, ignoring him. “One that I think deserves our serious consideration. Adjust Magazine wants to do a story on you, and they’re willing to send a journalist to stay with us for some time. A female journalist.” Jacques was already shaking his head, but I pushed forward. “Before you say anything, just hear me out. I’ve researched this writer, Isabel Perez, and I believe she’s perfect for us. She’s smart, sexy—and recently separated from her husband, so we don’t have to worry about her growing too attached to any one of us.”
At this, Raphael stared down at the table, flushing. Bridget’s obvious preference for him had been no small part of why that arrangement had failed so spectacularly. Next to him, Alexandre patted him on the back comfortingly.
“Here,” I said, reaching for my phone. “Let me show you her picture. Then you’ll see—”
Jacques rose to his feet, jostling the table. Several of us reached out to steady our water glasses. “This is absurd,” he said. “It will never work. But if you all want to waste your time, far be it from me to stop you.” With that, he stormed out.
Vincent half rose to follow him, but Bernard caught his eye and shook his head slightly. “He’ll calm down,” Bernard said with the assurance that came from several decades of close friendship. He turned to me. “Étienne, are you sure about this girl?”
I nodded. “She’s not like the last one. Just look at her.” I handed Bernard my phone, and the rest of the men crowded around his shoulder to look.
Alexandre let out a low whistle. “She is something,” he said, reaching for the phone. Bernard knocked his hand away.
“She’s a former substance abuse counselor. Sober,” I said, and Bernard nodded appreciatively. “She recently published an article on a horse trainer out in Wisconsin that’s generating some buzz. She is an excellent writer, and, if nothing else, I think her piece on Jacques would be fair and compelling.”
Bernard nodded slowly, handing my phone back to me. I took one last glance at Isabel before pocketing it. “She does sound promising,” he allowed. “And she’s agreed to this?”
“She has,” I said. “I just heard from Bonita, the magazine editor, tonight.”
Bernard was silent for a long while. I held my breath. I knew how much he worried about Jacques, but I prayed that he could see that allowing Jacques to continue to lock himself away could be just as harmful as pushing him out into the world.
“All right,” Bernard said finally. “It’s worth a shot.”
Raphael let out a muted cheer, which was quickly hushed.
“On one condition,” Bernard said. He pointed to me. “You have to be the one to tell Jacques.”
