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?”

Tags: Nicole Casey Seven Ways to Sin Fantasy
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