“Oh!” I jumped to my feet. “I’m sorry, you startled me. I wasn’t expecting—” I cut myself off. “Hi, I’m Isabel Perez. You must be Mr. Martin.” I held out my hand to shake, and the man regarded it as if I held out a live snake. Awkwardly, I let it drop to my side.
“Jacques, please.” He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. “Do you mind if I…?” He gestured toward the empty chair across from me.
“Of course!” I said. “Please sit.” I returned to my own chair, watching as Jacques lowered himself into the seat, carefully, as if afraid he might break it. Given his size, this wasn’t entirely unlikely.
Up close, the Beast was even more intimidating than he was in the videos I’d watched of him in the ring. He wore a short sleeved t-shirt, tight across the chest, that revealed large, powerful-looking arms covered in swirling black tattoos and jagged scar tissue. But there was something about his body language that belied his fearsome appearance. He moved in short, stiff bursts, holding his arms close to his body. I was intrigued. Was the Beast … shy?
“I’m very glad to meet you, finally,” I said, when Jacques had arranged himself in the patio chair, which appeared comically tiny beneath his bulk.
Jacques nodded. “Are you … comfortable?” he asked. “Is your bedchamber to your liking? I can have Vincent prepare a new room for you, if—”
“My room is perfect,” I assured him. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality. Your home is incredible.”
“Good. That’s good,” Jacques said, his voice gruff. He shifted in his seat, stiff, as if afraid of allowing himself to relax, to get too comfortable. I felt myself soften towards him. Of all the men I’d met since I arrived, he was by far the most different, the most reserved. While the others had gone out of their way to greet me and make me feel at home, he stayed apart. I was intrigued; what would it take to break through his shell? I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, even apart from the article. There was no denying he was attractive, in spite of — or even because of his scars, which gave him a powerful, dangerous look that I found myself drawn to.
He cleared his throat, pulling me away from my fantasies. “I don’t — That is, it’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these. Interviews, I mean. How do you want to start?”
I gave him my most reassuring smile. “We don’t have to start right away. We can just get to know each other a little at first. Do you need anything? Tea? I’m sure Isiah could be persuaded—”
Jacques shook his head, cutting me off. “I don’t need anything,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, with forced brightness. I didn’t know how I was going to conduct this interview, if he was going to insist on answering me as shortly as possible. I would have to engage all my charms if I wanted him to open up. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and placed it on the table. “Do you mind if I record this?” Jacques shrugged, which I took to mean go ahead.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about how you got into wrestling?” I asked. There, that was specific enough that he couldn’t shirk it with a purposefully vague answer, but not personal enough to make him uncomfortable. I saw some tension go out of his shoulders, and silently praised myself for hitting my mark.
“I started wrestling in collège,” he began.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “but I thought you started in high school?”
“Oui,” Jacques said, and I thought I caught the ghost of a smile. “Collège—high school, in English. I was 15 when I began.”
“Through your school?” I asked, and Jacques shook his head.
“Wrestling is not so popular in France. As a nation, we prefer boxing. But there was an American in my home village, an amateur wrestler, and he taught me.”
“What was it that drew you to wrestling, if boxing was so much more popular?” I asked.
This time, Jacques really did smile. “I’ve never been much for doing what was popular,” he said.
“I can see that,” I said, pleased that I had managed to crack his stony exterior. I did notice that he had carefully avoided mentioning what I already knew from Bernard: the bullying and unhappiness that had drawn him to wrestling in the first place. I wondered how I could lead him to share that.
“I competed some in France, but eventually decided I needed more of a challenge. When I was 18, I came here to America.” He hesitated. “I have some pictures,” he said. “If you would like to see.”
“I would love to,” I said, and Jacques disappeared inside, assuring me that he would only be a moment. While he was gone, I reflected on this new development. Jacques Martin was clearly a man who needed to be in control. Perhaps he was resistant to this interview because he wouldn’t be able to direct it. It was going to be difficult to get him to open up about his struggles and the events that had driven him into hiding for the past five years, but I was confident that I could handle it.