42
Moments after Bianca spat in his face, Curtis had jumped in his car and taken off.
He had no destination in mind, but he couldn’t stay at the house and play nice with the two grifters camping in his driveway.
When Sydney woke up and found him gone, she would worry and wonder.
But after her behavior on the dance floor last night, she’d blame herself.
She’d assume Curtis had gone somewhere to lick his wounds.
She had no reason to suspect that their guests were scammers who were trying to destroy him.
As he shifted gears at a roundabout, Curtis berated himself for his gullibility.
He’d known it was too much of a coincidence that the pair had broken down so close to the house, but the Australian accent had thrown him off.
There was no way a couple of Aussie travelers could have any dirt on him.
Still, it had felt wrong in his gut. He hadn’t wanted to invite them in.
He certainly hadn’t wanted them to stay.
He’d done it for Sydney. And now, thanks to them, he could lose her.
“Fuck!” He smacked the steering wheel with his palm.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” This move to Spain was supposed to wipe the slate clean.
The mess he’d been involved in back in New York was not supposed to follow him here.
Emotion was building in his throat, tears threatening his vision, but he’d already spent the morning falling apart.
He’d taken the wooded path toward town and sobbed, wailed, and cursed his bad luck.
Now it was time for action. He would protect the life he and Sydney had built, at all costs.
The exit to Roses loomed ahead, and he took it, winding down the hill toward the seaside resort community.
He hadn’t planned to stop here, but it was a good place to blend in, to be another anonymous tourist. Roses was larger than Cadaqués, full of high-rise hotels and lively bars.
He’d get a drink to calm his nerves and figure out how to make his problems go away. One way or another.
He parked the car in a lot and bought a ticket, stuck it on his dashboard.
He walked with purpose along the main strip, stopping at a small tourist bar, a cluster of empty tables out front.
Suddenly, he remembered his sweaty, bedraggled appearance, his eyes bloodshot from crying.
But the attractive waitress didn’t bat an eye at him when he sat down and ordered a double margarita.
As he waited for his drink, Curtis revisited Damian’s blackmail threat.
The fake Australian claimed to have in his possession a compromising video of Curtis, but he refused to show it.
Curtis knew a video of him existed. The footage had already been used against him once.
How the hell did Damian and Bianca get their hands on it?
They were likely bluffing. Could he call them on it?
Risk them showing it to Sydney or making it public?
The drink arrived, and he took a grateful sip.
It was tart and strong, just what he needed.
After a couple of gulps, the tequila softened his anxiety, blunted his rage.
It allowed him to assess the situation more calmly.
Curtis was not a bad man. He’d made some serious mistakes, become entangled with some evil people, but he was not a killer.
Damian and Bianca had gotten it all wrong.
He needed them to listen and be reasonable, to let him explain.
But he could never explain what he’d done to Sydney.
Emotion clogged his throat again, so he took another drink and forced himself to swallow it.
An affair Sydney could understand, eventually forgive.
But what Curtis had done was much more complex, more nuanced.
His wife existed in a world of rights and wrongs, of law and order.
She’d defended rapists and murderers and con artists because it was due process, because she believed they deserved to be punished fairly. But punished nonetheless.
The last swallow of tequila washed away the emotions, and he focused on the business at hand.
Damian and Bianca needed to go away before they could talk to Sydney.
The easiest way to make that happen would be to pay them off.
He signaled the waitress for another drink and perused the banking apps on his phone.
Calculating in his head, he added up his checking, savings, and a handful of investment accounts.
If he was willing to liquidate everything—which he wasn’t—he’d still be short.
There was no way he could convince Sydney to sell the house.
Even if he could, it could take months to sell.
Five million was a ridiculous ask, even if he had killed someone.
Sydney had some money from her mother, but he couldn’t get his hands on it without arousing her suspicion.
And it would only be a drop in the bucket.
He considered applying for a bank loan, but he had no credit history in Spain and no job.
Even if he were approved, no bank would give him a huge lump sum within a week.
He knew about hard money loans, high-interest loans secured by valuable property.
But when Curtis inevitably defaulted on his payments, they’d seize his house and his car. Syd would have questions, obviously.
The second drink arrived, and he drank heartily, licked the salty rim.
Curtis had plenty of friends with money back in New York, but he couldn’t ask them for help.
He’d cut ties so completely after leaving the country.
And calling for an urgent loan was desperate and pathetic.
It meant admitting that he was a fuck-up, that his life was on a precipice.
They’d all talk and speculate, but they’d be judging his failings.
Moving to Spain and opening a winery had been met with eye rolls by plenty of them.
Begging for money would be admitting he’d been delusional. That he’d failed.
That left Simon, his former partner, his former friend.
Simon knew the mess Curtis had left behind in New York.
He was angry, he felt betrayed, but they also had a history.
Simon had known him since college; he knew Curtis was a decent guy who got caught up in something beyond his control. It was worth a shot.
Curtis finished his drink and signaled for the bill. As he waited, he checked his voicemail. It had to be Sydney, wondering where he’d gone, asking him to pick up milk or painkillers or toilet paper. But he heard her voice, full of emotion.
“I just want it to be you and me again… I love you.”
His throat tightened. They were the words he’d been longing to hear from Syd, but were they coming too late? No. Because he was going to fix this.
He strolled along the seaside path again, rehearsing his script.
He knew the best way to spin the story, the narrative most likely to elicit the desired outcome.
After about ten minutes, he felt ready. It was midmorning in New York.
Simon would have been at his desk for hours.
He got up at 4:30 each morning to run on the treadmill, then headed to the office by 6:00.
(He was one of those guys who did cold plunges and ate one meal a day.) Curtis swallowed deeply and dialed.
His friend answered on the second ring. “What do you want, Curtis?”
“I need some help. I’m sorry to ask, but I have nowhere else to turn.”
“Why would I help you after the mess you left me in?” Simon snapped.
“I’m being blackmailed,” Curtis explained. “There’s a video of me that casts me in a bad light.” He cleared his throat, went in for the kill. “It would reflect badly on the business if this footage was made public.”
“Are you threatening my business now?” Simon’s voice was a growl. “You really are a piece of shit.”
“It’s not a threat, Simon, it’s a fact. My name’s still on the masthead.”
“It’s nothing a good crisis PR team can’t handle,” Simon retorted, and it was clear he’d thought about this eventuality. “We already put out a press release that you’re no longer part of the company.”
“You know me, Simon.” Curtis’s voice hitched. “I made some mistakes, but I’m not a bad guy.”
Simon’s voice dripped with contempt. “You deserve whatever happens to you, Curtis. You lay down with dogs, you get fleas.”
“I did it for the company!” he cried into the phone. “I did it for both of us!”
“Fuck you.” And Simon hung up.
Anxiety seeped through the tequila fog, making Curtis’s heart race, his vision blur.
He stepped off the sidewalk, onto the sandy beach, and stumbled toward the water’s edge.
He stared out at the sea, the sun glinting off the turquoise water, and felt an overwhelming fatigue.
His bone marrow had turned to lead, and he sank to his knees in the damp sand, dropped his head to his chest. For a moment, he considered weeping, but there were toddlers in the water, which meant their parents were nearby.
He stood, collected himself, focused on his final option.
There was one more person he could call, a man with a vested interest in helping him make this problem go away.
The thought made him feel sick and scared, but it was his only hope.
He couldn’t call this man after drinking tequila on an empty stomach, though. He needed to be stone-cold sober.
Curtis dragged himself off the beach and went to get a coffee.