Strangers in the villa, p.11
Strangers in the Villa, page 11
Curtis can feel the sweat prickling his hairline, but he keeps his cool. “I mentioned that I came in with you. I thought they might remember you because of your Australian accent.”
“You have an accent, too.”
“That’s true.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“As long as you’re not talking behind my back.” Damian’s expression is dark, his tone almost threatening. But Curtis keeps his response light.
“What would I be talking about? I barely know you.”
“Just kidding, mate.” Damian hands him the beer. “Let’s drink these by the pool. I might go for a dip.”
“Good plan,” Curtis says, taking the frosty bottle. Bullet dodged, he follows the big Aussie outside.
23
Sydney and Bianca are in Cadaqués, sitting out front of the bar and casino. Syd drove them back here, parked the Citroën in an overnight lot so she doesn’t need to worry about driving. She can enjoy the goblet of gin and tonic before her, and they can walk up the hill to the house later. The path is steep and could be difficult to navigate in the dark, but she’s not thinking about that now. She’s fully cemented in the present moment.
This is where the locals go for cheap drinks, their tables plunked on the sandy beach, the surf tickling their bare feet. She takes a sip of her boozy beverage, soaks in the collegial atmosphere. Around them, people drink, laugh, even argue, but Syd feels envious of their camaraderie, their joie de vivre. It’s so distinctly European, and it can’t be faked, no matter how hard she tries.
“You drink too slow,” Bianca cajoles, hoisting her heavy glass. Obediently, Syd drinks, enjoying the effects of the gin. She’s beginning to feel bleary and relaxed, the awkwardness of that intimate moment on the beach becoming smudgy and indistinct. She looks at Bianca, smiling and carefree. Sydney doesn’t need to feel uncomfortable about what happened. Or didn’t happen. Bianca makes everything feel okay.
“Let’s go to a club tonight,” Bianca suggests. “We deserve to get fucked-up.”
“There’s a club here?” Syd asks.
“Of course there is,” Bianca teases. “This is a holiday town in Spain. Do you think everyone goes to bed at ten just because you do?”
Syd takes a giddy sip. “I haven’t been to a club in years.”
“Why not? Because your husband won’t let you?”
“No,” Syd answers honestly. “I was never really into that scene. And I guess I feel like I’ve outgrown it.”
“You’re still young,” Bianca gushes. “And you’re so elegant and beautiful. You’ll have guys all over you.” Her eyebrow arches slyly. “Maybe you could even the score with Curtis?”
Syd shakes her head and laughs, because it’s a joke. It must be. “That wouldn’t solve anything.”
“It might be fun, though.”
She forces a game smile, though hooking up with a random stranger in a bar does not sound fun to Syd. It sounds tawdry, and gross, and possibly dangerous. But the sexual thoughts she’s entertained about both Damian and Bianca are not without risks either.
Bianca stands. “I’ll get us another round.” She moves toward the bar before Syd can object. This will be their third drink. They’re too sweet and too strong, and Sydney didn’t eat much at dinner. She’s starting to feel slightly ill and more than a little unsteady. But the thought of getting drunk, of losing herself in a sea of hedonistic strangers in a steamy nightclub, is oddly appealing. And she can’t go home to Curtis. Not right now.
Her eyes drift over the crowd of revelers. There are a range of ages, races, and she hears snippets of various languages: Spanish, of course; some French; and there’s a loud older woman speaking English with a British accent. Syd feels a part of this scene and entirely outside of it. But she’s comfortable, almost carefree in this moment. Or maybe she’s just drunk.
And then she feels a prickle at the nape of her neck, the distinct sense that someone is watching her. She twists in her seat, and her eyes connect with a man’s. He’s leaning against a low rock wall, wearing shorts and a button-up linen shirt. He’s about her age, lean and tanned. His eyes are dark and piercing as they bore into hers. He’s a stranger, but there’s something familiar about him. He raises a cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. It has a white filter.
A chill shudders through her, and the glass trembles in her hand. She sets it down, averts her gaze. Does she know this guy from somewhere? Or does he know her? Her mind scrambles to place his face. Does he resemble Jameson Drew, the man she sent to jail?
Bianca sets two more drinks on the table with a thunk, takes her seat. “Someone’s got their eye on you.”
“He’s giving me the creeps,” Syd whispers. “He’s looking at me like he knows me.”
“Those are come-fuck-me eyes,” Bianca says with a laugh. “You need to relax.”
Syd turns back toward the man, but he’s lost interest in her now. She watches him sidle up to a small table where two attractive women share a bottle of wine. Relief washes over her, and embarrassment. “I need to get out more.”
“You do, babe.” Bianca hoists her heavy glass. “One more drink and then we hit the dance floor.”
The nightclub smells dank and musty, the air thick with sweat and pheromones. Normally, Sydney would struggle to breathe in this close environment, but her anxiety has been obliterated by the effects of the gin. She knows it’s a temporary fix, that tomorrow she’ll likely feel more amped up than usual, but she’s not thinking about that now. She’s just absorbing the thud of the bass, the flashing of the lights, the electronic notes building to a crescendo. She’s high on the energy of the young people gyrating around her. And she’s comforted by the warmth of Bianca’s hand in hers, pulling her toward the dance floor.
When they’re immersed in the crush of bodies, Bianca turns to face her. She lifts her arms in the air, drops her head forward, and moves her body to the music. Syd watches her, rapt and envious. Bianca’s movements are so free, so self-assured. At times, Syd still feels like the tallest girl in her grade, the one none of the boys would dance with. But tonight, nothing matters, no one cares. She lets herself go.
Her hair falls over her face, obscuring her surroundings. She’s alone with the music and the energy and the heat. Sydney is sexy and free, unburdened by the doubt and pain that have been dragging her down. She needed this outlet, this night of alcohol and hedonism.
Bianca’s mouth is close to her ear. “You’re so hot.” Her hands rest on Sydney’s hips, and she feels that same tug of desire. Syd had been shy before, on the beach, but she’s brave now, confident. She reaches out for Bianca, pulls her closer. And then she feels a hand run down her back, two fingers stroking the bare skin of her shoulder. She turns her head.
It’s Damian.
“I found you,” he says, not to Bianca but to her. His strong chest is pressed against her back; his big hands hold her waist. Electricity pulses from his fingertips, and Syd closes her eyes. It’s wrong to feel this way. Syd is married. Damian is with Bianca. But their chemistry is so simple, so undeniable. She’s powerless to stop what’s about to happen.
Bianca watches them, eyes shining, a smile on her lips. She moves closer, hands reaching for Sydney, fingers tracing her cheek, cupping her chin. Bianca leans in and kisses her. Finally. Syd savors the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her breath. Damian’s mouth is on her neck now, the stubble of his cheek against her delicate skin. The juxtaposition of masculine and feminine is confusing and exhilarating and incredible. She turns her body toward Damian, opens her eyes. And then she sees him.
At the edge of the dance floor, Curtis stands alone, watching their entanglement. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are so full of pain. Syd may have thought she wanted to hurt him just like he hurt her, but she can’t do it. No matter what he did in the past. Even if he has been coming on to Bianca… She still cares about his feelings. She still loves him.
She tears herself away from the couple, stumbles toward her partner.
Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session
Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD
July 15
THERAPY PROGRESS NOTES—SESSION 4.
Curtis’s parents clearly had a toxic marriage. Secrets were the norm for him growing up, and he likely became adept at presenting a facade to those close to him. While he’s full of apologies and promises, is he being authentic with his wife? Are his emotions and regrets sincere?
The loss of Sydney’s father when she was just a child has had long-lasting impacts on her. She’s protective of her emotions, wary of being hurt again. She wants to trust Curtis, but she’ll have to overcome significant trauma to be vulnerable with him. And should she?
Will Sydney be emotionally safe if she stays in the marriage?
24
Curtis watches his wife sleep, her head curled into her chest like a little bird, her breath shallow and uneven. Morning light sifts in through the blinds, but she doesn’t stir. She’s going to feel like shit when she wakes up. Syd’s not a big drinker, despite their plans to get into the wine business. He’s never seen her so out of control, even when they were younger. He wonders if Bianca had convinced Syd to take something last night, a party drug to make her drop her inhibitions. Or Bianca might have slipped it into Syd’s drink without her knowledge. Will his partner even remember what she did at the nightclub? How close she came to ruining everything?
His mind drifts to Damian, his role in last night’s debauchery. The two men had had a few beers, Curtis had grilled some steaks and veggies. They were getting along for once. Without the women to impress, Damian had dropped the annoying macho act. He’d been interested and interesting. Maybe he’d gotten the guy all wrong? And then Damian had checked his phone.
“The girls are having drinks in Cadaqués,” he’d said, reading a text message. “They’re heading to a club.”
“Really?” Curtis had scoffed. “Sydney doesn’t go clubbing.”
“I told you Bianca’s convincing.” He’d taken a swig of beer. “Let’s go meet them.”
Curtis had retrieved his phone, but there was no message from Sydney and certainly no invitation. Would she welcome her husband’s surprise appearance? Or did she want to be alone with Bianca?
But Damian had been insistent. “They’re probably drunk,” Damian continued. “They might need help getting home.”
That argument won Curtis over. The car was parked somewhere in town. If Curtis stopped drinking now, he’d be able to drive them back up the hill, ensure everyone got home safely. Before anything regrettable happened. And so he’d agreed to hike down the darkened trail, using their phones as flashlights. Damian brought a beer for the journey, but Curtis was intent on sobering up.
When they’d reached the nightclub—dark, dank, and sweaty—Curtis had gone directly to the bar. “Agua sin gas,” he’d ordered, thirsty from the hike. He’d turned to see if Damian wanted a drink, but his companion had evaporated. With his bottle of water, Curtis had pushed his way through the throng, moving toward the dance floor. And that had been where he’d seen them.
He had no right to be angry at Sydney, not after what he’d done to her. In fact, he’d sometimes wondered if his wife leveling the playing field might allow them to move forward on more even footing. But last night, he’d watched Bianca kiss Sydney on the dance floor, pass her onto Damian like some kind of human present. Curtis had felt sick, angry, and jealous, but he’d pushed down those feelings, stayed motionless on the periphery. And that had been when Bianca’s gaze had found him. And she’d smiled, a smug fuck-you grin. She wasn’t falling in love with Sydney. She was getting off on hurting Curtis. Why?
When Sydney spotted him, she’d extricated herself from the threesome on the dance floor, had stumbled toward him. “Y-you’re here,” she’d stammered, collapsing into his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’d held her for a moment. She’d been trembling and sweaty—from adrenaline, drugs, or guilt, he didn’t know. And then he’d led her through the press of bodies, out of the dank club. Somehow, he’d coaxed the location of the car from her, found the keys in her pocket. He’d driven her home, put her to bed, had lain awake simmering with anger and hatred for their houseguests, who were still out clubbing. They’d have to show up at some point: Their van and all their belongings were here. He would confront them then, tell them to pack their shit and leave, arrange a tow for their van. But eventually Curtis drifted off, exhausted from the mix of intense emotions. The Aussies must have crept in while he was asleep.
Sydney stirs then, rolls toward him. Her eyes flutter open, and he sees the blankness, even confusion in them. It takes a few moments for realization to dawn, the memory to revisit her. Her face crumples. “Oh, Curtis…”
“I’m not angry, Syd. I know I have no right to be.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she says. “I was so drunk. Bianca said…” She trails off, pressing two fingers between her eyebrows. “It’s all fuzzy.”
“Go back to sleep.”
She nods, drops her head back onto the pillow. He leans over, kisses her forehead, and slips from the room.
The house is silent except for the hum of the fridge, the wind rustling through the trees outside the windows. Curtis makes himself a coffee, drinks it standing at the kitchen counter, gathering his courage. The Aussie couple has worn out their welcome. They’re too wild, too flirtatious, too promiscuous. And he can’t forget the look on Bianca’s face last night as she kissed his wife. She was fucking with him. She’s a sadistic bitch.
Curtis strides down the hall to the guest room, knocks on the door. Silence. Tentatively, he pushes it open and peers inside. It’s empty, and the bed hasn’t been slept in. For a moment, he thinks the pair has taken off, left all their belongings behind. But it’s wishful thinking. They wouldn’t abandon all their clothing, a sentimental locket, birth control pills.
Outside, the midmorning heat is already stifling. As he moves down the driveway, he smells burned grass, baked soil. The van is still and silent, but they’re in there. They must be. Curtis knocks on the panel door and waits. There’s no response. He’s about to knock again when the door slides open. Damian emerges, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Fresh and alert.
“Morning, mate.” The greeting is without warmth. Subtly mocking.
“I need a word with you two,” Curtis says.
“Bianca just headed to the pool,” Damian says, sliding the panel door closed behind him. “But you can talk to me.”
They will have this out, man-to-man. Curtis prefers it this way. He doesn’t want Sydney to witness this conversation, and he doesn’t need Bianca chiming in either.
“Last night was pretty fucked-up,” Curtis begins.
“It was just a little fun. Relax, mate.”
“I’m not your fucking mate,” Curtis snarls. He’s so sick of the idiom, and Damian’s overuse of it. “I’d like you two to leave.”
“Why? Because we danced with your wife?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Curtis’s voice is shaky with repressed anger, but he pushes through. “This is my house, and I want you gone.”
“But we’re still waiting on our fuel pump.”
“You can call a tow truck for the van. You can take the bus to Girona.” The adrenaline rush of Curtis’s rage is almost a high. “But you two need to get the fuck off my property.”
For a moment, Damian is speechless. Bullies often respond this way when a target stands up to them. Curtis waits for him to cower and apologize, to admit that what happened last night crossed the line. But a slow smile takes over Damian’s face, and his eyes narrow.
“We’re not going anywhere, buddy.”
There’s no trace of an Australian accent.
Damian and Bianca
25
Damian Walsh had never wanted to live in Butt Fuck, Indiana. He’d been happy living with his mom in Tacoma until he got kicked out of school. He hadn’t started the fight that got him expelled, but he’d finished it by putting the other kid in the hospital with a fractured eye socket. His mom had totally overreacted, deemed him “out of control” and “dangerous.” She didn’t feel safe or comfortable with her own son anymore. So he was shipped off to live with his dad in a small town near the Michigan border.
His dad, Ron, was not happy to see him. “You may have controlled and manipulated your mother, but things are going to be different around here.”
They weren’t different—not for long, anyway. After getting his sixteen-year-old son a busboy job at his golf club, Ron soon got bored with his disciplinarian act. The curfew slipped away, and most of the chores were ignored. His dad was busy with his various investments and scams, juggling it all with a gambling habit and a few girlfriends. Damian was towing the line anyway. His grades were decent. He showed up at work on time. And when he charmed his boss at the golf club into promoting him to waiter, Ron was proud.
“These are the people you need to know,” his dad told him. “They’re the people who run this town.”
Damian bit back a smirk. He didn’t care who ran this ass-backward town. His dad may have been impressed by a bunch of mediocre rubes-done-good with their car dealerships, their farm equipment auction houses, or their Arby’s franchises, but Damian wasn’t. He was meant for more. He had plans. Still, he played along and kissed their asses to make his life easier.
It didn’t take him long to figure out how to skim their credit cards. The good ol’ boys were too arrogant to check their statements, their wives too tipsy from lunchtime martinis to remember if they’d ordered a designer scarf or a pair of gloves afterward. Cybersecurity was lax then. And he was careful with the purchases he made with the stolen numbers, never buying anything that would cause alarm. Most of it he resold, put the money into his “escape” fund. As soon as high school was over, he’d move to France or Italy or Greece. Somewhere with sunshine and beaches and sophisticated people.
