Page 140 of Fire and Bones
Shrugging off her gesture, Maybe Zanetti straightened. Though the cap’s bill kept his upper face in shadow, a taut twist of one corner of his mouth suggested a scowl.
Pink Tips reached up to stroke his cheek.
Maybe Zanetti batted away her wrist.
I needed no audio to know she barked “fuck you.”
Flipping a two-finger bird, Pink Tips stomped to the passenger-side door, yanked it open, and threw herself into the seat. Slamming the trunk, Maybe Zanetti pivoted, body tense as a coiled spring. His shadowed gaze swept the asphalt and the vehicles surrounding the Focus. Hesitated a moment on mine.
A wave of queasiness rose up into my throat.
Had he recognized my Mazda? Seen me?
Wordlessly, Maybe Zanetti folded his very long legs behind the wheel and cranked the car’s engine.
I watched the battered Ford gun from its spot, leaves and pebbles spitting from its badly worn tires.
Shock jockeyed with confusion.
Was the man in the cap really Ivy’s fiancé? Ben Zanetti drove a Range Rover, not a Ford. And he’d told Ivy he’d be away from DC all week.
The curly black hair. The six-foot-six frame. It had to be Zanetti.
And the body language was unmistakable. Zanetti and Pink Tips were quarreling, but her gesture made it clear they were more than just friends.
Anger surged up from my chest and pounded in my temples.
The bastard was two-timing Ivy with a pierced and bleached bimbo half his age.
Closing my eyes, I did a full minute of yogic breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Images of Ivy and Zanetti together did slow somersaults across my mind: snuggling in a single lounger while watching late-night TV, frying eggs and bacon at the stove, laughing at peas spilled on the kitchen floor.
All the way home I debated what to do.
Tell Ivy that the love of her life was a deceitful son of a bitch? Keep quiet and hope she discovered his cheating on her own?
I liked neither option.
The house was still as a church on a Tuesday morning.
No Lan.
No Zanetti.
Chuck was busy doing whatever it was he did with his shredded newspaper. He abandoned the project when I appeared and set his chow on the floor by his cage.
“Do I tell her?” I asked.
His whiskers did something probably meaningful to him.
“You’re right. But what if the guy wasn’t Zanetti?”
One furry ear flicked. The rodent equivalent of lifting an “I’d be careful” brow?
To take my mind off thoughts of kicking Zanetti’s nads into his brainpan, I climbed to my room, got online, selected the Tripadvisor icon in my bookmarks, and entered the keywords “inns,” “lodges,” and “Washington DC.” Found nothing that appealed to me.