The drainpipe was narrow and worn smooth with age, wind, and weather, but I gripped the stone with my fingers and toes and scurried up it like a chipmunk climbing a tree. Nothing I hadn’t done before. In fact, this drainpipe was much sturdier than many I’d snuck up on my jobs for Mo. Besides, it was better to see how fast I could climb it now, when nobody was chasing me. It was always good to think ahead.
It didn’t take me long to climb from one level to the next and reach this part of the mansion roof. I hooked one leg over the iron railing that separated the roof from the steep drop below, then the other one before letting go of the drainpipe. Grinning, I swung there for a moment, like a kid hanging upside down on a monkey bar, before pulling myself upright and perching on the railing.
This section of the roof formed a terrace that was open on three sides and overlooked the mountain below. At the top of the terrace, a couple of lawn chairs sat close to the iron railing, along with an open cooler filled with bottles of water and juice embedded in ice. Old-fashioned iron streetlights towered at each one of the four corners of the terrace, and a hammock had been strung up between one of them and the wall.
But the most interesting thing was the elaborate series of metal pipes that jutted out from the wall, almost like construction scaffolding. The iron pipes zigzagged this way and that, reminding me of some elaborate jungle gym, especially since punching bags of different shapes and sizes dangled from some of the posts.
Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Thud.
Someone was working the heavy bag in the middle of the pipes, which accounted for the sounds. The bag swung toward me, and a fist plowed into it from the side, sending it spiraling away once again.
And that’s when I saw him.
Devon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He was wearing black gym shorts and a T-shirt that stretched tight across his muscled chest. His green eyes blazed, and his mouth was an unforgiving slash. He must have been hitting the bag for a while, because sweat had beaded at his temples, turning his hair more black than brown in places. It looked good on him, though. I was beginning to think everything looked good on Devon Sinclair.
The bag arced back toward Devon, and he hit it with a brutal one-two combo, then another one . . . then another . . .
He kept hitting the bag over and over again, working himself to the point of exhaustion. But he kept slamming his fists into it, even as his punches started to lose a little bit of their brutal pop. And I realized something about Devon, something that his quiet exterior had hidden so far.
He was fierce.
And I liked it.
I liked him.
Much more than I should have.
I should have climbed back down the drainpipe, but I stayed where I was and watched him, admiring the bunch and flex of his muscles, his quick, precise footwork, and the way he kept his gaze focused on the bag, as though it were a real enemy. Devon could definitely hold his own in a fight.
He showed no signs of stopping his assault on the bag, so I decided to end it for him.
“I think you’ve killed it already,” I called out.
Startled, Devon let the bag swing back toward him instead of hitting it again. He grabbed it and peered around the side. His mouth turned down at the sight of me.
“Oh. Lila.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t sound so glum about it.”
He shrugged, headed over to the cooler, and grabbed a bottle of water, again making the muscles flex in his arm. Yeah, I totally ogled that part of him once more—along with his chest, shoulders, and legs. All of him, really. Devon was definitely easy on the eyes, and I was all too happy to take advantage of that.
He straightened back up. “You want something?”
“If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I never pass up free food or drink. A water would be great.”
He tossed me a bottled water, then plopped down in one of the lawn chairs. He stared out into the darkness before putting his foot up against the second chair and sliding it toward me.
“You can sit.” He hesitated. “If you want.”
This time, I was the one who hesitated, but I didn’t have anything better to do. At least, that’s what I told myself as I went over to him. It wasn’t because some strange part of me wanted to know more about him. No way. Not at all.
The chair squeaked when I sat down, but it held my weight. Devon propped one foot up on the railing. I did the same, and we sat there in silence, drinking our water and staring down at the flashing lights of the Midway.
“So,” I finally said. “This is your hideout? Your super-secret clubhouse?”
“Something like that.”
“I like it.”
He grunted.
We kept drinking our water. The view from the roof was even more impressive than the one from my balcony, especially since the fireflies had come out for the night, their quick yellow flares adding to the rainbow glow from the Midway.
I was happy to sit and enjoy the view, but Devon kept glancing my way.
“What?” I asked. “Do I have a bug in my teeth?”
“No. It’s just that Felix is the only other person who ever comes up here. You’re much quieter than he is.”
“You mean I’m not running my mouth like I’m driving a racecar. That boy never shuts up.” I rolled my eyes. “I bet he even talks in his sleep.”
Devon’s lips curved into a smile, and he let out a low laugh—the first deep genuine laugh I’d heard from him. Such a simple sound, but it completely transformed him. In an instant, he went from scowling at the stars to that hot spark flaring in his eyes. The one I found much too interesting for my own good. And I realized that I liked making him laugh, I liked seeing that spark. Devon took life way too seriously. He needed to lighten up. If nothing else, that would make the next year I was stuck here far more pleasant.
But his laughter faded away, and he eyed me again. “Why did you come up here?”
“I was out on my balcony, and I heard you murdering the bag. So I decided to investigate.”
He glanced at the wall. “But how did you get up here? I locked the door behind me.”
“Drainpipe.”
His eyebrows furrowed together. “Drainpipe? You climbed up the drainpipe? From your balcony? But that’s, like, four stories.”
I not-so-modestly shrugged. “It’s a thing I do.”