Page 42 of Only the Devil
“You don’t agree?” Ned asks me.
I shrug. “You only start a kill list at the bottom if you need intel to climb it.” They all stare at me with bugged out eyes. “What? Didn’t you watch the Terminal List?”
Carson lifts his boba drink and aims his wide-mouthed straw in my direction. “I like her.”
Eager to tell Jake about lunch and the wild theories floating through the office, I unlock the door to the condo and am greeted with a tantalizing scent, but no one’s in the kitchen.
“Jake?”
“Out here,” he calls from the balcony.
I drop my bag by the kitchen island, toe off my clunky boots, and step out in socks onto the balcony to find Jake standing before a small grill pushed up against the wall. Sliced peppers and onions sizzle on a tray and two raw seasoned filets sit on a plate to the side.
The sun hangs low over the skyline, painting everything in honey and amber. Jake’s golden highlights catch the light as he leans over the grill, and the smoke rises in lazy spirals. Below us, the urban sprawl stretches out in a grid of glass and shadow, and the lingering sun’s rays twinkle against the office windows.
The sounds of an exodus of commuters drifts from below—distant traffic humming like white noise, the occasional car horn, the rumble of a train somewhere in the distance. A siren wails briefly and fades. It should feel impersonal, but somehow it makes our small balcony feel like a private island floating above it all.
“Smells good,” I say, taking it all in. Whatever’s on the grill has been marinated in something with garlic and herbs—rosemary, maybe thyme. It’s nothing like the sterile, climate-controlled air inside the building. This smells like...home. Like the kind of home I never had.
“Perfect timing,” he answers with a smile over his shoulder.
“Are you allowed to grill out here?” I mean, I haven’t seen any signs telling us not to, but I’m pretty sure back in LA we weren’t allowed to grill on our balcony, but then again, we were renters. Maybe if you own, you’re given more leeway, but I doubt it. A fire risk is a fire risk.
“Who’s going to turn us in? This place is a ghost town after work. Haven’t you noticed? The parking garage is mostly vacant. I’ve never run into anyone in the elevator.”
I suppose he’s right.
“Grab a beer and take a load off. Don’t worry. If someone says something, we’ll beg forgiveness.”
“Ask forgiveness, not permission? That’s your motto?”
“One of many.” He smacks his lips and grins.
“You want a beer?” I ask, noticing he doesn’t appear to have one.
It’s summer, and we’ve still got hours of daylight left, but the temperature’s descent from the muggy height of the summer day has begun.
“I’ll take one. Was holding off ‘til you got home.”
I bring out two long-neck beers from the fridge, and he clicks his glass against mine before taking a swig. The beer is ice-cold, bitter, and refreshing.
I kick back on a chair and watch as he forks a filet, checking the underside. The breeze carries just enough coolness to make the warmth from the grill feel perfect against my skin. I peel off my socks and curl my bare toes against the concrete, still warm from the day’s heat. The metal chair is cool against my back through the thin fabric of my dress.
“I could get used to this,” I say.
Since getting here we’ve eaten out every night, and Jake’s paid, saying it’s on KOAN, but having someone cook for me at home is nice too.
He moves around the small space with economy, no wasted motion. The grill tools are positioned like weapons in easy reach. Even relaxed, he maintains awareness—his eyes scanning the street and the offices across the way.
I watch the muscles in his forearms flex as he works the grill tongs, the way his T-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. The evening air carries his scent—something clean and male and distracting. I force myself to look away, focusing on the horizon instead, and then a thought occurs to me. “Was that grill here yesterday?”
“Nope. I’m good on the grill, but not so much in the kitchen. Walmart’s not far. And we have to celebrate.”
“What exactly are we celebrating?”
“Yours truly got a job offer today.”
My thoughts go back to lunch. “They offered you a security position?”
