The Devil Wears Girl Jeans [BEING EDITED]

The Devil Wears Girl Jeans (Chapter 13)

“Can you just like, back off for a sec? I know what I'm doing, I've played Cooking Mama and I'm pretty sure i've seen them do this on Hell's Kitchen.” I snapped over my shoulder, in the general direction of Grant.

“You are the most pathetic person I have ever encountered.” he informed me from where he was perched at the kitchen island, while I continued to struggle with the impossible task of boiling water on their ultra-modern stove. I would never be good at cooking, a depressing fact that I had accepted the first time I'd tried to make toast. That had ended horribly, and I had the scars to prove it.

“Hartley, honestly, even Davie knows how to do this, and he's 4.”

I clenched my jaw and continued to randomly hit buttons and turn dials in a sad attempt to get the stove to turn on, while Grant continued to snicker in the background.

“He's 4, and blind in one eye. You are seriously the mo-”

“Grantton Wilk, I don't need your attitude. You better believe I'll throw your cell phone in the garbage disposal if you open your mouth again. Now go do me a favour and lock yourself in your room until your parents get back.”

He left the room muttering something about how I was only a year older than him and how he didn't need a baby sitter, and ended it with a creative insult that roughly translated into “bitch”. I rolled my eyes and glanced back at the oven, ready for round three, when I spotted something so breathtakingly glorious that I nearly cried. In the upper left corner of the stove was a red button, BOIL helpfully printed above it. If only I'd seen that an hour ago, life would've been a hell of a lot easier. Sighing with relief, I poured the package of noodles into the water and watched it boil, feeling like a proud mother.

Of course, my moment of bliss was quickly interrupted by a loud crash from the basement, and I immediately panicked, thinking of all the possible things that could've gone wrong as I sprinted downstairs to where the children had been playing. I prayed it was nothing worse than a black eye, but with the Wilks, you could never be that lucky.

“IT HUUUUUUURTS.” Tristans's 9 year old brother, Wesley, wailed, holding up a bleeding palm. Broken glass was scattered around him, and I recognized it as once being one of those stupid vases that everyones parents always insist on buying and will beat you if you ever break it.

Picking up a screaming Wesley, I quickly made my way over to the basements bathroom, only to see that the door was locked.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I groaned, using my foot to knock on the door. Blood dripped down Wesleys arm and pooled on the carpet, making a steady tempo of soft thuds. “Open the door, or I swear to God, I'll kick it down.” I yelled to whoever was inside, and they responded by snorting. Immediately, I knew it was Grant. No one else was that aggravating and cruel.

“I'm giving you exactly 3 seconds until I open the door myself.” I warned him, and proceeded to count down.

When I got to zero and he hadn't opened the door, I placed the sobbing child onto the floor and backed up a few steps. Using all my strength, I hurtled forward, my shoulder hitting the wood with a loud cracking sound. I stumbled to a stop less than a foot away from an extremely startled looking Grant, and immediately froze, my eyes locked on his face.