The Devil Wears Girl Jeans [BEING EDITED]

The Devil Wears Girl Jeans (Chapter 51)

I sneaked into Seth's room around dinnertime to leave him his secret Santa present, when I knew he would be helping to set the table. I quickly pulled the wrapped stack of old photos out of my jacket pocket and was in the middle of adjusting the bow when I heard to voices of the teenage variety coming down the hall. I panicked and searched the room quickly, my eyes finally resting on the open closet.

“That's so stupid.” Seth muttered from just outside the door, and I hurried to pull a pile of clothes over me before nudging the closet door closed so that I could see them out of the tiny crack, but they couldn't see me.

“What is?” Tristan questioned, and I heard the door handle rattle as one of them opened it.

“Your mother.”

“That's your mother too, you dumbshit.”

There was a loud thump as Seth presumably punched Tristan in the chest, followed by a frustrated groan. I strained to see what was happening, but could only see a brief flash of Seth's army jacket as he sifted through the pile of stuff on his desk.

“My car keys aren't here either. You sure you don't have them?”

“I have my own car, I wouldn't need yours too. Go ask grandma again.”

“I swear I left them in there.” I heard him say as they left the bedroom, and I waited until I could hear the sound of their weight on the stairs before stumbling out of the closet.

I clutched the keys in my pocket guiltily, hoping what I was about to do wouldn't take too long. It wasn't grand theft auto, not really. It was just Seth, and I was going to give them back in four hours, tops. He would survive, there were plenty of other cars he could choose from.

By the time I reached the highway half an hour later, the heat had finally warmed up to a temperature that allowed human survival as opposed to the arctic chill that I'd been forced to put up with when I first got in the car. Unlike Tristan's crap box, Seth's BMW actually had heated seats, so at least there was one positive thing about this trip.

I flicked on the headlights because it was already dark at 6 pm, and cranked the volume on the radio. “Let It Snow” blared through the speakers, and I fumbled with the dial until I found a station that was playing some repetitive pop song. I concentrated on the same five lyrics until the song ended, which provided a good distraction. I did this for the next 30 songs, until I turned the corner and realized I'd arrived. Suddenly all the crappy pop songs in the world couldn't distract me from the feeling that had formed in my gut like a weight.

Every light in the house was off, except for the basement one, and I was so sure I was going to vomit that I actually had to turn towards the bushes just in case. Once the wave of nausea had passed, I straightened up and hesitantly made my way across the lawn to their downstairs door, still not entirely sure of what I was going to say.

I raised my fist to knock, but a voice on the other side made me freeze in my tracks.

“Well if you find my shirt, just call me, okay?” a girl giggled from inside, and there was a shuffling sound before finally Halden answered with, “I don't know, I think I could get used to this look.”