A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) Page 3

  None of it really matters though. Technically, Cole and I are still together even though there are, roughly, twenty-five-hundred miles and three months of time separating us. Our conversations have gone from nightly to weekly and it’s possible the only reason I’m holding onto him is so that I can play the, I have a boyfriend card. The bigger issue with Angel is his strong aversion to commitment. He believes high school relationships are a waste of time and prefers to focus on himself and his future.

  It dawned on me one night that Angel’s relationships are not so different from Nash’s- they both prefer sex with no strings attached. Which was a shocking revelation considering I loathed one and was crushing on the other. But there’s a difference, I now realize. A big one. Angel respects women. And his relationships are two sided; both parties aware and in agreement that it’s strictly physical. And Angel keeps his private life private. He doesn’t flaunt his conquests. He doesn’t even talk about them, actually.

  The point is, it’s never gonna happen with Angel. Even if I was willing, he’s not – he doesn’t have sex with virgins. A fact he shared with Tatum and she passed on to me. Yes, I’m a virgin. Shocking, I know.

  My phone dings from my pocket. I pull it out and look at the text from an unknown number:

  Meet me at my locker

  Who is this?

  Your photography partner

  Oh, hell. “I’ll see you later,” I tell Tatum, grabbing my tray and standing.

  “You riding with me to work?”

  “Yes, please,” I tell her before turning and exiting the cafeteria.

  As I cross the commons, I pass Summer. She gives me a sympathetic look and I give her one right back. Whatever’s going on with her and Nash is weird. At lunch or in any other group setting they act like they don’t know each other. But their quiet, intimate moments in the halls or by their lockers have not gone unnoticed by the entire school and I wonder if Tatum’s wrong about her – maybe she’s not as smart as everyone believes.

  Nash comes into view; leaned up against his locker, arms crossed, a pissed off expression on his face.

  “I don’t even want to hear the words. I’m stuck with you. I know. Please don’t say it.”

  His expression softens and he looks at his feet like he’s trying to hide the grin on his face. He peeks up, looking into my eyes. “A whole semester of this, huh?”

  “Meaning what?” I ask, my arms crossed over my chest now too like we’re in a standoff.

  He cocks his head at me and stares for a few uncomfortable moments like he’s trying to figure me out. “Is it possible that we could start over… pretend like we don’t know each other?”

  “We don’t know each other.” I point out the obvious.

  “Exactly. So why do you hate me so much?”

  “Really? Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  He cringes, then says, “No. Not really. But I think you should anyway.”

  “For starters, there was that small incident where you grabbed my wrists, pinned me to a wall and told me that if I were willing to show my body off I might get laid which, according to your genius mind, would cure me of my bitchiness.”

  He cringes further and looks everywhere but at my eyes. “Did I ever apologize to you for that?”

  “Do you ever apologize for anything you do?”

  He looks at me now. “Good point. Can I do it now?”

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I had no right putting my hands on you. People tell me you’re not as bad as I think you are and they’re probably right.”

  I laugh. “That was your apology?”

  “Um… yeah?”

  “Try again. This time, omit the insult.”

  “Shit,” he mutters, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry, it’s second nature- the words Presley and insult go hand in hand.”

  “Strike two,” I inform him.

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again he’s staring right at me with all kinds of intensity on his face. It makes me nervous. “I think we got off to a bad start. I get why you don’t like me – I was stupid enough to have sex with your cousin, and I did that while I was dating one of your best friends. And from the second you met me you’ve been calling me out on my crap which, please don’t take this as an insult, is annoying as all hell. So yeah, I’ve been defensive with you. And honestly, I kind of hated you. And I did blame you when Tatum left which was wrong. I’m sorry. For everything. Today in class, I realized as you spewed all the messed up thoughts in your head, that I don’t actually know you. I don’t know anything about you. And it would be helpful if you realized that you don’t really know me either.”

  I’m speechless for a moment. Who is this guy? I may not know him, but I know one thing – he never takes responsibility for his mistakes. Never. And, as far as I can tell, all he is is one big walking mistake. But I think he just took responsibility for the way he’s treated me… and admitted he was wrong. It’s possible that I don’t know him. Highly doubtful, but possible. “Okay,” I tell him.

  “Okay?” he smirks.

  “Yes. Okay. I will be open to the idea that I don’t know you. I will try my hardest to treat you like a human being when forced to be with you. I’ll do my best to get through this semester of assignments with an open mind. But if it turns out that you are exactly who I think you are – a selfish manwhore with limited brain cells who only sees women as gaping vaginas, then we’re gonna have a problem.”

  He’s trying hard to hide his smile. I can tell by the tight press of his lips and the way his eyes are shining and the skin around them is crinkling. “If this is just another joke to you, Nash, then please just skip this whole misunderstood martyr act and come clean with me because I’m not about to embark on some twisted mind game while stuck in all the semen-soaked landscapes of your life.”

  He shakes his head, “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, the amusement still trying to hide behind all his features. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “Treat me with respect. Stop your eyes from wandering to my breasts every few seconds. Understand that this class is important to me and I will be taking every assignment seriously and I’m gonna expect you to do the same.”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  “Well then you shouldn’t have asked it. A rhetorical question is an oxymoron and, you might want to jot this down, I don’t do well with any kind of morons.”

  He lets out an exasperated breath. “Got it,” he tells me while turning and walking away from me, his hand raised in dismissive gesture. “See ya in class tomorrow.”

  His tone sounds exactly like how I feel – aggravated, defeated, completely and totally annoyed.

  3

  My head is aching like it always is after fourth period. Spending an hour in Presley’s personal, tense, toxic space is bad for my brain.

  When I told her I was gonna try… to not hate her… I wasn’t lying. I thought I could knock down her wall of defensiveness and find that vulnerable girl who confessed exactly how screwed up her life is. But nope, haven’t seen her. Not even for a second.

  I rub my temples and pinch my eyes closed. When I open them, Summer’s staring at me from across the cafeteria table with concern on her face. I take out my phone and text her.

  Don’t worry it’s just Presley

  Summer looks at her phone then back up at me with a smile. She finds this whole situation amusing. She, like a lot of other blind people in this school, loves the girl. She finds her to be hilarious and thinks her aversion to me is good for my ego.

  Don’t look at me like that

  She’s not cute

  She texts me back a frowny face emoji. I turn my phone off.

  Ignoring Summer, I turn my attention to the other end of the table where Presley is sitting with Angel. She’s smiling and laughing. He’s playing with a chunk of her lo
ng, black hair. It’s a little shocking that she’s letting him touch her. As far as I can tell, she’s the world’s number one man hater. I watch as her long nails rake over the back of his head and her fat, red lips pout at whatever he’s said to her. From a distance, as an observer, she looks normal. Like an actual girl with actual emotions who has it in her to care about someone.

  I repeat the words that I grasped onto when I realized that I was gonna be stuck with her all semester: She’s not who I thought she was and I’m gonna try to get to know her. Which, in theory, was a good idea. Except for one problem; she seems absolutely hell bent on not letting me get to know any side of her besides the snarky, demeaning one I already knew.

  Which should be no sweat off my back, but it bugs me. Everyone likes me. Most people love me. Charming is a word that’s often used to describe me. Even the people I’ve treated like absolute crap can’t seem to resist me. I mean, hell, Tatum and I are even friends again. So I guess it’s a challenge I’ve unconsciously accepted – trying to get her to like me. Or, at the very least, not completely despise me.

  I look back at Summer who glances down at my phone that’s sitting on the table. Grudgingly, I pick it up and turn it back on.

  Did you do something to piss her off?

  I laugh out loud at that.

  I’ve been playing by all her rules... haven’t even glanced at her tits all week

  Summer puckers her lips, thinking.

  Maybe you need to try a new approach?

  …… is my response.

  She glances down the table at Angel and Presley.

  I think she likes him

  You think Captain Obvious?

  She rolls her eyes at her phone.

  Maybe you could give her some tips… you know on guys seeing how you’re one of them

  Again, I’m laughing out loud.

  I’m absolutely positive she WOULD NOT appreciate that

  She looks at them again, then at me, then at her phone.

  Do you know why she likes him?

  No clue… into geeks?

  He’s so not a geek, at least not in a bad way

  I look at Summer and raise a questioning eyebrow. She bulges her eyes at me in return.

  So why does she like him?

  Pretty sure it’s his personality

  Should I be insulted by that comment?

  No

  I love your personality

  But she doesn’t

  Maybe you can be less of a guy and more of a friend

  I huff out an annoyed breath at my phone.

  I’ve stopped staring at her tits

  What more do you want from me?

  She rolls her eyes again.

  Forget it

  With that, she puts her phone away, tells her friends goodbye, and exits the cafeteria.

  Well that was not helpful.

  Presley and I are working on our first assignment tonight. I suggested we start in her bedroom, she suggested we look into my future landscapes at the local prison, I compromised and said we could start at her work, she said we have to save that for a Sunday when she’s not in one of her slutty uniforms, I told her her body in the slutty uniform was the best landscape I could possibly hope to capture.

  Shit. Maybe Summer was right. Maybe I do need to be less of a guy. Presley seems to get along better with guys who are castrated.

  I pick up my phone again.

  Hey buddy

  Looking forward to tonight!

  Your choice… just tell me where and when

  I include a thumbs up emoji followed by a blushing smiling face one just to drive home the fact that I, in no way whatsoever, belong to the male species. And that I have no balls. I’m thinking the castrated part is key.

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as she takes her hands off Angel long enough to pull the phone out of her back pocket. The corner of her mouth lifts in a lame attempt at a smile which drops off her face completely when her eyes meet mine.

  Your house…8

  Excellent. Presley, in my environment, is going to do absolutely nothing to change her opinion of me in any kind of positive way whatsoever.

  Summer told me not to drink before Presley showed up. I told her she was crazy – it’s Friday night… and I have to spend it with Presley. Needless to say, I’m four cans into a case of beer. Which means I have a dull buzz that’s taking my edge off and will hopefully make me more appealing to the demon who is currently taking up way too much space in my brain.

  “Come on, asshole,” Nate, my older, dumber brother says, crumpling up the wrapper from his last burger and shoving it into the fast food bag on the floor. “Dad’s waiting for us in the garage.”

  “I told you, I have an assignment I gotta get done tonight.”

  He laughs. “Is it an experiment? How many beers it’ll take before you become useful and get your ass off the couch?”

  I stand and shove my hands into his chest. He might have two years on me but I’ve got three inches and twenty pounds of muscle on him. “I know you’re not capable of fixing an engine on your own but I can’t baby sit you tonight. I’m sure Dad can handle you.”

  My alcohol consumption effects my reflexes and before I know it, he’s got me in a head lock and is giving me a noogie like I’m five. I punch him in the gut and he releases me, pushing his hands into my shoulders with a smile. “Do what you gotta do. Just remember, she’s your baby but I’m gonna be the one driving her next week if you can’t make the time to give her some love,” he says about my Plymouth.

  “Never gonna happen,” I assure him.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” With that he walks out the back door.

  Shit. That’s where I should be tonight – in the pole barn working on my car, getting it ready in order to guarantee I’ll come out ahead next week and get some much needed money in my pocket. But nope. Taking photos. With Presley. And without my balls.

  I take a deep breath, trying to dig deep and find some estrogen hidden where my testicles used to be so that I can tolerate, and be tolerable to, Presley. But it’s not working. I don’t have estrogen. And I have two very large balls hanging behind a large cock.

  Ding dong.

  Perfect.

  I stomp over to the door, practically ripping it off its hinges. I’m ready to tell Presley to forget it – I’d rather not graduate, thanks to my missing creative arts credits, then spend another minute with her. But then my eyes focus on the girl standing in front of me.

  It’s not Presley, it can’t be.

  This girl’s smiling. And her lips are pink – not blood red. The large-framed black glasses are missing from her face, as is the large chunk of red-streaked black hair that’s usually covering one entire side of it. And in their place are two very big, very blue, very sexy eyes.

  “What the hell is this?” I mutter, my eyes, trying really hard not to, but running down the length of her body, which they can actually see. I’ve been to The End Zone, so the fact that two large breasts, a tiny waist, curvy hips and thin, toned legs are always hidden under her over-sized black wardrobe is not news to me, but she’s not at The End Zone. And she’s not in her costume. She’s wearing a pair of dark jeans that look painted on and a tight red sweater that, although covering her from waist to neck to wrists, is sexy as hell.

  My eyes make their way back to her face, focusing on her tight smile and eyes that look like they’re trying to not be annoyed, but clearly are. “Hi, Nash. Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Hell, yes. Get your ass in here.”

  She clears her throat and moves her foot through the threshold, looks like with some serious effort on her part. “Thanks for inviting me over.” Her tone is not bitchy like it usually is, but it’s clearly forced. What the hell is she doing?

  “No problem. Are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”

  She glances uncomfortably around my house. “I see that you’re having a drink… or several… any way I could get you to offer me o
ne?” she says like a monotone robot.

  “Sure, right after you tell me what the hell you’re up to.”

  “I don’t know what you mean?” she says, batting her lashes at me, which are long and beautiful.

  “Presley… cut the crap.”

  She lets out a disgruntled breath, rolls her eyes, throws her bag down on my couch – followed by her healthy ass – and grabs a can of beer out of the cooler that’s permanently sitting in the middle of my living room. “Summer,” she says with venom in her voice.

  I laugh, grabbing my own beer and joining her on the couch. “Summer?”

  “Yes, Summer. She seems to think you’re a nice guy.” She takes a gulp of her beer then turns her eyes to me. “Why is that, by the way?”

  “Why is what?”

  “Why does she think you’re a nice guy?”

  I furrow my brows and cock my head at her. “I am a nice guy.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Whatever. Don’t tell me what the hell is going on. I really don’t give a shit. I don’t even know why I listened to her.”

  “What did you listen to?” I ask, utilizing muscles in my face I didn’t even know I had to keep my eyes off her chest.

  “Her. Convincing me that I’m being overly defensive and therefore not giving myself a chance to get to know you. She told me that if I appeared less threatening you might be less combative but, clearly, she was wrong. All it’s doing is turning you into a pig. My eyes are on my face, by the way, not glued to my sweater.”

  Damn it. I didn’t realize they had wandered. But, what the hell, I can see her nipples. “Are you wearing a bra?”

  “Oh, for fucks sake,” she mumbles, setting her beer down and trying to stand. I reach out an arm to stop her.

  “I’m sorry. What do you expect from me? Seriously, Presley. You have a gorgeous body. Like, literally the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. And you deprive me of it. So now that you’re actually letting me see it, I can’t not appreciate it. I’m curious, what’s under that sweater. It’s thick, and yet, I can see your nipples and where the hell do you expect my mind to take that? I’m a guy. I’m wondering if your nipples are hard. I’m wondering if your proximity to me is the reason they’re hard. I’m wondering how large they actually are – hence the bra question. Call me a pig – whatever. I’m just saying what any guy would be thinking. Which, you should consider a favor.”