A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) Read online

  I feel a hand running up my thigh and manage to push it away right before it lands on my cock. Jolee is always hard up for me. She’d let me have sex with her right here on the kitchen table if I wanted to. My recent lack of attention is making her desperate. The look on her face when I showed up at her door was damn near feral. The only reason I escaped was because she had to “excuse herself” aka, run up to her room, and put some makeup and a slutty outfit on. By the time she got back downstairs I was enjoying my coffee with the ladies of the house.

  I look at her and she glares at me. “Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Why are you even here? And what’s with the camera?” she mutters back.

  “He’s Presley’s partner in photography class,” Laura answers for me. Jolee missed that earlier conversation.

  “Are you serious?” she laughs.

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  “Wow. Sucks for you.”

  LeeAnn smirks. I guess I know where Jolee got her personality from. “It’s been great, actually,” I lie… sort of lie.

  And then I hear a loud, “What the….” coming from the other side of the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Presley,” I say, looking at her in her long t-shirt… and nothing else. “How was brunch?”

  I can feel everyone’s confused eyes on me but I can’t take mine off Presley. The completely stunned look on her face is making me very happy. I think I’ve rendered her speechless.

  “I thought we were meeting at your place,” she garbles tensely, crossing her arms over her bra-less chest which I have no problem not staring at because her toned legs and cute little feet are completely naked. Her long hair is a giant, tangled mess and her face is completely bare besides the blush that’s covering her cheeks. She looks so damn cute I’m having a really hard time staying seated.

  “Thought I’d surprise you.”

  “You did.”

  “Great. Do you want to join us? We were just discussing life in Santa Cruz.”

  Presley gapes at her mom, then back at me. “Can I talk to you in private?” she practically growls at me.

  I shrug my shoulders and stand from the table. “It was nice meeting you,” I say to the moms before dropping my coffee mug off at the sink and heading to Presley who has left the kitchen and is waiting for me in the entryway. Before she can start in on me I tell her, “You lied to me.”

  “What?” she sneers.

  “You were planning on blowing me off and you lied to me. I thought this class was important to you? I thought you needed me to take it seriously? I’m disappointed,” I say to her, seriously.

  “It is. But what the hell, Nash. You can’t just show up at my house.”

  “Technically, it’s not your house. Maybe I came here to see Jolee.”

  “Well great, that’s great. Please, by all means, go see Jolee.” She turns and heads to the stair case. I follow her. She stops and turns around, glaring at me. “What are you doing?”

  “Following you.”

  “No. Jolee,” she points down the stairs. “Go.”

  “Why would I go to Jolee?”

  “Ugh, what the hell Nash. Did you come here to take pictures or to hang out with my cousin?”

  “Why would I want to hang out with her?”

  She stares at me- big blue eyes trying to pop out of her head- lets out another frustrated breath then finishes her climb to the top of the steps with me on her heels. I follow her into her bedroom where she finally turns back to me. “Get the hell out of my room.”

  “What? You brought me here.”

  “Oh my god, you’re so annoying. Go.”

  “Back down to the kitchen… to talk to your mom… about Santa Cruz? Should I ask her to show me her Instagram account?”

  “Remind me to never tell you anything again.”

  I sit down on her unmade bed that’s covered in flowers and seems nothing like her at all. But of course this isn’t really her room. I watch as she opens drawers, grabbing clothes before slamming them shut again. She walks to the bathroom that I’ve washed up in before because it connects to Jolee’s room, and slams the door.

  While she’s gone I take my camera out and let my eyes wander. I stand and walk across the room, finding the small space where she keeps her things. I smile and snap a few photos, returning to her bed right before the door opens.

  She catches me off guard when she takes a seat next to me and lets out a long breath. “Did you really talk to my mom about Santa Cruz?”

  “A little bit.”

  She turns to me and stares while chewing on the inside of her cheek.

  “Do you want to know what she said?” I guess.

  She raises her eyebrows at me but doesn’t answer. The girls is so damn stubborn but I’m not gonna mess with her – not about this.

  “She said you had great friends and everyone loves Cole. She said you thrived at your school and she felt bad about taking you out of it. Sounds like she’s planning on staying here until the school year is done but doesn’t have a plan beyond that, except to get out of here. She thought maybe she would bring you back home for your senior year.”

  Presley looks at me, her eyes lighting up at my last sentence. “Really?”

  “Don’t you talk about this stuff with her?”

  “No. I mean, not Santa Cruz. She doesn’t want to talk about the possibility of me going back there… where he is.”

  “She seemed open to it.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, chewing on a nail – a habit I’m guessing she got from her mom. “I know she feels bad about taking me away from there but going back would mean having to live in the same town as my dad and his girlfriend, or… sending me to live with them. She already has enough to worry about. She doesn’t need to be worrying about me too.”

  “From one to ten, how much do you hate living here?” I ask Presley.

  She laughs – a normal cute laugh, not an angry one. “Depends on where I am.”

  “You’re here; in your room… with me.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Ten’s the worst?”

  “Yeah.”

  “An eleven?” she smirks.

  “Is it because the room part or the me part?” I ask, cocking my head at her.

  “Both.”

  I pout at her.

  “Don’t even try that with me,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

  “It’s cute,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head.

  “Come on, I’m cute – you have to admit it.”

  “You’re not cute, Nash.”

  “Yeah, I guess sexy’s the more accurate word.”

  She squints her eyes at me, her mouth lifting with a wicked grin. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “What? That I’m so sexy? No, not really. I mean, sometimes I just want to be left alone but it comes with the territory. What am I supposed to do?”

  “It bothers you that I don’t think you’re cute, or sexy and that I don’t particularly like you.”

  Yes. Completely. In fact, I’ve made it my mission to make you like me.

  “Am I the only girl who hasn’t crumbled after a mere glance from you?”

  I lean forward and cock my head at her, giving her a sly smile. To which, her reaction is a tight grin that says, nice try, cheese ball. “Probably. But don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I’m getting to you already. Not particularly liking me is a huge step up from absolutely despising me. And I can maybe believe the not cute thing, but there’s no chance you don’t think I’m sexy. Have you seen me with my shirt off?”

  “You realize that huge muscles aren’t a turn on for everyone and that some people even find things like a brain and modesty to be sexy?”

  I give up the act and lean back on my elbows. “I don’t know what to say – you got me. I don’t have much of a brain and I’m definitely not modest. You could still like me though, right? I mean in a, I’ll tolerate him for a couple of hours kind of way.”

  S
he mimics my posture, laying back on her own elbows. “I suppose.”

  I stare at her – she’s got her hair pulled up on the top of her head in a messy bun, her face is bare; her ivory skin glowing in the sun that’s coming through her window. Her eyes are closed, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks. She looks peaceful. I pick up my camera, aim it towards her and snap a picture.

  “What are you doing?” she mutters, eyes still closed.

  “Taking your picture.”

  “Can we talk about it for a minute before you proceed with your assignment?”

  “Talk about it?”

  She lets out a frustrated breath, sits up and looks at me. “We were supposed to start at your house. This makes me uncomfortable; having someone take my picture, especially here in my home landscape that’s not actually my home at all.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t want me to take your picture? Because I’m pretty sure I can’t pass the class if that’s another one of your rules I have to abide by.”

  She pinches her eyes closed and clenches her teeth. “You can take my picture. I know you have to do that. I just thought if we laid out a plan I could limit the number of pictures taken.”

  “I don’t get you, Presley. I’m trying to get you, I really am… but honestly, I can’t figure you out. Why wouldn’t you want your picture taken?”

  She glares at me, which happens so often I’m pretty much immune to it.

  “You’re not self-conscious?”

  Another glare, this time it punctures the surface of my skin.

  “You’re gonna have to use words, I’m not fluent in severe facial expressions.”

  “Forget it, Nash. Just do whatever you’ve gotta do, it’s fine.” She stands and grabs her camera off her desk and shoves it into her backpack.

  I stand too and walk to her. I turn her around so she’s stuck between me and the desk. She has a talent of running away when our conversations become too personal but I’m not gonna be dealing with whatever issue she’s got with my camera for the rest of the semester. “I get that you’re immune to my charms, so please don’t take this as anything other than a fact being stated.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, but doesn’t tell me to shut up, so I carry on.

  “You’re pretty. Like really, really pretty – you know that, right?”

  “I swear to God, if you say one word about my body…”

  “I’m not talking about your body which, by the way, is extremely beautiful. I’m not even talking about your blue eyes, your thick hair or your perfect skin. I’m talking about your cute smirks, your impressive eye rolls, the way you chew on your lip and how you’re always hiding behind your hair. I’m not artist, I can barely work the camera on my phone, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna ace this class because you’re my subject matter.”

  “Jesus, Nash, you are seriously too much. I mean I get it – I can see how a speech like that would win over any girl you know but you’ve gotta stop trying to use your lines on me. It’s seriously starting to piss me off.”’

  My head actually retracts at that. There is no winning with this girl. “You really don’t believe a word that comes out of my mouth, do you? You think everything I say is just some stupid line meant to convince people that I’m likeable because, in reality, I can’t possibly be anything other than scum, right?” I stare at her, fully aware that I’m getting more worked up than I should be. She stares back at me but says nothing.

  “When I saw you in that class I wasn’t any less annoyed than you were, but I told you I would try with you. And I believe you told me the same thing. But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s actually doing it. I’ve been nice to you, I’ve taken two days out of my weekend to prove to you that I’m taking this seriously because you told me you needed that from me, I’ve tried getting to know you, I even tried being a friend to you. And every time you make it clear that you hate everything about me I find some reason to justify why that is and I let it go because I’m trying to get somewhere with you. But we’re never gonna get anywhere if you’re constantly pissed off at me for no damn reason. I can’t even give you a genuine compliment without you making me feel like a piece of crap.”

  She flares her nostrils and shakes her head.

  Presley’s never been able to keep her mouth shut. She’s got an opinion about everything and everyone, especially me. I didn’t think anything could be more annoying. But this is. Her refusal to acknowledge anything I say like I don’t even deserve her words is way more annoying than a litany of insults.

  Forget it. I grab my bag off her bed and head out the door.

  I’ve made it five feet down the hall when a hand reaches out and grabs me, pulling me through a doorway and before I can blink, Jolee’s got both of her greedy hands tangled in my t-shirt.

  Between my family and Presley, my tolerance for stupid, childish humans is at an all-time low. I take her hands off me, but she hooks onto my belt loops and pulls her half-naked body into mine. She’s wearing nothing but a pink lace bra and thong and even that can’t make me stay in this house for one more second. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

  I pry her fingers off my pants and tell her, “I’m not in the mood.” I try to turn but she grabs a hold of my backpack strap and turns me back around. “You seem upset. You know I can make you feel better.”

  I’m ready to physically harm the girl. My hands grab onto her waist and I pick her up, moving her two feet away from me before setting her back down. I lean in and tell her, “Put your hands on me one more fucking time and I might hurt you. I’m turning around, walking out your door and you’re going to let me go. You understand that?”

  “What the hell, Nash,” she mutters, taking a voluntary step away from me.

  With that, I’m gone.

  6

  I haven’t talked to Nash all week. He’s no longer interested in being nice to me or getting to know me and I feel the same way.

  He has a talent for spewing crap that makes me think he’s human and then proving me wrong two minutes later. I have to stop falling for his shit.

  Two seconds after he left my room, just minutes after he gave me the speech about how I think he has to convince everyone he’s a decent person because he couldn’t possibly be anything but a piece of crap, he had Jolee half-naked and was stalking after her like a starved man. I don’t even want to think about what happened in her room after I left. Maybe we just have different definitions of what, exactly, a piece of crap is.

  But the good news is we’ve spent the beginning of the week in the computer lab working on our photos and there, we were free to sit wherever we wanted. Needless to say, I was nowhere near Nash Carter.

  In fact, sitting next to him now as we watch our classmates present their photos, is the first time I’ve even had to look at his face all week.

  “Nash and Presley,” Mr. Conroy says. We’re up.

  I stand and walk to the front of the room, clipping my three home landscape photos to the wall. I assume I’m going first because I assume Nash has no photos of my life since he took off on me before he had a chance to take any. I’m guessing he was playing online poker or looking at porn all week in the computer lab.

  “Tell us about your photos,” Mr. Conroy says.

  I look at them, proud of their quality. I took advantage of the natural light then enhanced it in Photoshop creating a cohesive, balanced group of photos. I refused to include my extended family but managed to come up with three safe subject matters to present.

  “That’s my mom, that’s the view out my bedroom window and the last one’s me and one of my drawings.” The last one isn’t actually me, it’s just my chucks kicked up on my desk next to my art. I was pretty proud of myself for finding a way out of that one.

  “Do you have anything else to add?” he asks, expectantly.

  “I used lighting and digital techniques to focus on what I thought was important in each photo.”

  “Which
is what?”

  I look at him blankly – is it not obvious? “Um… my mom, my house and me.”

  He tilts his head. “We’ll come back to you. Go ahead and present your photos, Nash.”

  I cross my arms, a smirk covering my face as I focus on everything but Nash and his lack of photos. “Okay,” Mr. Conroy says brightly. “Tell us what you saw when you looked at Presley’s home landscape.”

  “Laura, her mom, was talking about their old life… she couldn’t say what she wanted to but her expression pretty much said it all. That’s the bitch she’s stuck living with at the moment.”

  “Mr. Carter,” the teacher says tersely.

  “Sorry. The woman.”

  With a curiosity I can’t deny, I turn my eyes to Nash’s photo of my mom. The composition is off. His choice of doing it in black and white is elementary in every way. But, damn it, it’s kind of good. He captured my mom looking honest and real and the unfocused shape of my aunt in the background creates a nice contrast. Not that he meant to do that. Not that he knows what the hell he’s doing.

  “Okay,” Mr. Conroy forgives him. “What about the next one?”

  “I guess it’s interesting because Presley was doing the same thing – thinking of her real home where she used to live- and it was the first time I’ve ever see her look like that. You might remember, we weren’t excited about being stuck together, so when I’m around her she usually looks stressed out or pissed off.”

  I look at the portrait of my profile; my eyes closed, my face relaxed, all of it looking a little celestial thanks to the light streaming in from my window. Again, he got damn lucky.

  “Good,” Mr. Conroy says. “And the third one.”

  “It’s a picture of pictures. Presley’s room isn’t really her room; it’s all flowers and pastels and ruffles. But she’s got a couple of shelves that are hers – her books and music and art crap. These are the three photos that are there- one’s face down, the other one’s of a dude she’s not really dating anymore and the one that’s in focus is of her and her friends from Santa Cruz. It’s the one she looked happiest in.”