A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) (14 page)

Angel’s never had to work. I never had to either. Not until we moved here and my dad stopped supporting us. “Umm… money?”

“You could get a job at the gas station, or Country Market. Pretty sure they’re hiring at the theater.”

“I made eighty bucks in tips tonight, I’d have to work triple my hours to make that much at the theater. I can handle feeling like a bimbo for a few hours. Plus, it’s about the only time I see Tatum anymore.”

“I don’t think you should sell yourself out just to make a few bucks, but, yeah, Tatum’s either MIA or attached to Brandon so I get that part. They literally don’t leave each other’s side. I didn’t think she’d be so obsequious. It’s kind of sad.”

“I don’t know, I mean she’s happy. What’s wrong with that?”

“Why does she need him to make her happy? Why can’t she just be happy on her own? I mean she literally jumped out of one relationship and into the other. I just think it would have been healthy for her to take some time off to figure out who she is and what she wants.”

I laugh out loud at that. “You don’t think Tatum knows exactly who she is and what she wants?”

“I just think she should give herself a chance to be more than some guy’s girlfriend.”

This is not going well. He’s pissing me the hell off and I want to slap him. Which is typical Angel behavior but I don’t know if I can react to him the way I normally would, now that we’re…. trying to date or whatever.

“Clearly, she’s more than some guy’s girlfriend and I think she’s more herself than she ever was without him. Sometimes relationships are good for people and they’re obviously good for each other.”

“Calm down, Presley. I’m not trying to piss you off. I just think some space is good for every relationship, even a perfect one like Tatum and Brandon’s.”

“I really don’t think you’re the authority on relationships seeing how you’ve never been in one,” I mutter as he pulls into his garage.

He turns the engine off and I can feel him staring at me so I have no choice but to stare back at him. “You’re right- I don’t know. But I’m trying to figure it out… with you.”

I nod at him, a smile overcoming my grimace. “So far, you’re not doing so great,” I tease him.

“What do you want me to say? I literally have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Truthfully, you’re doing just fine,” I assure him, leaning over the center council to kiss him.

We head inside to an empty house and I’m already nervous, and then he says, “You want to go up to my room?”

“Um, sure,” I reluctantly agree. I’ve only been in his actual house once and I’ve never been in his room. But I distinctly remember him telling Tatum that he only brings girls that he’s sleeping with there. He was probably being a smart ass, like usual, but I’m practically shaking by the time he opens the door. I’m relieved to see that it’s plenty big and there’s even a small couch pushed against one wall.

I pictured his personal space being all neat and organized, books lined up against the walls, a desk with a computer, posters of scientists and mathematicians on the wall. But it’s none of those things. I mean, it’s clean because I’m sure his mom keeps it that way for him; the bed’s even made. But the walls are filled with band posters, concert tickets, random drawings and photos tacked up all over. There are shelves, but they’re filled with records and CD’s, comic books and graphic novels. There’s a desk but it’s covered in paper, his MacBook thrown haphazardly into the mess.

He walks over to his turntable and asks me, “Anything you want to listen to?”

“I’m sure whatever you choose is fine,” I tell him, taking a seat on the couch. We have the same taste in music so I’m not surprised when Tame Impala starts playing.

He comes and sits by me. Facing me, he reaches out and grabs my hand and starts playing with one of my rings. “I’m not sure what to do with you,” he says nervously and it’s a relief. He’s never unsure of himself and this whole thing is making me uptight as hell – I’m glad I’m not the only one. “What do people do when hanging out with their girlfriends?”

I laugh, relaxing into the couch a little bit. “I don’t know, if I were here under the pretense of friends, what would you do with me?”

“Not have you in my room,” he admits.

“So why did you bring me here?” I ask, regretting the words the instant they leave my mouth.

He cocks his head and smiles at me. “I brought you here because I want to make out with you. But last time I tried that you told me you weren’t ready and then you took off on me. And then when we talked the other night you made it clear you would not be having sex with me. I don’t want to talk about my past with you but you gotta understand that I have no experience with anything in between. So, like I said, I’m not sure what to do with you.”

I laugh – he’s gotta be joking. “So the first time you kissed a girl you ended up having sex with her?”

I think I’m being sarcastic, but he says, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“What? How old were you?”

“Ninth grade. She was a junior. We were out of town at a robotics competition and she offered to be my first. I guess I was a late bloomer because I hadn’t even kissed a girl. That night, at the hotel, I lost my virginity and the next day she and I were still cool and it’s been like that ever since.”

“So you’re still having sex with her?”

“No. I mean it’s been like that with every girl I’ve slept with since then.”

I don’t even want to know but I’m so damn curious, I have to ask. “So you never sleep with the same girl twice?”

“What? Of course I do. I don’t have one night stands. Whoever I’m sleeping with is my friend. And when one of us is ready to move on, we’re still friends. It’s not like I’m banging a different girl every night.”

Everything inside of me is cringing. Angel has a
lot
of girlfriends. I wonder how many of them he’s slept with, but I’m not gonna ask.

“So is it like a thing with all you over achievers – none of you have time for relationships so you’re all in agreement that you’ll just sleep with each other?”

“Presley,” he says, disappointed.

“What?”

“You make is sound careless. It’s not like I’m Nash.”

My reaction to him talking about Nash has changed drastically. It pisses me off and I want to defend him because, honestly, I no longer see the difference between what Angel is
doing
and what Nash has
done.
Nash was right though – I don’t have the balls to tell Tatum or Angel that I care about him and I know he’s not the guy we all assumed he is. “I don’t really see the difference.”

He takes his hand from mine and looks at me like he’s disgusted. “You don’t see the difference?”

“No.”

“I respect the girls I sleep with and they respect themselves.”

“Are you sure about that? That the girls you sleep with respect themselves?”

“It sounds like you’re stereotyping based on gender which is making you sound really sexist and a little bit like a bigot; like you think guys can have sexual relationship and that’s okay, but if a girl does it, it means they have no self-respect.”

“Personally, I don’t really think it’s okay for anyone to just be sleeping around.”

He shakes his head at me. He’s making me feel like a total idiot. “It’s okay to be sexually liberated and to be sexually satisfied in a safe environment where you’re in charge of your own body… even if you’re not in love, Presley.”

I laugh, I can’t help it. “Who are you talking about? I can’t imagine one girl in our school who would actually think that way.”

“You’d be surprised. Most of them are third wave feminists…?”

Oh, god.
Is he really about to school me on feminism?

When I look at him blankly, clearly having no idea what the hell he’s talking about, he carries on. “They’re trying to abolish gender role expectations and stereotypes. They’re reclaiming derogatory words and ideas and redefining them.”

Jesus, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“And I think that’s awesome. And I also think it’s ignorant and irresponsible for anyone to decide what’s okay for another person to do with their own body and think they have the right to label people who don’t abide by what
they
think is right and wrong.” 

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? How the hell did he just make me feel like a total asshole because I don’t want to have sex with every guy- or any guy- I’m attracted to?

“It’s just hard to look at someone like Jolee and think that the choices she’s making are healthy or empowering in any way,” I tell him, but the woman I’m really thinking about is the one who decided it was okay to have sex with a married man. The one who, along with my dad, stole my mom’s life from her. 

“I get that, Presley, and I agree with you. Which is why I would never sleep with someone like Jolee because I would be taking advantage of her and contributing to her lack of self-respect. But Nash would sleep with her. And that’s the difference.”

“But it’s okay for a feminist to sleep with Nash?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “If that’s what she wanted. But I can’t imagine that anyone with even an ounce of self-esteem would choose to sleep with someone like him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t respect the women he sleeps with,” he tells me like I’m unbelievably stupid.

“But if it’s all about satisfying your own sexual needs, then why would it matter if the person you’re sleeping with respects you? I mean, if all you want is to get off and you’re physically attracted to someone like Nash, then wouldn’t it be the woman who is in control and taking back the power and redefining a stereotype?” I don’t know why I’m letting this conversations go on. I don’t really give a crap. But his know it all attitude is getting on my nerves. Especially since he just scolded me for judging people based on their sex life… meanwhile, that’s exactly what he’s doing to Nash and the women who are willing to sleep with him.

“If you understood what they believe, then you would understand that they would never sleep with anyone like Nash.”

“So if one of your third wave feminist friends decided that she did want to sleep with Nash, would you lose all respect for her?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s stupid, Angel. You just negated all the other crap you just told me.”

He laughs, grabs onto my hands and pulls me onto his lap. “Can we please stop talking about Nash? Why are you defending him anyway?”

“I’m not,” I tell him defensively, “I’m just trying to make a point.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree,” he says, bringing his hands to my head and pulling my mouth to his.

God damn him. I’m so annoyed with our little argument, I can’t even focus on what he’s doing to my mouth. And I feel completely unworthy, like I’m not woman enough to compete with all his previous feminist conquests.

I try to relax and enjoy this
sexual conquest
but I feel awkward. Not like I did on Nash’s lap. Angel’s body is narrower and I feel big on top of him. He wraps his hands around my hips and shifts me so that I’m straddling him but it’s an effort for him, unlike Nash who flexes his pinky and I’m suddenly cradled in his gigantic arms. But maybe that’s half the point. Nash makes me feel like a girl; one that should be taken care of and ogled over. Which is the opposite of how Angel rolls. And I’m not sure I can be the girl he wants me to be, because I like the way Nash makes me feel.

Oh my god.

What the hell am I thinking? Of course I don’t like the way Nash makes me feel. I shouldn’t want to feel sexually desired, right? I shouldn’t need a man to protect me. I don’t want to be a sexist bigot. I want to be worthy of Angel.

Jesus, I need to get Nash out of my head.

I focus on Angel, running my hands over his chest and grasping onto his shoulders. I let myself feel his mouth on mine, his tongue caressing mine and eventually I’m eagerly returning his kisses. His hands slide up the back of my shirt and I make an effort to not panic. When his fingers find the clasp to my bra and he easily unhooks it, causing my breast to immediately tumble out the bottom of it, I cringe but try hard to grasp onto his feminist expectations, telling myself it’s my body and I can do with it as I please. Which is stupid because what
I please
is to tell him to stop but that would make me naïve and possibly set the feminist movement back to the second generation, whatever the hell that would be. I have no idea.

His hands slide under my bra, rounding my torso, slowly making their way to my breasts. I clench my eyes closed and accept what feels like torture. His hands expertly round the giant orbs; his thumbs dragging across my nipples. The visceral reaction I have makes me feel sick inside and want to cry. I hate it. I hate his hands on me. But I suck it up because I would hate
anyone’s
hands on me and that’s not normal. And I need to be normal. If I want a shot at making this work with Angel, I have to be normal.

His mouth leaves mine and he kisses his way across my jaw as he kneads my nipples, “Does that feel good?” he whispers in my ear.

No. Hell no.
“Yeah,” I force myself to mutter.