A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) (16 page)

“Are you insulting me again? Or are you propositioning me?”

I roll my eyes. “Neither.”

“I’m confused,” he admits.

“So am I.” Which is the truth. It’s different with Nash – recently, his touches are comforting instead of appalling – and I’m still trying to figure out why that is.

“I watch you with him, you know,” he whispers, even quieter than the soft voice he’s been using since breaking into my room. “I’ve seen you hold him, run your fingers through his hair, sit on his lap. I’ve seen you kiss him.”

“I know,” I say, shutting my eyes, regretting ever starting this conversation.

“So, I’m confused.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t bother me when I thought that he was pretty much unattainable and that we were just innocently flirting. In fact, I liked it. I liked it when he touched me and kissed me.”

I wait for him to respond to that, but he doesn’t. In fact, I can’t even hear his breaths anymore.

“But now, that it’s something real, something that could potentially go somewhere, I’m scared. And I don’t want him touching me,” I admit, grateful for the darkness.

“You’re scared that he wants to have sex with you and you’re not ready to give that to him?”

“I don’t know, I mean… maybe. Maybe I’m scared of sex but honestly, I can’t even think that far ahead. I can’t even get past him putting his hands on my body… on my breasts.”

“You don’t like it when he touches your breasts?” His words sound like a hiss and I assume he thinks Angel forced himself on me and it’s pissing him off.

“I don’t like the idea of anyone touching my breasts. And I know that’s not normal. And it’s not a prudish thing, it’s a mental thing that I can’t get past and when he touches me it literally makes me feel sick and disgusting and it’s not his fault, he’s not doing anything wrong. It’s me. I’m fucked up. I want to enjoy it, I want to know what it’s supposed to feel like and I want to be normal… but I’m not.” I close my eyes and release the death grip I suddenly have on his hand. Just talking about it makes me so tense and uncomfortable I just want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Did something happen to you, Presley? Did someone do something to you before…?”

I shake my head. “I’ve actually considered that – that someone did something to me when I was young and I blocked out the memory, but nothing’s happened to me. No one’s touched me inappropriately. I just hate my body. I hate that I have these huge boobs. I hate that they’re all guys see when they look at me. I hate that people think I’m slutty or sexual just because I’ve had the body of a grown woman since I was twelve.”

“You’ve looked like this since you were twelve?”

“I went from a little girl to a porn star overnight. Which can mess with your head. Especially when grown men stare at you and you don’t understand the look in their eyes, but your mom is pissed off and disgusted and you still don’t understand but suddenly you’re forced to wear shirts from the women’s department that cover you from neck to knees and the looks stop and the uncomfortable moments become less frequent and you realize this new addition to your body is ugly and something to be ashamed of.” I tell him all this without thought, but when I realize it I say, “Jesus Christ, I don’t know what it is about you Nash, but I can’t seem to shut my damn mouth when I’m around you.”

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t and his hand is now clamping down on mine like I was doing to him moments ago. “Is that what you think? That your body’s ugly?” His words are strained and I can feel his body go tense next to mine.

“What do you think?” I whisper. “Of course that’s how I feel.”

“Presley… that’s so… fucked up,” he mutters. “God. You are so unbelievably gorgeous. Your body is literally perfect.”

“Nash, stop,” I cut him off, pulling my hand from his grasp. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t need you trying to make me feel better. You might think my body’s perfect but that’s the whole problem. I have boobs. Giant boobs. And to men, that’s attractive and when you look at them you think about sex and suddenly I’m not a person, I’m just a piece of ass and I hate that. I don’t want to be that girl and so, yes, I avoid looking at my body, I do everything I can to hide it from everyone and the thought of someone touching me is so embarrassing and sickening I just… I can’t. I don’t even want to think about it.”

He grabs my hand again and I try to pull away, but it just makes his hold tighten. He finds my other hand that’s resting under my head, and grabs on with even more force than the one he’s already got enveloped in his giant mit. “By
you
do you mean me? Because that’s not what I think about when I look at you. I mean, yeah, I love every part of your body and I think about having sex with you… a lot actually. But it’s because your hair is a tangled mess, or you’ve got you lip trapped between your teeth, or your arms wrapped around me or you’re sleeping and your breaths are falling on my neck. I mean, hell, even your combative words turn me on.”

If his plan was to derail me from my spiraling thoughts, it worked. Nash talking about sex isn’t new but he’s talking about having sex with
me.
And apparently he thinks about it
a lot.

He must take my stunned silence as confusion because he says, “I just mangled that explanation, right? What I’m trying to say…shit, how do I explain this… You’re an artist, right?”

“Where the hell are you going with this, Nash?”

“I don’t know anything about art, but I’m guessing it’s like my cars.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter.

“Presley, shut up. Just listen to me, okay?”

“I really don’t need this, Nash.”

“Yes you do because the fact that you don’t see yourself clearly is a tragedy and I know I’m probably not gonna be able to explain it to you, but you have to let me try.”

I shut up.

“When you look at something and you want to draw it or paint it or take a picture of it, it’s because you like the way it looks – it’s esthetically pleasing to you. Or it makes you feel a particular way and you want to capture that feeling, right?”

“I suppose,” I grudgingly admit.

“Same thing with me when I look at a car that has the perfect engine, or is painted the perfect shade of red, or has curves that are sexy as hell and chrome in all the right places. I appreciate it. It’s beautiful and I can recognize that and admire it and want to touch it and look at it because it’s perfection. And rarely do we get to see perfection in this world, right?”

God, he’s right. Not about me, but the way he’s describing a
car
is the way I feel sometimes when I look at something and absolutely need to capture it because, to me, it’s perfect. It might not be to everyone but it moves me in some way and it doesn’t happen often, but when it does it takes your breath away because…
it’s not that often we see perfection in this world
. “I suppose.”

“So you were blessed with all this perfection – your skin and your hair and your goddamn eyes and… your body – all of it; your tiny waist and your full ass and your perfect legs and tiny little feet and hands. And, yeah, maybe it didn’t work so well when you were twelve… and it probably fucked up your entire life for a while and made you feel like a woman before you were ready to actually be a woman… and it forced you think about sex when you didn’t even understand what that was, but now… now that you are a woman, can’t you see how lucky you are? Can’t you look at your body, apart from who you are and how it’s made you feel, and just appreciate how gorgeous it is?”

“Oh my god,” I involuntarily shudder. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Presley,” he pleads.

“No, Nash. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but you’re wrong. They’re monstrous and disgusting and gross. And if you really saw me, without my clothes on – you would agree.”

“Let me see you,” he whispers.

“Jesus, Nash. This is what I’m talking about. You’re such a damn pig.”

“Jesus, Presley. That’s not why. I’m not trying to trick you into showing me your body. You really think I would be doing that to you right now? Taking advantage of the situation while you’re totally vulnerable?”

I let out a frustrated breath. “No. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting you see them. Ever.”

“Fine. But then you have to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Look at yourself. Try to forget about how you’ve felt about your body and just look at yourself, at your body, like it’s an object and think about it like you would if you were gonna draw it. Look at your proportions, look at your stomach and your legs and your arms… and your breasts and think about if what you’re looking at is beautiful or if it’s disgusting.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“What the hell? Why not? It’s your damn body.”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Do you have like huge areolas, a third nipple, a hideous scar… something?”

“What? No. I mean, besides being gigantic, my breasts are… normal.”

“Well then look at it. Stare at it until you’re comfortable looking at it. Because eventually you’ll realize that it’s perfection.”

“Nash…”

“Presley, just do it. For me. For yourself. For… your relationship with Angel.”

I breathe through my anxiety and know that I will do it. That it could help. That if I stare at it long enough I might be able to see it as an object and not the bane of my existence and that if I can see it that way maybe it won’t be so disgusting. “I might, but even if I do, you won’t know about it.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

We stare at each other in the darkness. His hands are still holding onto mine and his scent is seeping into my brain. I can feel his soft breaths on my lips. “You should go,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I need to sleep.”

“I’ll leave after you do that. If I go you’ll start thinking about all the things you don’t want to think about and you’ll get sad again. I’ll stay here and make sure you’re happy until you fall asleep.”

God, that sounds too good to pass up. He does make me forget about things. Or makes me talk about them until they’re not so bad anymore. And, against all reason, his touch comforts me. “Okay. But don’t fall asleep here.”

“I’ll be gone when you wake up,” he whispers, pulling me tightly against his large body and wrapping me up in his arms until I’m covered, once again, by his warmth and his scent. “Sleep tight,” he whispers.

I’m already well on my way, suddenly feeling completely exhausted and lulled into a state of relaxation that I’ve never known. “Thank you… for being here… for holding me… and taking care of me.”

“Always,” he whispers back.

When I wake up in the morning I can smell Nash and I groan with satisfaction before I can think to stop myself. God damn it, he’s gotta stop wearing whatever it is he puts on his body because I like it way too much.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I crack my eyes open one at a time, prepared to see his cocky smile. But he’s not there.
Thank god.
I close my eyes again and snuggle into the pillow he was laying on, inhaling his scent and smiling hugely because no one can see me.

I let myself pretend he is still here with me, that his big arms are still wrapped around me. I groan again, as an explosion of nerves erupts in my belly and travels down between my legs which I press together, trying to alleviate the yearning. I’m not used to feeling this way. I try damn hard to not be a sexual being. The fact that it’s thoughts of Nash – his scent and his body- that’s making me not give a shit is not surprising. I can’t keep pretending like I’m not becoming attracted to him in a sexual way. It started on the ride to his race and has been building despite my attempts to deny it and tamp it down.

I hear the door on the other side of my bathroom slam shut and it snaps me back into reality.
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell was I just thinking? I’m not attracted to him. It’s just his smell. And the fact that he was in my bed. And his insistence that my body’s perfect and… I shudder- not in a good way but an embarrassed one – thinking about the things I shared with him through our whispered breaths in the darkness of my room. The idea that he was even here, in my bed, seems completely unbelievable.

I jump out of bed, suddenly eager to leave it. I head to my closet, opening the door and am faced with the mirror and a half promise that I would look at myself – naked. “No,” I say out loud, turning my attention to the sea of black that is my closet and blindly pulling down pants and a shirt.

My phone dings and I pick it up, seeing Nash’s name.

How’d you sleep?

Oh, god. This is weird. Can’t he just pretend like last night never happened, just like I’m planning on doing?

Great

Me too

I dreamt about kittens all night and now I can’t stop thinking about you

That’s really weird Nash

I tell him, like I have no idea he’s referring to the weird sounds I make when I sleep.

I know

I don’t even like cats

But suddenly they’re all I can think about