A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) (7 page)

“
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.”

She 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.

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.”

What the hell?
I’m glaring at Nash as he shares information that’s none of his business, much less the entire classes. He glares back at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Great. Can we contrast the two sets of photos?” Mr. Conroy says, opening my life up for class discussion.

“I prefer Nash’s,” Harley, one of Angel’s friends, pipes in.
Excellent.

“Elaborate,” Mr. Conroy suggests.

“I don’t know, they just feel more real. Presley’s seem a little contrived and stereotypical. And I think it’s cool how he managed to take photos of her real life even though she’s not living there anymore.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Nash grinning and I want to punch him.

“Presley, do you care to comment?”

“Sure,” I eagerly agree. “I believe you feel that way because Nash’s photos are gritty – unfocused, poorly lit and monochromatic. To the amateur eye that can come across as artsy when really it’s just sloppy.”

“Do you agree with that, Nash?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Nash says with a laugh.

“Sure.”

“No. Of course I don’t agree with that. Harley’s right – Presley’s photos are contrived. She doesn’t get the purpose of taking these photos -
To photograph truthfully and effectively is to see beneath the surfaces.
That was the quote you put on the syllabus, right?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Conroy says with pride in his voice.
Ugh, puke, I’m going to puke.

“Her technique may be better but she’s too scared to really look at her life. She played it safe and because of it, gave us photos that don’t really tell us anything about her
home landscape.
”

“Like you know anything about me or my home,” I mutter, too loudly.

“That’s what you’d like to believe but I think we both know you’re wrong. In fact, I think I know too much. I think what I know and what I see makes you uncomfortable because you don’t want to even admit you have crap, much less see it and have to think about it.”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Mr. Conroy says, unclipping our photos and practically shoving us back to our table.

The bell rings before we can sit down and I’m out the door before I can even process what the hell just happened.

As I approach my locker and see Angel waiting there for me, hot tears spring from my eyes and start running down my cheeks. I watch as alarm takes over his features. He starts walking to me and when I’m within arm’s length he grabs a hold of me and hugs me to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

I cower into him, wanting to disappear. I hate Nash. I hate that I’ve given him ammo to use against me. I hate that he was right – that I’m scared to really look at what my life has become. I hate that he can see it.

“Hey,” Angel says, lifting my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, I have so much shit to say but I can’t say it to Angel. I don’t want him to know how screwed up I am. It’s bad enough that Nash does. “I’m fine,” I say, “I don’t really want to talk about it, but I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Obviously I’m not sure but what else can I say. “Yeah.”

“Okay… do you want to head to lunch?”

I back out of his hold and run my palms under my eyes mopping up the tears before looking back at him. “Actually, I think I might head off campus for lunch?” Which I say like a question because I don’t have a vehicle. But Angel does.

But all he says is, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I tell him, annoyed even though I have no right to be. At least not with him. “I’ll see you later.” I give him a tight smile, then turn to go.

He grabs my arm, stopping me, and relief floods my body. “Hey, we never really talked about last weekend.”

No, Angel, we didn’t because you didn’t call or text and on Monday morning you were acting like nothing between us had changed.
I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I maybe shouldn’t have been making out with you in the first place. I mean, I don’t know if you’re down with the situation?”

I’m pretty sure by
the situation
he means fuck buddies and if that’s the case, I’m pretty sure I’m not down. I shrug my shoulders at him. “It’s something we can talk about if you want.”

He takes a step closer and runs his hands over my shoulders. “Yeah, I want. I’ll call you later, okay?” He ducks down, kisses me on the corner of my mouth and then walks away.

Usually when he kisses me or touches me it immediately improves my mood, but for some reason I’m angrier than ever.

I head out the door completely unconcerned that I don’t have a car. I don’t care where I am, as long as it’s not in the same building as Nash.

When I get to the back of the lot I hear an angry voice that I’m becoming all too familiar with. Two more steps and Nash is in view, one hand grasping onto the hood of his truck, the other looking like it’s about to crush the phone he’s holding.

His back’s to me, not that his awareness of my proximity would stop him from saying, “She’s only gonna see what she wants to see no matter what I do. And I was starting to believe your crap, you know that? But you’re wrong; Presley’s nothing but a miserable bitch.”

“What the hell, Nash?”

He turns and looks at me, shaking his head. “Yeah it is… I’ll talk to you later,” he tells the person
that he’s talking shit about me to,
before hanging up.

“You mind telling me who you’re talking about me with?”

“Summer.”

I narrow my eyes at him. God, he is unbelievable. “Please, don’t.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want, but thanks for asking so nicely – that was a refreshing change.”

“I don’t know what kind of spell you put on her, but she’s my friend too. And I don’t have a whole lot of them in this town so maybe you can find someone in the other ninety nine percent of Carver High to talk crap about me with.” Jesus, why do I always end up giving him fuel for his
Presley is pathetic
fire? Before he can respond, I walk away.

“Presley, get back here.”

“Ha,” I mutter to myself. He’s lost his damn mind if he thinks he can order me around.

“Seriously, Presley, get back here and talk to me.”

I cut through a row of cars and when I’m pretty sure he can no longer see me, I start running. I can hear his loud engine start up in the distance so I head to the trail adjacent to the road leading out of school where I can hide in the trees. Even when I’m safely sheltered I just keep running.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I always thought I was strong, that I could survive anything. But until a few months ago I guess there was never anything
real
I had to get through. And this thing with my dad happened so quickly – one day we were a happy family, the next day my mom’s telling me my dad’s having an affair and four days later we’re in a car heading for Georgia.

For the first two months I told myself it was temporary. That I could forgive him. That my mom could forgive him. That we would be going home. The thought that he didn’t want us there never occurred to me.

And then that horrid Instagram account invaded my life. Even then, when I had proof that my dad was openly in love with another woman and that he looked happy with her…
without us
… I told myself it was a midlife crisis; that he would snap out of it and beg us to come back.

But I think both my mom and I are starting to realize he doesn’t give a shit. And that our life, not only with him, but with anything in Santa Cruz, is over.

And when you realize that, it’s easy to also realize that the new life you’re living was okay as a transitory pit stop at the U-turn that would lead back to reality, but that it has no legs beyond a temporary life.