A Son of Carver (Carver High #2)

by Haven Francis

  “Shouldn’t you be up on that stage?” I ask, glancing at his bandmates that are busy setting up equipment.

  “Probably, but I saw you over here looking all pissed off so I had to come see what was wrong.”

  “I’m good,” I assure him. “Are you nervous?”

  “Nervous?” he asks, his face all screwed up with confusion.

  “Of course you’re not nervous. That was a stupid question,” I say as the verbatim words he used to describe his musical abilities to Tatum come back to me. “You don’t do anything half assed, right? And the best thing you can have as a front man is a big brain.”

  “Right,” he agrees.

  “And you’ve been reading music since you were four.”

  “Three, actually. I started composing music when I was four.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe there was also something about brilliant lyrics and a sweet voice.”

  “Bingo.”

  When he first spoke those words I was turned on. His confidence is definitely attractive, and he always backs up his words with his abilities. But now, all I can think about are the things Nash said about him – that he doesn’t date because it’s impossible to be the best or get an award. Damn him.

  “Are you still gonna be here after our set?”

  “Why do you wanna know?” I ask, defensive with him in a way I only reserve for Nash.

  “Seriously. What’s wrong?” he asks, taking his arm off my shoulder so he can rotate his torso and look at my eyes. His hand slips around my legging covered thigh and a shiver runs through my entire body.

  “Sorry. Seriously, it’s nothing.”

  “Okay. I was asking if you’re going to be around ‘cause I’d like to hang out with you after everyone’s gone.”

  I smile at him. “I rode with Tatum and Brandon so I guess it’s not up to me.”

  “I can bring you home,” he says suggestively, cocking his head at me.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, suddenly all kinds of nervous. “Yeah, okay,” I tell him, sounding like a scared little girl.

  He smiles at me but it’s different than his normal smile. His mouth is tempting, his eyes are lazy- god, is he sexy. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t move.”

  I laugh. “Don’t move?”

  “Well yeah, you can move, but don’t go.”

  “I won’t,” I assure him, feeling all giddy inside.

  He leans forward, plants a kiss on the corner of my mouth, then stands and heads back to the stage.

  His lips have left me but I can feel where they were like I’ve been branded. I’m brought back to the night Tatum dared him to kiss me – which he totally did. I’ve never been kissed like that. As with everything else, he was confident and in control. And he knew exactly what he was doing with those lips and his tongue. They claimed me, they totally schooled me and they left me with a permanent desire that I’m pretty sure will never be fulfilled.

  Or maybe it will. I’m assuming he doesn’t want me sticking around so we can talk. If Nash is right about him (yes, I’m back to considering that it’s a possibility) then maybe being the best at making out is an option. As opposed as he is to virgins, I’m equally opposed to losing my virginity to a one night stand – even if it’s with Angel.

  I spend the rest of the night on the couch hypnotized by his captivating voice; it’s strong and deep and snakes through my body like an aphrodisiac. I’m totally screwed. And my nerves have caused me to drink too much beer, so by the time Celeste is done and Angel has made his way through the crowd of new-found fans and to me, I’ve passed buzzed and am well on my way to drunk. Which was really stupid because Angel hates drunk people. Perfect, Presley.

  He doesn’t seem to notice though. He grabs onto my hands and pulls me up until my hypersensitive body is pressed into his warm one. He wraps his arms around my lower back and bows his head until his crystal blue eyes are only inches from mine. God, he smells good; all sweat and adrenaline. I reach up and push his long white hair away from his right eye, my fingers raking through it and running over the short hairs on the back of his head, landing on the nape of his neck where I unintentionally dig them into his skin.

  “You want to head outside until everyone is gone?” he asks, his husky voice turning me on further.

  “Absolutely,” I tell him.

  He smiles knowingly at me, spins me around then grabs my hand, dragging me towards the exit. We’re almost through the threshold when Nash comes into site. He’s staring right at me, a scowl on his face. But when my eyes meet his he smiles at me and winks. Winks. Which, for some reason, pisses me off.

  The crisp evening air assaults my body and I willingly accept it because suddenly my head is not swimming in alcohol. As soon as we’re past the lingering crowd, Angel releases my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulder. I automatically snuggle into his warm body as we continue to make our way across his yard. He brings me up a small set of stairs and onto his back porch. Leaning against the railing, he pulls me between his legs and I gladly fall into him.

  “So what’d you think?” he asks me.

  “About the performance?”

  “Yeah.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think your ego needs anymore feeding.”

  “My ego always needs feeding.”

  “So you’re not concerned there’s a possibility I didn’t enjoy it?”

  “I had my eyes on you all night, Presley. So, no, I’m not concerned.”

  “Fine. I loved it.”

  He gives me a cocky smile. “I want to kiss you.”

  I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for him, he slides down the railing enough so I can link my fingers behind his neck. He cups my face and tilts my lips to his. When his lips are finally on mine I let out a long breath of relief into his mouth. His lips feel just like I remember; warm and soft but in control. He moves my lips with his as his hand slides into my hair. He gently angles my head so that his tongue has easier access. As it slides into my mouth a pain ignites between my legs and my fingers pull at his hair as my tongue caresses his. But then he pulls back, easing out of my mouth. “Easy,” he whispers, before taking my lips in his again.

  And it throws me.

  He’s kissing me with just as much confidence and passion as before, but suddenly my brain got invited to the spit swapping party and now I’m self-conscious. All I can think about are all the other girls he’s kissed that are in it for the same reason as him. Maybe they all approach everything, including kissing, with a strategy and notes. Am I kissing the wrong way? Is there a proper way to kiss? Should I have read a manual before getting into this with him? Shit.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my new lack of enthusiasm because he picks me up, hoists me onto his waist and walks me over to one of the patio chairs, sitting down with me still attached to his waist. I can feel the hard length under my thin pants which is reassuring – I may not be well read on the topic of making out, but I must be doing something right.

  His hands find the hem of my shirt and slowly make the ascent up my stomach until they are cupping my breasts. Which is a setback I hoped the copious amounts of alcohol would have eliminated. I immediately go into self-conscious mode. My breasts are appalling and the thought of him touching them sends a queasy feeling through my body which quickly overcomes all the sensations of desire that had been running through me.

  Before I can think to stop myself, I’ve eased out of his mouth and have my hands firmly planted on his shoulders, pushing my body away from his. Thank god it’s dark out here and I can’t see the expression on his face and he, hopefully, can’t see how uncomfortable and embarrassed I am. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “What are you sorry for?” he whispers back.

  “I’m just… not ready for this.”

  “For what? Me groping your breasts?” he lets out an easy laugh but it doesn’t ease my worries.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I reluctantly admit.

  “It’s fine,” he tells me. “It’s getting late anyway. I
should probably get you home.”

  What? That’s it? No, we can just talk, or I’m good with just kissing for now? What the hell.

  I climb off his lap and tell him, “We’ve been out here for like five minutes. I’m sure my ride is still here,” before turning around and making my way off the porch.

  “Presley,” he calls.

  “What?”

  “Are you pissed at me?”

  I stop and turn to him. Yes. “No. Why would I be pissed?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “I’ll see you on Monday, Angel.”

  When I get home, the house is dark: all three adults already in bed and Jolee’s still at the party. It’s a relief. I quietly make my way up the stairs and to the third bedroom that has been mine for the last few months. My mom is downstairs in my uncle, Joe’s, former office. I feel bad for him. My aunt, LeeAnn, walks all over him. I think I’ve heard him mutter twenty words since we’ve been here and they’re mostly okay, will do, sure honey, whatever you say.

  I flip on the light and try not to think about my disastrous night. I have issues, I know it, but I don’t know how to get over them.

  I force myself to open the closet door and stand in front of the full length mirror that’s on the other side. Slowly, and with my eyes closed, I shrug off my hoodie then pull my t-shirt over my head. Looking, one eye at a time, I stare at myself in my beige, thick-strapped bra and the monsters being held inside of them. If I could, I would cut them off. Since the moment they sprang to life on my body they’ve been wreaking havoc on my life.

  I used to be cute and petite. I used to hear things like, “You have such gorgeous eyes,” or, “I wish I had hair like yours,” or simply, “You’re so pretty.” Not anymore.

  As a twelve-year-old, having gross old men staring at my body was sickening in a way I didn’t understand but my mom did which is why she made me cover them up. As if it was my fault that clothes made for a body my size didn’t accommodate the balloons that were underneath.

  But she was right – the baggy clothes helped a little. And also became my new most defining attribute – my dumpy wardrobe. No more pretty eyes or beautiful hair. People started labeling me goth which I wasn’t. But black is the color that hides my body best and I still liked my long black hair and wasn’t about to change anything else just to please the people around me.

  It was better at my old school. Yes, I was living in California, but in Santa Cruz there is a plethora of unique kids, especially at my creative arts high school and my differences weren’t that big of a deal.

  I never let Cole touch them and I kept my shirt on always. He seemed as scared of them as I was and we both just kind of treated them like a third wheel we couldn’t get rid of.

  That’s not gonna fly with Angel though. Especially if Nash is right and he prides himself on pleasuring the women he’s with. I’m pretty sure stimulating nipples would be part of that. I gag a little bit at that thought and turn away from the mirror, undressing the rest of the way then throwing my night shirt on.

  I head to the bathroom that connects my room with Jolee’s, grabbing my toiletry bag on the way because she’s made it crystal clear that the bathroom is hers and my crap doesn’t have a place in it. I scrub the black makeup off my eyes and the red lipstick off my lips then brush and floss my teeth, all the while avoiding the mirror.

  I’m under my covers, trying to sleep, when my phone dings. I dig it out of my purse and see a text from Nash. Perfect.

  How’d your night go?

  I roll my eyes at my phone.

  Great

  Was his performance award worthy?

  Despite myself, and because he’s not actually here to see me do it, I smile.

  He’s defiantly done a lot of studying

  I stare at my phone waiting for his reply. After a few minutes, I set it down and close my eyes gain. Then it dings.

  Are you still a virgin?

  “Oh my god,” I mutter.

  That’s completely none of your business

  If you’re not, then he definitely doesn’t deserve an award- you were only gone for a minute

  “Stalker,” I mutter.

  Still none of your business

  You didn’t take any of my advice, did you?

  Of course I didn’t

  You might want to consider it

  I’m definitely not going to

  I think you’ll change your mind

  Not happening

  Probably happening

  Never happening

  We need to reschedule our assignment

  Tomorrow?

  Fine

  My place again?

  Fine

  12?

  Fine

  Goodnight

  Don’t text me anymore

  Sweet dreams

  I turn my phone off and shove it back in my purse. My life is officially a living hell.

  5

  I wake up to the sound of something crashing – sounds like into a million pieces- and I’m only startled for a second.

  When I got home last night my dad was so wasted he couldn’t even form words which isn’t like him – he’s a good drunk. Most of the time. There’re two days he loses it though – the day he married my mom and the day she left him. Last night was the day she left.

  I need to buy a damn calendar so I can mark this shit down and find a way to distract him or at least remember to not come home.

  The point being - he’s hung over this morning. Which means he’s not in the mood for Nate’s shit. And Nate is always full of shit.

  I look at the clock; it’s almost eleven, which means Presley’s gonna be here in an hour. “Fuuuck,” I groan, running my hands over my eyes and forcing my ass to roll out of bed. Reluctantly, I head out to the living room to gauge the damage.

  “You fucking idiots,” I mutter at the scene in front of me. My dad’s got Nate pinned to the ground as Nate struggles to get the upper hand. Their wrestling match has knocked over a floor lamp and overturned the coffee table. I swear to god, we’re making trips to Goodwill on a bi-weekly basis replacing broken furniture. “Can you guys get the hell up? Presley’s on her way over.”

  “Presley?” my dad asks, taking his attention off Nate long enough that my dad is now the one on the ground.

  “Yeah, that girl from my photography class. She’s gotta take picture of my damn life and this isn’t really the image I want displayed during our critique.”

  “You trying to be someone you’re not?” Nate laughs as he plows my dad’s shoulders back to the floor. “Anyone would be lucky to have a picture of me to look at – this old man, not so much.”

  I kick my foot into his shoulder and he sways, my dad’s quick for an old guy and has the upper hand in two seconds flat.

  “Stay out of it, Nash,” Nate complains.

  “You two are acting like infants.”

  I give up on them and head to the shower. I really don’t have a choice – we’re gonna have to explore Presley’s landscape today. Which means dealing, not only with her, but Jolee too. Fanfuckingtastic.

  I’m sitting at Jolee’s kitchen table with her and her mom and aunt, trying my best to charm the pants off LeeAnn because I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve snuck into her daughter’s bedroom a few times over the last couple of years; fending off Jolee’s advances because of said incidences and close proximity of mother- and because I’m not interested in screwing around with her anymore; and studying Presley’s mom who I know way too much about thanks to Presley’s oversharing on that first day of photography class.

  The one person I’m here to see is still in bed even though she’s supposed to be at my house in five minutes. Apparently she was planning on blowing me off.

  At twelve ten I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.

  You’re late, I text her.

  I figure, since she’s sleeping, that I’m not gonna get a response, but it comes seconds later.

 
; Sorry. I forgot I had brunch plans with the family, not gonna make it

  I shake my head at my phone. I was planning on leaving but now I think I’ll stay.

  I head back to the kitchen, sit back in my chair with my cup of coffee and focus on Presley’s mom, Laura. “So, how do you like Georgia, Mrs. Knox?” I ask, leaning into her.

  She glances at her sister then tells me, “I spent the first eighteen years of my life here. Not much has changed.”

  “Are you planning on staying?”

  She gives me a quizzical look. “No,” she says, looking at LeeAnn again. “I’ll let Presley finish out the year and then… we’ll be leaving.”

  “Back to California?”

  LeeAnn clears her throat – probably trying to signal that I’m prying – but Laura just shrugs her shoulders and says, “Who knows.”

  “Seems like Presley liked it there – her school and friends and her boyfriend.”

  “Jesus, Nash,” Jolee says, leaning into the table so I can see down her loose tank top. “Why do you care about Presley’s life?” I catch Laura flaring her nostrils out of the corner of my eye. I’m guessing Laura’s liking her living situation about as much as Presley is.

  “It sounds interesting – her old life. And I’m trying to do a project about her so I gotta ask all the questions.” I turn back to Laura, despite Jolee’s annoyed breath.

  She smiles at me and runs her fingers through her blond pixie cut. Presley’s mom is pretty – she has the same deep blue eyes and perfect Cupid’s bow on her lips as Presley. She also has the same high cheek bones, creamy skin and long lashes. Her dad must have black hair and a curvy body; which… gross… not what I meant, but her mom’s tall and has an athletic build.

  “Presley did love it there and she had great friends and we all love Cole. I feel bad about the fact that she had to leave her school – she absolutely thrived there. Who knows, maybe we’ll go back. It would be nice for her to finish her last year of school at home.” She looks away from me and starts chewing on one of her nails, lost in thought.

  For some reason the idea of Presley going is making it hard to swallow the scalding liquid in my mouth. I get it down, pick up the digital 35mm I borrowed from school, and snap a picture of Laura.