A Son of Carver (Carver High #2)

by Haven Francis

  My instinct is to roll my eyes and call his bluff – because, like he really gives a shit what I think about him. But the way he’s looking at me is causing me to doubt myself. “I’m serious, Nash. I would like to start over for real this time.”

  “But even your tone just then…”

  I throw my hands up in the air, my eyes fully rolling. “Oh my god, Nash. What the hell do you want from me? My tone? I have to check my tone? I’m willing to start over but I can’t start over as someone else. I mean, if you’re asking me to get a complete personality overhaul just to have the privilege of being your friend then maybe I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

  He’s smiling hugely, his chest shaking with his deep laughter. “It’s totally worth it.”

  I smile back at him, I can’t help it. “It better be.”

  We stare at each other for a few awkward moments; Nash looking all intense, me looking all untrusting, I’m sure. He finally breaks the silence saying, “You weren’t planning on going back to school, right?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Not really.”

  “Great.” He stands then picks me up with zero effort and has me on my feet. He grabs my backpack off the ground and says, “Let’s go.”

  Since he has my bag I have no choice but to follow him. “Where do you think we’re going?”

  “To my truck.”

  I roll my eyes. “And then…?”

  “I don’t know. Do you always have to have a plan?”

  “No, not usually. But I don’t usually blindly follow people into their trucks when I don’t know where they’re planning on taking me,” I tell him, huffing it back down the trail, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  “You don’t trust me,” he says, looking over his shoulder like the idea wounds him.

  “Not explicitly.”

  “I’m not trying to bring you anywhere. If you want, I can just bring you home.”

  “You want to bring me home?” I ask horrified – that’s the last place I want to, or can, go.

  “No. Of course I don’t want to take you home. But if you don’t want to come with me, I can.”

  I’m fighting off my natural responses with every ounce of willpower I have. So instead of telling him no, I don’t want to go with you, but what other choice do I have, I tell him, “I would just like to know what you have in mind.”

  His truck is in site now and he’s a good five yards ahead of me. So he doesn’t reply until we’re both in the cab looking at each other. “I’m starving and I’m broke so… my house? Frozen pizza?”

  “Sure. Whatever,” I tell him, trying damn hard to be agreeable.

  I’m relieved when, after eating our Tombstone directly off the cardboard circle because clean dishes are not available in the Carter house, Nash tells me he should work on his car and I should come along. I have my camera with me so I figure I should start working on his home landscape but when I aimed it at his trash-ridden house full of broken furniture he winced. And being the great friend I now am, I took mercy on him and didn’t take the photos.

  I’ve been to parties in his pole barn before, but it looks different in the light of day. It looks like a legit mechanic’s garage which, for all intents and purposes, is what it is.

  Nash gets me settled at a work bench near the car that’s currently up on the lift. He goes to a fridge and pulls out two Cokes, handing one to me. “You need anything else?”

  I smile at him. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely concerned about my comfort or if he’s just trying really hard to act like he is. “I think I’m good.”

  “Great.” He pops his Coke open and downs it in one large gulp while staring at his car. When he’s done, he turns his attention to the work bench adjacent to the one I’m sitting at where parts and tools are scattered around. After gathering his materials and dumping them on the ground under the car he asks me, “You mind if I turn the radio on?”

  “Nope,” I stare at him, totally amused. He seems like a completely different guy. For one, he changed out of his perfectly worn jeans, Timberlands and fitted grey Henley and into a pair of Carhartts and a threadbare white undershirt with a large tear in one side, exposing his large oblique muscles. He’s also got a worn baseball cap on backwards that makes him look more like a boy and less like a man. But mostly it’s his change in demeanor. He seems to be taking this car shit seriously. And Nash doesn’t take anything seriously – not even football.

  He turns on the radio that’s mounted to the wall and loud heavy rock blares out of it. He immediately turns it down and says, “What kind of music do you listen to?”

  Not this, but I figure he needs it more than I do so I tell him, “This is fine.”

  “This is not fine. Tell me what you want to listen to.”

  “Seriously, it’s fine. You’re the one who needs the music.”

  “But you’re the one who’s gonna be bored off your ass and needs the entertainment.”

  “Fine,” I tell him. “Eighty nine three.”

  He turns the dial of the archaic thing and then scrunches up his features at the sound coming out of it. I laugh, if he stomachs this indie radio station just to make me happy then he is truly a changed man.

  “Okay, let me know if you need anything,” he says before disappearing under the car. I settle in with my chemistry book and Coke, quite comfortable in my little nook in Nash’s garage.

  An hour and a half later, calmed by the music and the vastness of the space I’m in that is allowing me to take full breaths, I realize Nash is here too. Which seems odd. Rarely am I this content anywhere in Georgia, but definitely not while in the same room as him.

  I pause from my work and watch him. He’s pushing himself around on a small creeper, swapping out tools for parts for more tools. He’s in the zone, probably as aware of me as I was of him. Which I’m thinking is a great start to our new friendship – learning how to be in each other’s space without annoying the piss out of each other.

  My homework’s done so I decide to work on my photography project. Taking away what I learned from today’s critique, I decide to look for opportunities to capture Nash, not just a good photo. I wander to the work bench he was rummaging through, snapping pictures of three tool boxes that all say Nate’s, Nash’s or Nick’s shit – DON’T TOUCH! Tatum complained about the three of them quite often but I’ve yet to meet Nash’s family. I don’t know if I’m excited or terrified.

  I can’t stop myself from taking a picture of the calendar featuring a blonde with big boobs, spread out on the hood of some red car. That’s about as Nash as it gets. There’s a big red circle around the twenty third, which is this weekend and I remember Nash telling Brandon and Tatum that it’s the first race of the season. I turn and look at the car Nash is working on. It doesn’t really look like a race car. It’s old and big and I assume he’s working on it for a reason other than the race.

  I make my way around the garage, finding a picture of Nash and his dad and brother standing in front of a car, their arms around each other, all with huge smiles on their faces. His dad is handsome; dark hair unlike his two sons but the same light eyes Nash has. He’s also built like a brick shithouse, like both of his son’s. Nash has a couple of inches on both of them though. Nate, the brother, is good-looking and resembles Nash, but he didn’t get Nash’s infamous smile or thick hair. He looks tougher and stockier. They’re all incredibly handsome but neither Nate nor Nick compare to the baby of the family. I mean, if we’re talking stereotypically handsome.

  After navigating through what seems like a graveyard for car parts I head back to Nash, stopping to take pictures of him from different angles and distances. When I reach the car, I drop down on my heels so I can see him clearly. He doesn’t seem to notice me. Everything about him is tense – his face, the position of his legs, the obliques I can see that are straining to hold his torso up so he can reach whatever it is he’s working on, his huge biceps and triceps are bulging with the effort.

  I lift
my camera and focus on his face; on the dirt smeared above his brow and the beads of sweat forming on the nape of his neck at his hairline. His mouth is hanging open and, I swear, I can hear his labored breaths. I snap my picture and his head suddenly jerks in my direction.

  “Oh, shit. I forgot you were here.” He immediately drops his tools and uses his creeper to slide out from under the car, sitting up and rubbing his forearm across his face.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t mind it at all, it was pretty peaceful actually,” I tell him, a genuine smile on my face.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod.

  “Good. What time is it?”

  I check the clock on the wall, “Oh, crap. It’s almost three.”

  “Do I need to get you home?” he asks, standing and then reaching out his hand to help me up. I let him, his huge hand practically crushing my small one.

  “I have to get to work.”

  “Oh, okay. No problem, just give me a minute to get cleaned up and I’ll take you.”

  Tatum’s working tonight too and the thought of her knowing that I skipped school to hang out with Nash makes me squeamish.

  “Actually, would you mind just brining me back to school?”

  “Why? The End Zone is in the other direction.”

  “I know, but Tatum thinks she’s giving me a ride.”

  “Call her and tell her I’m bringing you.” I don’t know what to say to that, but apparently my face is doing the talking because he looks at me with disappointment. “You don’t want her to know you were hanging out with me?” he guesses.

  Again, I don’t know what to say because apparently I’m taking this fresh start thing seriously and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  He shakes his head at me, a smirk on his face. “That’s fine, whatever. We need to get going though if you’re gonna make it in time.”

  “Thanks, Nash,” I tell him apologetically before heading back to my bag and rounding my supplies up.

  He doesn’t speak to me again until we’re a block from school. I had managed to keep my mouth closed too because I didn’t want to bring up the subject that he’s currently calling me out on.

  “So, is the reason you’re embarrassed about hanging out with me because I’m not good enough for you or you’re worried about what people will think?”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” I tell him.

  “Then what? You think she’ll be pissed?”

  “No. Of course not. She knows we have to work together and how I feel about you. I mean, she would never think there was something going on between us if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “And how do you feel about me, Presley?” he asks, parked in the back of the lot now.

  “How I felt about you. She knows how I felt about you and I don’t particularly feel like explaining the melt down I had and how you were there for me and we decided to give this friendship thing another shot and that I voluntarily skipped school to hang out with you alone at your house.”

  He looks away from me and shakes his head. “For some reason, I’m pretty sure the only thing on that list that bothers you is the fact that you were with me by choice.”

  Jesus, was he always this damn sensitive? It’s like I can’t do or say anything without pissing him off. “I don’t know what to say to you, Nash. I can’t put my damn kid gloves on every time I’m around you so you’re gonna have to find a way to grow some thicker skin.”

  “Or maybe you need to find a way to grow some bigger balls,” he growls.

  I reach for the door handle and have it open before I stop and take a breath, trying to calm myself down.

  “I don’t know why the thought of her knowing I was with you all afternoon bothers me, but it does. If you need to know why, I’ll think about it and get back to you when I figure it out.” I sit, door cracked, staring out the passenger side window waiting for his response.

  “Yeah,” he finally says. “Think about it and let me know.”

  Seriously? Is he fucking serious. I pinch my eyes closed and hiss the words, “Will do,” through my clenched teeth before exiting the truck and slamming the door shut.

  7

  “You seem distracted tonight, Nash. Are you gonna tell me why?” Summer asks, a knowing smile on her face.

  I am distracted. Here, with Summer, is supposed to be the place I can come to think about nothing. To forget all the crap across the river that’s bothering me. But ever since second semester started I can’t seem to relax. “I would rather talk about you, Summer. How are you?” I ask with mock concern on my face.

  “Are you doctoring me?” she asks with a laugh. “Is that what these little sessions have become?”

  “Are you feeling anxious? Headaches? Suicidal thoughts?”

  “Shut up,” she says, whacking me on my shoulder. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty damn good. I didn’t realize how stressed out I was when I was keeping up with that manic schedule that was my life.”

  “So no regrets?” I ask her, seriously now.

  “Some regrets. I miss it. Not the bible study, but dance. I miss being part of a team and competing.”

  “I’m sure they’d take you back,” I suggest.

  “Of course they would,” she says, shaking her head at me like I’m super stupid. “But I think I like my new life. Do you know what I did last night?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “You’re such a pervert, Nash. I watched TV. For two hours. It was mind-numbingly blissful.”

  “You don’t watch TV?”

  “When would I have watched TV? If I was home I was doing schoolwork. I mean, Brandon and I would go to the movies every once in a while...” She pauses like she always does when she unintentionally talks about her life with Brandon, like she needs a minute to breathe. “But I can’t remember the last time I just sat down, by myself, and chose to watch TV.”

  “I’m not even sure you were human before the two of you broke up,” I say with a laugh. She doesn’t like to talk about the two of them but I have a theory that if I talk about it like it’s no big deal, she’ll eventually believe me.

  “I’m not sure I was either. The breakup helped, but honestly, I think it’s all the hours I’ve spent here, with you, that have helped me see that I have choices and that I need to start living my life for me. And also the fact that I’ve been spending so much time by myself – I’ve never done that. But I like it. It’s like I’m getting to know myself for the first time in my life.”

  “That’s good,” I say, wrapping my arm around her and kissing the top of her head.

  “So, can we talk about you now? About the thing you’re not talking about?”

  “Which is?”

  “Ugh- Presley. You haven’t brought her up since your little freak out on Wednesday. You can’t call me and bitch about her in incoherent, nonspecific sentences and then refuse to tell me what the hell happened after she showed up.”

  “There’s really nothing to talk about. Plus, she asked me not to talk shit about her with you because she considers you a friend and she apparently doesn’t have any in this town.”

  “Did you tell her I always defend her and that I’m on her side?”

  “On her side? What the hell, Summer?” I tease her. Of course she’s on Presley’s side. Not that there are sides. I want Presley to be happy just as much as Summer does. She’d be less of a bitch if that happened.

  “You know what I mean. Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “I know your boring, TV-watching, ass lives vicariously through me, but there’s really nothing to tell.”

  “Oh, bullshit. Stop being such a pussy.”

  “Please,” I chide. “Pretty sure the reason there’s so much friction between us is because I can’t be a pussy. Pussy is definitely her type.”

  She laughs. “Is that what’s bothering you? Angel? Are you jealous?”

  “Of Angel? Hell, no.”

  “Of the fact that she likes him. A
nd apparently… he likes her too,” she goads.

  “Whatever.”

  “You’re so transparent, Nash Carter,” she tells me. “You, pretending that it doesn’t bother you, is making it very clear that it does. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

  I know she’s baiting me but I can’t stop the words that bust out of my mouth. “If she’s stupid enough to fall for some arrogant douche bag who thinks he has the right to set requirements for the girls he sleeps with and that she’s not slutty enough, then he can have her. I don’t like who she is when she’s around him or talking about him. She acts like some mindless, tame, girly piece of arm candy and that’s not who she is.”

  “You care about her,” she whispers.

  I swallow down the rest of my beer and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to convince myself she’s wrong but knowing she isn’t. It’s bad enough that I can’t stop thinking about her but, for Christ’s sake, I can’t even stop myself from texting her every half hour, which I’ve been doing, and she’s been doing back, pretty consistently since I dropped her off at school on Wednesday afternoon. “Yeah. But don’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m not gonna tell anyone, but are you? One person in particular?”

  “I think you’re reading into this, Summer. I care about her but not like that.”

  “So you don’t think about her all the time?”

  “Only because she’s making my life so damn difficult at the moment.”

  “So you don’t really like being around her?”

  Fucking, Summer. That’s the thing that’s messing with my head the most. I can admit that I like being with her because I get a rise out of her spit fire personality and how easy it is for me to bring it out of her. But after Wednesday, I’m pretty sure it’s more than that.

  “Nash, just tell me. It will feel good to talk about it and whatever you say to me, I promise I’ll never bring it up if you don’t want me to.”

  I suck in a long breath, knowing I can one hundred percent trust Summer. “She tells me things- things I’m pretty sure she doesn’t tell anyone else. And on that first day of class when she was rambling like a lunatic, she told me that she didn’t have anywhere to go to escape her shitty reality and somewhere along the line I think I decided I want to be that for her. I’ve been a lot of things to a lot of women but I’ve never been anyone’s protector. I’ve never been anyone’s safe place. But I think I managed to be that on Wednesday. I think I was the only one she could talk to and I think that in my garage, with me, was probably the most comfortable I’ve ever seen her be in her own skin. And I kind of felt the same way.”