A Son of Carver (Carver High #2)

by Haven Francis

  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.

  He kisses his way back across my neck and his fingers leave my breasts and I finally take a breath. But in the next motion, he’s lifting my shirt, trying to take it off of me. I want to cry. I want to die. I hate this. The lights aren’t even off. I pinch my eyes closed, forcing back the tears, and lift my arms so that he can get my shirt off.

  He peels my bra off my arms before laying me back on the couch. I can feel him hovering over me but my eyes are still closed. He kisses my clavicle bone, his hands back on my breasts, and then his mouth starts moving down my body at a torturously slow rate. I feel the first kiss on the rise of my breast and I’m pretty sure I’m about to combust inside. He licks a line down my breasts and when his tongue lands on my nipple every single inch of my body hurts. And not in a good way, in a sickening repulsive, defensive way.

  He pauses and says, “Presley, look at me.”

  No. God no. I don’t want to see him anywhere near my breasts.

  “Presley, open your eyes.”

  I force myself to open them, trying hard to look at him but not at me. But it’s not possible. He’s hovering over my breasts, a satisfied look on his face, his wet mouth hanging open. “That’s better,” he says, before his mouth goes back to my nipple and he sucks on me.

  And I start crying. Silent tears fall out of my eyes that are closed again. His focus has shifted to my body, and I hope he can’t see what his mouth is doing to me. I can hear the sound of his sucking, I can feel his long fingers caressing my breasts and his mouth working me over and I know that, to a normal woman, this would all feel good. But to me it feels like he’s killing me. Like I’m literally dying inside.

  Lights suddenly shine through his window and he takes his mouth off me. “Oh, shit. They’re home early,” he tells me and I’m filled with relief. I quickly grab my bra and turn from him, getting it back on as quickly as possible. He hands me my shirt and I wipe away my tears as I pull it over my head. “Come on,” he says, standing and heading towards his door. I follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen where he takes a seat at the counter where his backpack’s sitting. He pulls out a book and gets it open right before his parents walk through the door.

  His mom pauses and looks at me. I feel dirty already and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe that we’ve been sitti
ng here studying while the house was empty. I look away from her. “Hi Presley,” she says brightly and I force my tense face to look at her tense face. “Mike, have you met Angel’s friend, Presley?” she asks her husband.

  “No, haven’t had the pleasure,” he says, coming over to shake my hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell him felling like a total slutty asshole.

  His parents make small talk with us. His mom even pulls out a tray of brownies and a gallon of milk. I manage to smile and answer their questions but it’s so tense and uncomfortable and all I want is to get the hell out.

  Finally, they retire to the living room and I let out a long breath.

  “They like you,” Angel tells me.

  “I highly doubt that. I’m pretty sure they know what we were up to before they got here.”

  He laughs. “They would never assume that.”

  “No? You haven’t discussed your ideas on feminism with them?” I say, sarcastically.

  “I don’t think they’d see it my way. They’re unevolved like that.”

  I unintentionally flare my nostrils. His arrogance has always been both a turn on and an annoyance, but right now it’s one hundred percent annoying.

  “You want to head out to the garage?” he asks me.

  “I’m still pretty exhausted from yesterday and from work,” I tell him, wanting nothing more than to be alone with my fucked up head.

  “You want me to take you home?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

  He looks disappointed but says, “Okay.”

  11

  I managed to endure Angel touching me tonight but it doesn’t make me feel any better about my relationship with him. It’s clear that even though I’m not gonna be his fuck buddy, our new relationship will still revolve around getting physical. He told me he would try with me but I can’t help but think all that really means is that he will try to wait a few days before he needs to have sex with me.

  I question what I really want from him. If I really want more than his friendship. If I’ll ever want more from a man than a friendship. Because if I do, then I have to figure out what the hell is wrong with me and find a way to be comfortable with my body and not want to stick a dagger in my heart every time someone touches me.

  I head to the shower, wanting to stay under the hot water until every ounce of vulgarity is washed off me. But I know Jolee’s in her room and she won’t let me stay here long enough for that to happen which could potentially be forever, and even that might not be long enough.

  When I’m finally in my night shirt and under my covers surrounded by darkness all I want is to fall into a deep sleep but there are too many thoughts spinning through my head: my mom and dad, Nash, Angel, feminists, cheating spouses, the other woman… me. Everything is messed up. I’m so messed up.

  I curl into a ball and let myself cry. I’ve been crying so much lately it doesn’t even bother me – it’s as normal as breathing.

  I think I hear a tapping on my window but that can’t be possible, so I ignore it. But it doesn’t go away. I sit up and gasp because there is a face in the window and it scares the crap out of me. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize it’s Nash. What the hell?

  I get out of bed and slide the window open. He climbs through, landing on my desk and then hopping off of it, turning back to the window and shutting it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.

  “You’re not answering my calls or texts. I was worried about you,” he whispers back.

  “Oh my god, you can’t just show up at my window because I have my phone off. I’m fine.”

  He brings his hand to my face and rubs the pad of his thumb across my cheek where my wet tears are still sitting. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying to you. I can cry and still be fine.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “No. You’re not. And you don’t have to be. Whatever’s going on with your parents is not okay and it’s making you sad and it’s making you cry and that’s okay. But I’m worried about you so unless you want me breaking into your room, you need to check your phone every once in a while and shoot me a text letting me know you’re hanging in there.”

  “I was at work and then I was at Angel’s so I haven’t had a chance to check my phone.”

  “Presley,” my aunt calls from the hall.

  “Shit,” I mutter, turning around and leaping onto my bed, throwing the covers over me.

  She opens the door and I don’t know where Nash is, but she obviously doesn’t see him. She just says, “Put your phone away. It’s time to go to bed.”

  “Umm, okay.”

  “Now,” she reiterates.

  “Yep,” I tell her, reaching into my bag on the floor and grabbing my phone that’s obviously not on, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I know your parents didn’t have a whole lot of rules for you, but this isn’t California, and you’re not allowed to be talking to boys at all hours of the night. We raise our daughters better than that.”

  I hold down my sarcastic bark and tell her, “I know.”

  She shuts the door and I hear Nash’s muffled laughter from the floor on the side of my bed. I reach down and whack him on the head.

  He climbs up into my bed and gets under the covers.

  “Nash, what the hell are you doing? You need to leave.”

  “I think I should probably wait until she’s asleep to scale back down her house,” he whispers.

  “That’s right, you’re familiar with this routine. I guess you know how it works better than I do.”

  “You’re never gonna let me forget that I slept with her, are you?”

  “It’s already forgotten,” I tell him, truthfully.

  “You’re so full of shit,” he whispers. I can hear him but I can barely make out his features even though I know he’s only inches from me. I can feel his words on my skin and the heat from his body next to mine.

  “I’m really not, Nash. I don’t think you’re the same guy as the one that was having sex with her. I don’t think you’d do that anymore.”

  I’m surprised by my words but they’re true and I think Angel’s little speech tonight just convinced me of it. His words rubbed me the wrong way and his argument did nothing to convince me that what he’s doing with his girls is better than what Nash has done. At least Nash seems like a human with feelings, even if those feelings are just good old fashioned horniness – at least he’s not trying to make it into some weird statement on gender serotyping or feminism or whatever Angel was spewing. He’s just a man who wants to have sex and I suddenly feel protective of him.

  “Are you serious or are you fucking with me?”

  “I’m serious.”

  He’s quiet, all I can hear are his steady breaths. “Thank you,” he finally tells me.

  “For what?”

  “For believing I can change. For believing that I’m not the guy I was.”

  “Sure,” I tell him with a smile, not that he can see it. “Thank you for being real with me and letting me see that you’re more than muscles and a huge sex drive.”

  He laughs quietly. “So do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Your parents… your dad.”

  I let out a long breath. “I don’t know. There’s not much to say. My mom was served with divorce papers on Saturday night and has been a mess ever since. It’s depressing and it’s… final. Our family is officially nonexistent.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand finding mine under the sheet and his fingers intertwining with mine.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  “I’m sorry that she’s sad. I’m sorry you have to see her that way. I’m sorry you’re sad. I’m sorry your dad did this to you guys. I’m sorry the family that you knew no longer exists and I’m sorry that you were with me that night, instead of being here with he
r.”

  I take my hand from his to wipe away the tears that are flooding out of my eyes once again. Nash wraps his arms around my shoulders and cradles me as my tears fall onto his shirt. “I’m glad I was with you. I’m glad I got to be surrounded by a family, even if it wasn’t mine. I’m glad that I had one last opportunity to be really happy before I had to face reality.”

  He kisses the top of my head and stays there, wrapping me up completely in his body and I’m struck by how close he is to me, how much of me he’s touching and how much of him I’m touching and how completely different it feels than the way Angel was touching me.

  But Nash isn’t trying to make out with me, he’s trying to make me feel better. And I’m relieved because I like being touched by a man so maybe I’m not so messed up after all.

  “I’m glad,” he whispers “And you know, you can come over any time you want. My dad was asking about you all night. I think he misses you.”

  I laugh at that. I kind of love his dad and it makes me happy that he was thinking about me. “You’re lucky.”

  “You think so? Because really, no offense, but he’s kind of getting on my nerves. It’s a little creepy – his obsession with you.”

  “You’re lucky you have him, and your brother. You’re lucky that you have such a great family and that the three of you are so close.”

  “Yeah, I know I am. Most people think I have some screwed up home life because my mom left us and the life we live is not conventional by any means – I mean, the year I started racing was the year I started partying with all those guys. So to most people, that makes my dad a bad guy, but you’re right – they’re great. I’m glad you get it.”

  “I’m glad you do too. Most people don’t appreciate what they have. I know I didn’t.”

  We lay there silently. It’s nice. It’s nice to know he’s here but that he doesn’t expect anything from me – not even words.

  “Do you think you’re gonna be okay?” he eventually asks.

  I think about it for a minute before answering. “I don’t know about my mom, but yeah, I think I’m going to be okay. The good news is, I no longer want to go back to Santa Cruz.”