A God in Carver (Carver High #1)

by Haven Francis

  None of it really matters though. Technically, Cole and I are still together even though there are, roughly, twenty-five-hundred miles and three months of time separating us. Our conversations have gone from nightly to weekly and it’s possible the only reason I’m holding onto him is so that I can play the, I have a boyfriend card. The bigger issue with Angel is his strong aversion to commitment. He believes high school relationships are a waste of time and prefers to focus on himself and his future.

  It dawned on me one night that Angel’s relationships are not so different from Nash’s- they both prefer sex with no strings attached. Which was a shocking revelation considering I loathed one and was crushing on the other. But there’s a difference, I now realize. A big one. Angel respects women. And his relationships are two sided; both parties aware and in agreement that it’s strictly physical. And Angel keeps his private life private. He doesn’t flaunt his conquests. He doesn’t even talk about them, actually.

  The point is, it’s never gonna happen with Angel. Even if I was willing, he’s not – he doesn’t have sex with virgins. A fact he shared with Tatum and she passed on to me. Yes, I’m a virgin. Shocking, I know.

  My phone dings from my pocket. I pull it out and look at the text from an unknown number:

  Meet me at my locker

  Who is this?

  Your photography partner

  Oh, hell. “I’ll see you later,” I tell Tatum, grabbing my tray and standing.

  “You riding with me to work?”

  “Yes, please,” I tell her before turning and exiting the cafeteria.

  As I cross the commons, I pass Summer. She gives me a sympathetic look and I give her one right back. Whatever’s going on with her and Nash is weird. At lunch or in any other group setting they act like they don’t know each other. But their quiet, intimate moments in the halls or by their lockers have not gone unnoticed by the entire school and I wonder if Tatum’s wrong about her – maybe she’s not as smart as everyone believes.

  Nash comes into view; leaned up against his locker, arms crossed, a pissed off expression on his face.

  “I don’t even want to hear the words. I’m stuck with you. I know. Please don’t say it.”

  His expression softens and he looks at his feet like he’s trying to hide the grin on his face. He peeks up, looking into my eyes. “A whole semester of this, huh?”

  “Meaning what?” I ask, my arms crossed over my chest now too like we’re in a standoff.

  He cocks his head at me and stares for a few uncomfortable moments like he’s trying to figure me out. “Is it possible that we could start over… pretend like we don’t know each other?”

  “We don’t know each other.” I point out the obvious.

  “Exactly. So why do you hate me so much?”

  “Really? Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  He cringes, then says, “No. Not really. But I think you should anyway.”

  “For starters, there was that small incident where you grabbed my wrists, pinned me to a wall and told me that if I were willing to show my body off I might get laid which, according to your genius mind, would cure me of my bitchiness.”

  He cringes further and looks everywhere but at my eyes. “Did I ever apologize to you for that?”

  “Do you ever apologize for anything you do?”

  He looks at me now. “Good point. Can I do it now?”

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I had no right putting my hands on you. People tell me you’re not as bad as I think you are and they’re probably right.”

  I laugh. “That was your apology?”

  “Um… yeah?”

  “Try again. This time, omit the insult.”

  “Shit,” he mutters, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry, it’s second nature- the words Presley and insult go hand in hand.”

  “Strike two,” I inform him.

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again he’s staring right at me with all kinds of intensity on his face. It makes me nervous. “I think we got off to a bad start. I get why you don’t like me – I was stupid enough to have sex with your cousin, and I did that while I was dating one of your best friends. And from the second you met me you’ve been calling me out on my crap which, please don’t take this as an insult, is annoying as all hell. So yeah, I’ve been defensive with you. And honestly, I kind of hated you. And I did blame you when Tatum left which was wrong. I’m sorry. For everything. Today in class, I realized as you spewed all the messed up thoughts in your head, that I don’t actually know you. I don’t know anything about you. And it would be helpful if you realized that you don’t really know me either.”

  I’m speechless for a moment. Who is this guy? I may not know him, but I know one thing – he never takes responsibility for his mistakes. Never. And, as far as I can tell, all he is is one big walking mistake. But I think he just took responsibility for the way he’s treated me… and admitted he was wrong. It’s possible that I don’t know him. Highly doubtful, but possible. “Okay,” I tell him.

  “Okay?” he smirks.

  “Yes. Okay. I will be open to the idea that I don’t know you. I will try my hardest to treat you like a human being when forced to be with you. I’ll do my best to get through this semester of assignments with an open mind. But if it turns out that you are exactly who I think you are – a selfish manwhore with limited brain cells who only sees women as gaping vaginas, then we’re gonna have a problem.”

  He’s trying hard to hide his smile. I can tell by the tight press of his lips and the way his eyes are shining and the skin around them is crinkling. “If this is just another joke to you, Nash, then please just skip this whole misunderstood martyr act and come clean with me because I’m not about to embark on some twisted mind game while stuck in all the semen-soaked landscapes of your life.”

  He shakes his head, “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, the amusement still trying to hide behind all his features. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “Treat me with respect. Stop your eyes from wandering to my breasts every few seconds. Understand that this class is important to me and I will be taking every assignment seriously and I’m gonna expect you to do the same.”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  “Well then you shouldn’t have asked it. A rhetorical question is an oxymoron and, you might want to jot this down, I don’t do well with any kind of morons.”

  He lets out an exasperated breath. “Got it,” he tells me while turning and walking away from me, his hand raised in dismissive gesture. “See ya in class tomorrow.”

  His tone sounds exactly like how I feel – aggravated, defeated, completely and totally annoyed.

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