No Chance by Lisa Suzanne

CHAPTER 20: BRETT

I’m not sure why I lied.

I didn’t come back just to check on Chance. I came back to make sure Hannah was okay. It’s her first post-gig night, and I know it can be overwhelming. I can be overwhelming. This isn’t just different for me—in fact, it’s not really all that different so far with the exception of having two additional humans on our bus.

But this girl’s entire life has been flipped upside down in a matter of days, and something about that fact makes me feel for her. Add to that the gentle sway of her coconut hair and the way her hips bounce when she walks and the gentle nature she has with a kid who isn’t even hers...and suddenly I find myself quite intrigued in a place where I don’t want to be intrigued.

Banging on my drums for two hours should wear me out, but instead it has the effect of amping me up. That’s why I usually indulge in a calming smoke post-gig. Since the kid isn’t around, I decide to light one up. I wonder for a beat if I should go outside to smoke, but this is my bus. She’s along for the ride, and if the smell bothers her, there are other places where she can go.

“Is that...” she trails off like she’s not sure how to ask the question.

“Weed?” I finish. “Yeah.”

Her brows raise, and she’s judging me...on my own damn bus.

“Is that a problem?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but her wide eyes tell me it is a problem.

“Want a hit?”

She shakes her head again.

I lower my voice, and it comes out a little huskier than I intend for it to. “Have you ever tried it?”

Her wide eyes seem to dilate a little at my tone, and she shakes her head for the third time. I wonder where her words went.

“Not a drinker, not a smoker...tell me, Hannah, what are your vices?” I push the envelope further than I should, but I chugged a few drinks before I came back here so it’s not like I’m sober. “Sex, perhaps?”

Her cheeks turn a bright shade of red. “I—uh...um—”

“Tell me you’re a virgin,” I growl, and that shade of red turns up a notch as my dick screams for escape.

“That’s none of your business,” she huffs, completely flustered, and her innocence is a total turn-on. “And no, I’m not.”

Damn.

“I’m going to get Chance so he’s on our bus in the morning when we leave, and then I’m going to bed,” she says, and she practically runs off the bus. She can’t escape me there, though. Not really.

And it’s that thought right there that makes me feel like shit for the way I just treated her.

It’s easier this way. If I treat her like shit, she’ll stop looking at me the way she does with those wide, innocent eyes. And then maybe I’ll lose interest. Hopefully. Because the thoughts I’m having tonight, especially after seeing her talent and her excitement over taking a few pictures backstage...nothing good will come from it.

Once she returns, she barely looks at me as she carries the sleeping baby through the bus toward my bedroom. I give her a few minutes to get ready for bed. I finish my blunt and have another beer. I don’t scroll my phone, don’t turn on the television, don’t really do anything except sit in my thoughts, and it’s not a great place to be.

When I finally join her in the bedroom, she appears to be asleep.

I strip down to my boxers then climb into bed beside her. I chose the most comfortable mattress on the market to sleep in on this tour, but that doesn’t calm the thoughts inside my head. And that’s why, right before I fall asleep, I whisper into the darkness, “I’m sorry.”

When I wake in the morning, the first thing I feel is heat. And then, as I start to become lucid—a feat after a blunt and too much beer last night—I realize that I’m holding my bedmate in my arms.

Fuck.

This is supposed to just be two adults sharing a bed. Nothing nefarious, nothing intimate, nothing more.

And yet her head rests on my shoulder. Her coconut hair tickles my bicep as my arm curls around her, my fingers splayed on her shoulder. Her arm is flung over my torso, bent so her fingertips rest over my heart.

Nefarious thoughts riddle my muddled, sleepy mind as she cuddles into me and, in my sleep-induced state, I somehow allowed it.

This is intimate. This is more.

I extract myself, not sure if I’m waking her but not sure I care, either. I practically leap out of bed, grab my clothes stealthily so I don’t wake up the kid, and bolt the fuck out of there before she gets a chance to realize that we slept in each other’s arms. I fly past Tommy’s closed curtain, wondering for a beat whether he’s got a chick in there, and make my way into the front cabin.

That shit right there is not okay. That’s not what I signed up for when I let Tyler talk me into this bullshit. I’m not a cuddler. I’m not a let her sleep in my arms all night kind of guy. I’m more of a fuck and duck kind of guy. I get mine, I give her hers, and that’s that. Moving onto the next city and the next chick. Done and done.

I climb into my jeans and pull my shirt over my head, and then I get the coffee going. What the mother fuck was that? We didn’t wake up like that yesterday morning...did we?

How do you even shift in the night to wind up in that position without waking up?

Did she do it on purpose? Is she coming onto me? Certainly not after the way I was a dick to her last night...but it sure feels like it this morning.

And it’s not okay.

I pour my first cup of coffee as the need for caffeine hits me a little harder than usual—but, then, I woke up earlier than usual, too. Normally I would’ve rolled over and gone back to sleep for three or four more hours, but apparently waking up with my arms around a girl at six in the morning is the new alarm clock that pushes me right out of bed.

I sit at the table with my coffee, and I can’t even be bothered with cream or sugar, not when I’m this lethargic. The hot liquid is bitter as it rolls around my tongue, but it serves its purpose as the headache from last night starts to wane. I glance out the window and spot five drivers as they have a quick meeting before we take off for Denver.

We slept on the bus since bus call is six-thirty, and we should arrive in Denver by two-thirty. We have a club appearance tonight, a gig tomorrow night, and then a free day, which means three nights in the same city. Three nights in the same city means a hotel. A hotel means a shower and basic luxuries that bus life lacks...including separate beds.

I keep thinking that maybe I need to give her a little space, that spending a few nights on the couch might be in order once we’re back from the hotel. One of the couches pulls flat to the size of a full bed, so it’s not out of the question. But hopefully the hotel will serve us well in giving us each a little space.

Lou waves to me when he steps onto the bus, and the familiar rumble of the bus starts up a few beats later. I scroll my phone and realize I never looked at the photos Hannah sent me last night, so I click into my messages and download the five she sent.

I study each one individually.

The way the spray of sweat catches the light is a solitary second in time that she captured forever in this image. It’s like seeing myself the way she saw me backstage, and there’s something amazing about that. Most of the time I walk up there, beat the hell out of my drums, and feel like a goddamn imposter who got lucky with a bunch of talented dudes. But looking at these photos, seeing what she saw through her eyes...

It’s incredible.

My chest tightens as I think about her watching me, taking these photos, zooming in on them to study them—to study me.

I flip through them again.

I’m still wearing my shirt in all of them, so she took these before the halfway point. I always lose my shirt at the same time—mostly because there’s a long enough break for me to wrestle my way out of it, but also because it’s that exact time every night when the heat starts to get to me. I usually douse myself with a bottle of water, and I can’t imagine how awesome those photos would look with that spray of water hitting the lights.

I wonder if there’s a reason why she didn’t take any of me without a shirt. It could go one of two ways, I suppose. Either she was embarrassed by her attraction or the opposite...whatever that is.

I want to pretend like it doesn’t matter, but for some reason, it does.

“Shit!” I hear Tommy’s voice from the next cabin, and a few seconds later, he dashes through the front cabin. He’s naked as the day he was born. “Lou! Hold on! Don’t start moving yet!”

I laugh as I cover my eyes. There’s only one reason Tommy would be running through the bus asking our driver to wait...and that one reason appears a minute later. She’s wearing clothes, at least, but she’s nearly as naked as Tommy in the skintight dress she chose to wear to our concert last night.

She looks vaguely familiar, and it could be because she looks like every porn star the two of us have indulged in on this very bus at one time or another. Too much make-up, long, wavy blonde hair, plumped up lips, breasts that definitely aren’t natural—she’s exactly Tommy’s type. Mine, too, if I’m being honest.

But suddenly I see her through a new lens. She looks plastic and fake, like she’d be fun for a night but I wouldn’t want to consider anything more than that. Like there’s not much beneath the surface.

Tommy gives her the obligatory goodbye kiss at the doorway as she sees herself off, and then Lou closes the door behind her. Tommy doesn’t give a shit that he’s walking through the bus naked.

“Dude, put some fucking clothes on,” I mutter.

He flips me the bird as he passes by me, and a second later I hear an “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

I turn around to see Hannah with a hand clapped over her eyes as Tommy walks past her with a smirk. He slams the door behind him, and before Hannah lowers her hand, she asks, “Is it safe?”

I laugh. “It’s safe,” I assure her, and she opens her eyes. They fall immediately to my phone on the table, where one of her photographs is still open.

I’m caught. She doesn’t say anything as her eyes flick to mine.

“I was, uh, just looking at your photos again.” I click my phone off and take a sip of my coffee. It really does need a little cream. Why the fuck was I so lazy?

She tilts her head and looks a little doubtful, like she wants to ask whether I genuinely liked them, but then she seems to second-guess herself. She turns to the refrigerator. “Chance is still asleep,” she says. “Hopefully we get another hour or so of quiet time. I was going to ask what all the commotion was, but I sort of figured it out when I saw Tommy.”

I chuckle. I’m starting to see different sides to her, and I find her both funny and endearing—a bad combination given the fact that I’m trying to push away any burgeoning attraction I have to her.