No Chance by Lisa Suzanne

CHAPTER 3: BRETT

I try to go to bed, but I’m too wired. Tommy would say it’s because I didn’t release my sex endorphins or some shit, but I know it’s because I haven’t heard back from the girl.

I scroll my social media accounts to see who tagged me in Poland when we were on our European tour a year and a half ago, but I come up empty.

I’d try calling around to some hospitals, but I can’t think of her last name. I know the girl said it earlier, but it’s gone now.

Traditional tour buses are divided into three sections: the front lounge, which is like the family room and kitchen of a normal house, the middle bunk section, and the back lounge, which is usually a bedroom or an office. Since it’s just Tommy and me, we had ours custom outfitted with another bedroom instead of a bunk section. A small workstation with a desk and chair separates his room from mine. I have to walk through Tommy’s bedroom to get to mine in the back of the bus, but it’s a pretty sweet deal back here in my own private little area.

So when I get a weird feeling in my chest, I sit up in my queen bed with a start. If I was in a bunk like usual on a bus, I would’ve just smacked my head on the ceiling.

But that feeling in my chest...it’s like my heart is breaking for something I know nothing about. It’s unnatural, and it’s not something I’ve felt before.

And that’s when it hits me.

Heart. My heart is aching.

Heart...like Hart. Hartman.

Brianna Hartman.

That’s her name.

I grab my phone and find the nearest hospital to my current location. I dial the number. I don’t really care that it’s after three in the morning. I need answers and I need them now.

I get some recording. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial nine-one-one. Yada yada yada. I click zero impatiently as I try to get through to an operator.

“Phoenix Medical Center, this is Brenda,” a voice answers. “How may I direct your call?”

“Can you tell me if Brianna Hartman is a patient there?” I ask.

“I’m sorry sir, but by law we aren’t allowed to give out patient information.”

Fuck.

I hang up, and I try the next hospital on the list.

A similar recording answers, but this time, Donna picks up the line.

“Hi Donna, can you please connect me to Brianna Hartman’s room?”

Donna pauses, and then she replies, “I’m sorry, we don’t have a patient here by that name.”

I mumble a thanks and move on down the list.

I come up blank.

I think about trying the girl’s number again. I think about calling like Tommy suggested. But it’s after three in the morning. I can wait at least until the light of day to try to get in touch with her again.

She’s the one who hunted me down, so I can’t really figure out why she’d just disappear into thin air after that.

Unless something happened.

Did Brianna make it through the night? Is that why she isn’t a patient at any of the hospitals? That girl seemed so desperate last night, so it’s out of left field that she still hasn’t responded to my text.

I don’t get my answer at three in the morning...that’s for damn sure.

I stare up at the ceiling as I wonder why this girl this time is plaguing my mind the way it is. I’ve had things like this happen before. I could fill a football team with the number of kids that are supposedly mine, but none ever have been.

At least not that I know of.

But this time...something’s different.

I vaguely remember a broken condom, but I also vaguely remember being a little baked, so what really happened that night is filtered by my own terrible memory, the marijuana clouding the night, and the simple concept of passing time.

I don’t get my answer until a little after eight, when a reply finally comes through. My phone is plugged into the charger on my nightstand, and while I’m usually asleep another two or three hours, this morning I’m not. I grab up my phone the second I hear the familiar ding.

Mousy Chick: Thanks for getting in touch. Sorry I didn’t write sooner. Brie didn’t make it through the night.

How am I supposed to respond to that? Even if this kid turns out to be fathered by someone else, Mousy Chick just lost her sister. The kid just lost his mother.

I’m not your common neighborly Samaritan. I’m more likely to kick the bottle further down the road than pick it up, yet something here tugs on my heart.

My first instinct is to try to find some way to help. The only way I know how to help someone I don’t even know is monetarily. Maybe that’s all she’s after anyway, and maybe once I kick a few bucks in her direction, she’ll fade away with the bogus baby story.

Something tells me that’s not going to happen.

Me: I’m so sorry. Can I help with any expenses?

She doesn’t reply right away, and that’s when I decide to take matters into my own hands. I click the call button on her contact.

She answers after a few rings—longer than it should take considering she just texted me and her phone can’t be far. “Hello?” Sniffle.

“Hey, uh...” I want to say her name here. I wait for her to fill in the blank, but she doesn’t. “It’s Brett,” I finish lamely.

“Yeah, I know.” Sniffle. And then in the background, a cry. It starts out quietly but gains in volume pretty quickly. “Sorry, now’s just not a good time.” Sniffle. “Shh. It’s okay.” I’m pretty sure those words aren’t for me.

“I’m sorry about your sister.” Something prevents me from actually using her name.

“Yeah, me too,” she says quietly. Sniffle, and then a sigh. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come last night, but I didn’t know what else to do.” Her voice shakes like she’s bouncing the kid while she tries to calm him down. “The baby doesn’t have anybody...” She trails off, and he’s still crying.

“He has you,” I point out, trying to be logical in this very strange situation.

She blows out a breath. “Yeah. I’m all he has now.” A low sob falls out of her mouth as she grieves the loss of her sister that has clearly caused a gained responsibility.

“What happened with your sister?”

She clears her throat and sniffles again. “Like I said, now’s not a good time.”

“Well then when is?” I press.

“I have to leave for school in a few minutes,” she says. “I get back at two, and then I have a shift tonight starting at four.”

“You just lost your sister,” I murmur. “It’s okay to take a day.”

“No, it’s not. I can’t afford to just take a day.” The way she says it implies that it must be nice that I can...but I can’t, either. Not really. When we’re on tour, when we’ve got a gig, that’s all that matters. Everything else is pushed aside, just like it had to be last night so I could get on that stage and fuck up on my drums.

“Who’s watching the baby?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“My neighbor said she’d help me out while I’m in class. I guess she feels bad or whatever. But tonight...I don’t know. I might just have to bring him to work with me.”

She hasn’t said where she works, but she has a shift at night and she’s currently in school so she probably doesn’t have a degree yet. That tells me she’s probably in the service industry and there likely aren’t a lot of bars, restaurants, gas stations, strip clubs, or grocery stores that offer childcare.

“Let me help,” I say.

“How?”

I don’t really know. I have a gig tonight. A big one. We’re playing a sold-out arena with nearly twenty thousand fans who will be in attendance, so I can’t really volunteer myself.

But we have two brand new mothers on tour with us. I’m sure one of them could help out. Right?

“I’ll figure something out,” I say.

“That’s not good enough. I can’t just hand over my nephew to a total stranger.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s the first cruel thought that springs to mind, but luckily my buzz has long worn off so I keep those words in my head. “Let me come meet him between your class and your shift. Then I won’t be a stranger. And if you tell me your name, we’ll be on the road to friendship.”

She blows out a breath. “My name is Hannah. But don’t hold your breath on the friendship thing.”