No Chance Page 10

  “I’m going to bed,” I announce.

  Tommy stands. “I guess I’ll be in my room watching porn. You might not want to come in.”

  Hannah wrinkles her nose. “Are you serious?”

  He shrugs and shoots her a sly grin. “Unless you’re offering yourself up, my options are limited tonight.”

  All the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention at his line. “That’s enough,” I hiss.

  He holds up both hands defensively. “I said unless.”

  “For the record, I’m not,” she says. She stands, too. “Can I use the bathroom to wash up before bed?”

  I nod, and she heads through the bus first while I stay back with Tommy. Once the door clicks shut to the bathroom, I turn to Tommy. “Hands off,” I say.

  His brows shoot up. “Why? You tossing a shot? Mm, sisters. Good call, dude.”

  My hands ball into fists at my sides as my nostrils flare. “Fuck you, Tommy. The poor girl has just lost everything. Don’t be an asshole.”

  He holds up his hands again, but he can drop the innocent act. Innocent is the last thing this dude is. “Whatever, man. You have a good night. I’ll be indulging in my favorite threesomes.”

  “Just keep it down,” I mutter.

  I head toward my bedroom, where I strip off my clothes in the dim lighting of a bedside lamp so as not to wake the baby, and that’s when I realize for the very first time that either one of us has to sleep on the couch or we’re sharing a bed. I’m not sure why that thought hasn’t crossed my mind before now, but in the chaos of the day, it just hasn’t.

  I rummage through my duffel bag for my basketball shorts, which I never sleep in as I opt for either naked or boxers. Hannah appears in the doorway. “Oh,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking to my abdomen. “Sorry.” Her voice is low so as not to wake the baby.

  “Don’t be,” I say quietly, and then I realize I just need to be myself here. I stick with the boxers. “I, uh, hadn’t really thought about sleeping arrangements.”

  “I can just take one of the couches,” she says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. I refrain from saying that I want her in this room in case the baby wakes up, but the truth is that’s part of it. “The whole point of the bedrooms is to separate your sleeping area from your living area. It’s an essential part of touring. You take the bed, and I’ll take the floor.”

  It won’t be the first time I’ve slept on a bus floor, though the last time I was out of my mind on a combination of weed and whiskey so I didn’t really notice the fact that the floor vibrated all night or that it was hard as fuck.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I’ll feel awful with you on the floor and me in your bed.”

  “Are you okay with just sharing the bed?” I ask.

  She clears her throat. “I, um...”

  “Purely platonically,” I say by way of comforting her. “Just because we’re low on options.”

  “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, it’s fine. Let’s just get some rest.”

  She climbs in first, and she takes the side closest to the baby’s crib, which is still clear across the room but she’ll have the quickest path to him if he wakes.

  And then my only option is to climb in beside her.

  I’ve shared beds with plenty of different women. So why does this feel so different?

  CHAPTER 18: HANNAH

  The comforting smell of vanilla plows into my olfactory sense, and I’m not sure if it’s Brett, the sheets, or my imagination.

  I think it’s Brett.

  I’ve only been this close to him once, and it was the night I told him he was a father. I was less focused on what he smelled like and more focused on the task at hand. But now that we’re sharing the five feet of space a queen bed offers, all I can smell is vanilla mixed with some kind of wood scent. It’s sweet and fresh and masculine all at once, and I find it incredibly soothing.

  And then I feel guilty for finding it soothing.

  I shouldn’t feel soothed by anything to do with him.

  I hate him.

  Remember?

  Although I guess if I have to remind myself that I hate him, maybe I don’t so much anymore. I didn’t know him before. All I knew was that he put a baby in my sister and disappeared.

  I put my sister on a pedestal her whole life. She saved me from foster care. She adopted me. She took care of me, and I took care of her, too. We were all the other had for a long, long time.

  But maybe I’m starting to see that I shifted all the blame to Brett even though there were two people involved in the creation of sweet little Chance. And maybe what happened doesn’t matter. The fact is that Chance is here, and I’m here, and we only have each other...and this man who seemed so royally against allowing us into his life but is actually putting forth the effort now.

  We can’t change the past, but we can certainly reshape the future.

  I’m facing toward Chance, and Brett is facing toward the opposite wall. We’re two strangers in a bed together, and we’re only here to sleep.

  So why can’t I sleep?

  Why do I keep breathing in his woody vanilla?

  His breathing evens, and he’s asleep beside me. I try to calm my thoughts by focusing on his breathing. I try not to think of everything I’ve lost, but in trying not to think about it, it’s all I can think about.

  I already miss Brie. I miss our meager existence. I’m scared for what the next three months hold, scared to share this bus with this man who doesn’t really want us here and only invited us out of obligation, scared to be on the same bus as Tommy Stevenson who’s known for his penchant for drugs, alcohol, and fast women.

  And most of all, I’m scared for what comes next.

  Getting on this bus meant leaving my problems behind in Phoenix. But in three months when I return...they’ll still be there. I know I can’t outrun what I’m leaving behind, and the thought scares me.

  Nothing is permanent. It’s a lesson I’ve learned all too well in my twenty-two years. People don’t stick around forever. I have Chance in my life now, but what happens when Brett is used to things and this tour is over? He won’t keep me on as a nanny forever.

  Life goes on. Right?

  These are things we’ll surely talk about over the next few months. They aren’t the things I need to worry about right this minute.

  It was a long, hard day, and eventually the rumble of the bus lulls me to sleep.

  I wake to the sound of a crying baby, and I’m a little disoriented at first. The bus has stopped moving, and through the blinds covering the windows, I can see that the sun is out again. But it’s neither of those things that I notice first.

  Strong, warm arms that smell like vanilla and wood are wrapped around me.

  My arm is tossed casually around someone else’s midsection, and my head is nestled in the nook between his shoulder and his chest.

  It’s warm here, and it’s comforting, and it smells divine...and it’s completely, totally wrong.

  I jump out of his arms before he can even realize that we were sleeping that way. We must’ve both shifted into the other at some point during the night.

  I’m sure this bed has seen plenty of women, but the same can’t really be said for my own bed. I’m not a virgin, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself experienced. I slept with Paul when I was nineteen. We’d been dating three months, and it felt like the right time. It was fine, but nothing like the songs tell you. Nothing like the movies show.

  The first time was a little painful. The second time was marginally better. The third time was okay. And that was it. We broke up shortly after when he took a job in Tucson and moved south, leaving me behind just like everybody does.

  Between school and work, I never had time for a relationship.

  That’s not true.

  I never made time for one. I didn’t want one when I knew it would only end one way...the same way every important relationship in my life has ever ended.

  And this
will be no different. Brett will care for his son, he’ll tolerate me, and then we’ll part ways, maybe friends, maybe not. Sharing a bed is where it begins and ends.

  I can’t even admit to myself that it felt really damn good to wake up in his arms. Safe. Warm. Comforting. All feelings I don’t think I’ve ever felt before all at the same time.

  All feelings that might become addicting if I’m allowed to experience them again.

  I hear him shift in the bed as I grab Chance from the crib, cooing softly to get him to calm down. He does nearly instantly, and I think of the millions of times Brie commented about what an easy baby he is. She’s right. He’s easygoing and sweet. He sleeps well and he’s always smiling, and the poor kid doesn’t even know that he just lost his mom. Thank God at least I can still be here for him. I’m a poor substitute for Brie, but this still has to be better than whatever the courts might offer.

  When I glance over at Brett, he’s watching me carefully. He’s sitting up in bed, and the sheet has fallen to his waist. My eyes automatically flick to those abs he has. They’re freaking perfect, and my hand was right there on them when I woke up this morning.

  I immediately blush at the thought, and I’m thankful it’s still dim in here since the blinds are drawn.

  I still hate him, I remind myself. But each time I have to remind myself of that fact, I question the validity of it a little more.

  “Morning,” he says, his voice scratchy from sleep.

  “Good morning,” I say in a little singsong for Chance’s benefit. “Sleep well?”

  He ducks his head a little, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows I woke up in his arms. “Fine. You?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Fantastic, actually, given the circumstances.

  It’s the first full day of our new normal, and we start the day with breakfast in the front cabin of the bus. Tommy’s still asleep, the curtain around his bed drawn as we make our way through his room toward the front. Brett watches as I get a squeeze pouch out of the cabinet and start feeding it to Chance, and then he adds water to a coffee pot and starts the process there.

  A few minutes later, he sets down a plate of muffins and two premade cheese omelets, one for himself and one for me. “Want anything to drink?” he asks as he starts pouring his first cup of coffee.

  “I can get it.” I finish feeding Chance the last bite then fill his tray with Cheerios. I stand and open the fridge to look at my options, and I opt for a Diet Coke. I back up a little, my ass brushes right against Brett’s front side.

  My eyes widen as I feel his hardness right there against my backside.

  “Oh!” I gasp. “I’m so sorry.”

  He grips my hip for a beat to steady me. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice is a little hoarse.

  Whoa. My stomach flips wildly.

  We both return to the table. I open my soda, trying to pretend like I didn’t just feel his erection on my backside, trying to push it out of my mind, trying completely unsuccessfully to forget about it.

  Why can’t I forget about it?

  This is ridiculous.

  I push it out when the guilt sets in.

  I don’t even like this guy. I spent my entire adult life listening to my sister’s obsession with him and his band and everything Brett Pitzer, and suddenly I’m living this life she would’ve given anything to have.

  Brett clears his throat. “So tonight’s a gig night. I want you to come.”

  “I can’t. It’ll be too loud for the baby.” I press my lips together. “I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “I asked Amanda if she’ll take Chance since she’ll already be watching Luna and Maya. She’s in.”

  My brows dip. “I can’t...” But I can’t really think of a good reason why.

  He reaches across the table and squeezes my arm gently. “Yeah, you can. I trust Amanda, and you should, too. It’s okay to have a little fun. You’ve been through a lot, and you deserve a night off.”

  A night off.

  It doesn’t sound horrible.

  I haven’t had a real night off in ages. Between working at the bar and watching Chance when Brie needed me to, it’s been at least nine months since I had a night just to do whatever I wanted. Not that Brett’s offering me that, exactly, but it could be interesting to see how all the backstage stuff works at a concert. I just wish it was for a band I actually liked.

  The guilt presses in again, and it must show on my face. I have a hell of a poker face when I’m playing cards, but much less so when it comes to real-life emotions.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “It’s just...” I trail off. How, exactly, do I admit that this is everything Brie never got to have? I bite my lip as tears threaten to fall. Oh, great. Just what I need in this moment. I blow out a breath. Honesty’s the best policy, right? “I feel like I’m betraying my sister. I’m suddenly getting everything she ever wanted.”

  His face falls a little with sympathy as his brows push together. His eyes meet mine, and they’re dark and hooded. “It’s not betrayal, Hannah,” he says, and his voice holds this sincerity I don’t know that I’ve recognized in him before. “You’re taking care of her child. Of our child. You’re leaving your entire life behind to honor her final wishes. What you’re doing...it’s strong. It’s courageous.”

  A little shudder runs through me at the way he’s looking at me. It starts at the base of my spine and travels all the way up to my neck.

  His words aren’t just comforting. They’re beautiful. They’re everything I needed to hear.

  And I think I might be in a load of trouble here.

  CHAPTER 19: HANNAH

  Capital Kingsmen is one of those bands you might not be able to name when you hear a song if you’re not a fan, but you still know the words to every song. They’ve had a ton of commercial success, and their songs are on the radio every time I turn it on. Sometimes when they’re on my favorite station, I’ll flip to another one only to hear a different song by the same band.

  So as I stand on the side of the stage watching the drummer who’s suddenly my new roommate (and bedmate), I can’t help but nod my head and tap my foot to the beat while I sing along with Tommy.

  It’s surreal to be standing here.

  A few days ago, I was a broke college student bartending at night for extra cash as a way to help my sister make ends meet. Now I’m nanny to a rock star’s kid and traveling with the band.

  And I’m in awe at what I’m seeing.

  We all have that one band that we irrationally dislike for whatever reason. For me, it’s Capital Kingsmen. For Brett, it’s The Doors. Brie’s was Shawn Mendes. The more I watch these four men leave everything they have on this stage, the more absurd my initial feelings about them become.

  As I stand here watching Brett toss a drumstick into the air and catch it without missing a single beat of the song, I have to admit that my dislike is melting away into something resembling admiration.

  It’s an interesting angle from the side of the stage. I’ve never been to a concert of this scale before. The only ones I’ve been to are of the free variety—like at the state fair when some band was playing on stage, or at a high school football game when the school band marched during halftime.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect. But even in the short window of time from when he invited me to when I actually set foot backstage, I couldn’t have dreamed any of this up.

  Before they took the stage, I watched the roadies move their gear onto the stage as the roadies for the opening band removed their belongings. I stood out of the way, watching the flurry of organized chaos as it unfolded before me. Danielle is the one who showed me the ropes while Brett stuck with the other guys in the band to do whatever they do before a show. Danielle is an assistant to the tour manager, so she has her own duties to take care of on what they call gig nights.

  And it’s as I stand here studying Brett as I listen to the fourth song on their setlist that I decide to take out my phone—not to
scroll around out of boredom, but to take advantage of the angle I have. The way the lights are hitting him gives me an insider view to the show that fans will never get to see.

  He drinks from a bottle of beer between songs, and then he slams his drumstick against one of the drums while both his feet move on pedals to create other beats. I don’t know anything about drums, but I know he’s playing the hell out of them.

  Light hits the spray of his sweat as he works, and I suddenly see where those cuts of muscle come from. You know, those abs that I somehow keep getting glimpses of and can’t seem to keep my eyes away from. He doesn’t really need to work out—not when he plays his instrument with his entire body the way he does.

  I snap another photo, and another one, and then I just keep going. I have some with his sweat as it hits the light, others with him as the focal point and Tommy blurred in the background, and still others with Tommy in focus and Brett blurred in the foreground. I wish I had my good camera back here with me, but my phone has some pretty cool features for an older model.

  I edit one of my favorites right there on the side of the stage before I snap a few more. I’m having fun back here as the admiration starts to blossom into something deeper. It’s not just appreciation for what he does. It’s actual respect.

  He’s incredible at what he does. He’s not just talented. He’s a true artist, which isn’t something I ever expected from my complete and total pre-judgment of him when I knew literally nothing about him.

  And then he takes off his shirt.

  My eyes go immediately to those abs that I can’t seem to stop thinking about. He’s just so...hot.

  An ache presses between my thighs.

  Wait.

  What?

  I shift uneasily on my feet as I recognize the ache. This is totally inappropriate.

  I put my phone away. Taking pictures of him without a shirt is just a bad idea. The last thing I need is a bank of images to tempt myself with when I’m already trying to deny that I’m attracted to him.

  I’m not.

  He just has a good body. And he’s good at what he does. And he’s really trying with Chance even though I truly believed he wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with either one of us. He’s a genuinely nice guy who, like me, is just a little lost—each of us for completely different reasons, but lost still the same.