Page 223 of Love at First Fright

Bat stepped up to the microphone, chest still heaving from the last song. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, darkened the collar of his shirt. He looked absolutely knackered and completely alive in equal measure.

“Cheers,” he said, voice that rough rumble he’d been busy perfecting. “You’ve been incredible tonight.”

The crowd roared their approval.

“I’ve got one more song for you,” Bat continued, adjusting his guitar strap. “But before I do, there’s something else I need to do. If you’ll all indulge me for a moment.”

Curious murmurs rippled through the audience. I leaned forward slightly, wondering what stunt he was planning now. He loved this—the performance aspect, the showmanship. Born for it, really. All those years trapped as a ghost, too melancholic to pick up that acoustic guitar, and now he seized every opportunity like it might be his last.

The spotlight swivelled.

Landed directly on our table.

I blinked against the sudden brightness, raising one hand to shield my eyes.

“Charlie Hayes,” Bat said into the microphone, his voice filling every corner of the venue. “Would you do me the honour of joining me on this stage?”

My mother gasped.

I almost choked on the sip of beer I was taking.

And then my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

No. No no no no—

The entire room erupted into encouraging cheers and whistles.

He’s the performer. Not me. I was the behind-the-scenes person, the one who fiddled with mixing boards and mastered tracks in dark studios. I hadn’t been on a stage since my open mic days, when I’d often felt so nauseous beforehand I’d once nearly vomited into a bin.

Was this some spontaneous duet situation? Did he want us to play together?! We hadn’t rehearsed anything. I didn’t even have my own guitar here. My fingers couldn’t remember chords when this many people were watching—

“Go on,” Emily hissed, reaching around Mum to give my arm a firm shove.

“Uncle Charlie! Uncle Charlie!” Lily chanted, bouncing in her seat like she was at school, egging on some kid.

The spotlight burned into my retinas.

Everyone was staring. Waiting.

I climbed to my feet on legs that felt made of wet cardboard. The room tilted slightly, panic making the floor unstable. I weaved between tables towards the stage steps, hyperaware of every single pair of eyes tracking my movement.

The journalist in the corner booth still had her pen out. What was she going to make of this stunt?

I reached the stage. Gripped the railing. Hauled myself up the three steps like I was ascending a gallows.

Bat stood centre stage, bathed in warm light. He’d put his guitar down—propped it carefully against an amp—and waited for me with both hands extended.

My brain short-circuited completely.

His eyes were so bright. So impossibly bright. So full of something that made me tremble.

I took his hands. His string-calloused fingers firmly closed around mine.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Emily raising her phone. Filming this. Oh god. Evidence of my humiliation would exist forever—

Bat cleared his throat. “Charlie,” he said, voice carrying through the speakers. “From the moment I met you, my entire existence changed. You stumbled into my attic—my world—and I just knew. I knew you were going to ruin me in the best possible way.”

My throat went tight. I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.