Page 59 of Love at First Fright

“Yeah. Proper music. Not manufactured rubbish.”

His expression softened. Suspicion melted into something warmer, something that made every fibre of me ache. “I didn’t think you liked music. You kept turning the radio down in the car.”

“I’d love to hear some of those bands,” I said. “If you’ve got any songs on you?”

Charlie eyed me. Caution crept back into his features, his shoulders tensing again. Probably expecting Mean Brad to snap back into place, to ridicule his songs.

Which might happen. Very soon. Because I couldn’t keep this up forever.

“Well… I’ve got some stuff downloaded on my phone,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know if you’d actually—”

“Please.”

He pulled the device from his pocket. One of those sleek black rectangles that seemed to do everything. I’d watched mobile phones evolve over the years, getting smaller, cleverer. Years ago, when the old owners had internet here, the workmen were always glued to their phones, swiping and tapping. Sometimes they’d huddle round together, cheering when some woman in the photos had massive breasts, groaning and swiping left when she didn’t. I’d floated beside them, utterly baffled by the entire ritual.

Charlie’s fingers flew across the screen as fast as my hands could fly over piano keys.

Music erupted from the tiny speaker. Raw guitars, driving bass, a voice that cut through the kitchen like broken glass.

I closed Brad’s eyes. Let it wash over me.

Yes.

This was what I’d been missing. Real instruments. Real emotion. Not the polished pop garbage that dominated the airwaves.

“This is perfect,” I murmured.

When I opened Brad’s eyes, Charlie was watching me, expression unreadable.

The song ended. Another began—different band, same energy.

“Can you bring up another band for me?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Stupid. Risky. But this might be my only chance… “On that thing?”

“My phone?” Charlie gave me another odd look. Oops. “What band?”

My throat tightened. I forced the words out anyway. “Bat’s Bats.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. “Bat’s Bats? Weird name.”

“No it’s not!”

Too defensive. Too much emotion bleeding through. This was a bad idea.

But Charlie was already typing, his fingers dancing across the screen. His face glowed blue in the light from the device.

Then his expression fell.

“Ah, there’s no signal down here. Duh. Sorry.”

Disappointment crashed through me. Heavy and bitter as hell.

“Right,” I managed.

For one shining moment, I’d imagined hearing us play again. Hearing my voice, young and alive, screaming into a microphone. Hearing the music we’d made before everything ended.

But this was better, wasn’t it? Because if Charlie had found us, he might have seen photos of us. Of me. He might have made comments. He already thought my band’s name was “weird.” He found this asshole’s body attractive, so likely he wouldn’t make much of mine.

Charlie tapped something on his phone, and another song kicked in. Heavier guitars, angrier vocals.