‘Ok,’ he says, his voice as tense as his posture, ‘that’s my limit.’
Fiona chuckles, gently gathering the bat out of Bram’s hands and putting him back into the cage, where he nestles into the folded towel in the corner and eyes us all with suspicion.
‘Thanks for today,’ Bram says to Fiona, pulling the gloves off and wiping his hands on his thighs when she takes them from him.
She just shakes her head. ‘I should be thanking you,’ she says. ‘You’ve been a huge help. If you wanted to come back and help out again at any point, I wouldn’t be mad about it.’
He grins at her, that same grin I’ve seen a few times, somewhere just this side of flirtatious. I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. I can’t imagine he has any shortage of women throwing themselves at him. Even Fiona’s blushing, and she’s easily old enough to be his mother.
‘I hope you get what you need from this,’ she says, which sounds like it’s part of an earlier conversation that I wasn’t party to, and the loaded nod he gives her in return intrigues me even more. I look away despite my curiosity. It seems like the right thing to do.
And then Bram is leaving, nodding a goodbye to both of us as he sweeps out of the door. It feels like some of the air in the room leaves with him, and I suddenly have to take a deeper breath. What is that feeling? Relief, maybe?
I shrug it off and make the most of the rest of my time with Fiona. She introduces me to some of the other bats, and tells me the story of how Lestat was found, and the buzz of excitement when they discovered that he was first tagged forty-two years ago, making him officially the oldest known bat in the world. It’s a great story.
A rush of inspiration hits me, and I get the urge to get it all down as quickly as I can. I thank Fiona and grab my things, thumbing through my phone as I go to find the number of the taxi firm that brought me here.
Bram’s leaning on his car when I get outside, as cool as ever, one foot propped up behind him with his sunglasses on and that well-worn leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He looks up as he hears the crunch of my shoes on the car park’s gravel.
‘How are you getting back?’ he asks, his voice deep and smooth. I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a rumble to it thatresonates somewhere inside my chest, like it’s just exactly the right frequency for seducing women. I can’t help but wonder if that’s something he’s practised.
I cock an eyebrow. ‘Who’s asking?’ I’m half teasing, and by the tug of the smile at the corner of his mouth, he gets it.
‘Well, my car is here,’ he says, patting the car door he’s leaning on, ‘and then there’s only that Corsa over there, so unless Fiona teleported here, I’m guessing that’s hers, and you need a lift back into Whitby.’
I do. And it would be ridiculous not to take him up on his offer. If thatwaseven an offer.
‘I was going to call a taxi,’ I say, too awkward to ask outright, not to mention that for some reason it’s important to me that he knows I had a plan.
But he just holds his hand up. ‘This weekend? You’ll be waiting ages.’ He gestures to the immaculate Mini behind him. It’s black, obviously. ‘I’m going anyway, so you might as well hop in.’
It took less than ten minutes for the taxi to pick me up earlier, but I don’t argue with him. It’ll save me twelve quid, after all. That’s at least two books, or a hell of a lot of chocolate.
Instead, I smile at him. ‘Thanks,’ I say, and I follow him as he walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I mean, I can open my own car door, but there’s something about the way he does it that I like– casual, like he’d do it for anyone.
The inside of his car is as clean as I’ve ever seen anyone’s car be, and though I can see that his back seat is rammed full of some kind of equipment, even that’s neat, the boxes stacked smartly, cables wound into perfect figure eights. I can’t help but smile to myself. I wouldn’t have expected that at all.
He fills most of the driver’s side when he climbs in, and when he pulls the door closed, there’s a moment when I’m overwhelmed by how close we are– by the scent of hisaftershave. He smells amazing, like cedarwood and sea salt, along with something warmer, which I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m trying to identify it when I realise that he’s probably close enough to notice me dragging in lungfuls of his scent like a teenage girl. I blush as he clears his throat next to me.
He drops his phone into the charging cradle on his dashboard, and the screen lights up with messages and missed calls. I feel like I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t help but sneak a look. The content’s hidden, but I catch some names before I look away:Samira, Angela, Emmy, and four from someone who’s just listed asFoxy AF.
All women, which doesn’t surprise me, given the way he looks. Not to mention that grin, of course– the slight catch of his lip over his canines, a whisper of something dark about him.
I jump when my phone buzzes in my hand, and when Jon’s name pops up on the screen, my already raised pulse kicks into overdrive. He doesn’t often text me, and the optimist in me wonders if this might be a personal message, but when I swipe to read it, I find that he’s just letting me know that tomorrow’s interview has been moved to tonight at 6pm.
I reply to let him know that’s fine, then look back up out of the window as we drive. The moorland does a great job of distracting me from my disappointment. It’s beautiful up here, vibrant and vast, and I can see occasional glimpses of the sea in the distance, which makes me feel a little giddy. I grew up slap bang in the middle of the country, but I’ve always loved the coast here. Nana and Grandpa brought me up here a couple of times when I was young.
My heart clenches tight when I remember they’re not here anymore, and I’m glad that Bram and I aren’t talking right now. I try to push away the feeling of grief, the weight on my chest, breathing through it like I always do. It’s a few moments before I feel like I can speak again.
‘So,’ I say after a while, turning to look at Bram as he drives, ‘you’re scared of bats.’
His mouth twitches, stopping just short of a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘Was it obvious?’
I bite my lip to hold in my laugh. ‘Only to me and my razor-sharp journalistic instincts.’
I feel him stiffen beside me at that, hear the breath he pulls in. It feels like I’ve offended him somehow, though I can’t think how. Perhaps pressing him on his fears wasn’t the way to go. I’ve got to share a space with him all weekend, after all.
‘I’m sorry,’ I start, ‘I didn’t mean to?—’