17. Charlie
seventeen
Charlie
Iwoke to an absence.
Not dramatic. Not sudden. Just… less. Like pressing against a wall and finding it gone, pitching forward into empty air.
My chest felt empty. Exposed. The weight I’d fallen asleep with had vanished.
My eyes snapped open.
Bat lay curled beside me, hovering where his head had been pillowed on my chest hours ago. Dark hair fanned out in that familiar way. Peaceful. His features soft in the grey morning light filtering through the moth-eaten curtains.
But translucent. Barely there.
My hand moved automatically, reaching to touch his shoulder. My fingers passed straight through cold air, meeting only the fabric of my shirt beneath.
My lungs released a heavy breath. At least he hadn’t left. Hadn’t vanished completely.
Heat spread to my cheeks as last night replayed behind my eyelids.
That gorgeous, desperate moment when Bat had kissed me in the garden.
Then him naked on my bed. Naked underneath me.
The feel of him solid beneath my hands. That moment my lips reached for his waiting cock.
That… lovely moment his ectospunk splattered across my face.
The cuddling. The way he’d tucked himself against me, face buried in my neck, like I was the only thing he wanted in the world.
Bloody hell.
I pressed my hands over my face, digging the heel of my palms into my eyes.
This was getting complicated. More than complicated.
I was getting attached. Bat was likely getting attached.
Far too attached, probably, considering I wouldn’t be here much longer.
Eventually, whether we sorted out the manor’s “ghost problem” or not, we’d have to move on to the next haunted toilet or possessed bingo hall or whatever nightmare Gerald threw at us.
Then Bat would be all alone again, forever.
The thought made something twist horribly in my stomach, a visceral stabbing pain.
Unless…
I could visit. Couldn’t I? Pop back with new books. More art supplies for the twins. Maybe even that telly Bat wanted. Sneak it into the attic before the Lancasters finished their renovations and turned the place into a luxury resort for wealthy assholes with more money than sense.
I could even—
No. Stop.
I stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks in the plaster.
But… maybe I could move here. To Wiltshire. Get some sort of shit job at the resort when it opened. Work behind the bar. Live nearby. See Bat almost every day.
Ridiculous! You’re being utterly ridiculous!
I couldn’t build my life around a ghost. No matter how hot he was in that leather collar. No matter how those big brown eyes looked at me like I was worth something. No matter how right it felt when he—
Stop. Stop. Stop!
This was silly. Completely mental. I couldn’t get romantically involved with a ghost.
Even if he was cute and sweet, and deserving of happiness.
Even if he made me laugh.
Even if—
My gaze drifted back to Bat’s sleeping form.
Translucent, barely there in the grey morning light.
Dark hair fanned out where his head hovered near my chest. The peaceful curve of his mouth.
The way his hand floated near my hip, fingers slightly curled, like he was still trying to hold on even in sleep.
Something tugged inside me. Sharp and insistent. Like a hook sinking into soft tissue, reeling me closer. That awful, wonderful ache of not wanting to be apart from someone. Of wanting to wake up like this again. And again.
How long had it been since I’d felt that feeling? Years?
Ryan’s face flickered through my mind. My ex. My last ex, well over a year ago now. Ryan, who’d sat me down in that coffee shop near his flat and explained very calmly, very reasonably, that we “wanted different things.”
Translation: Ryan wanted a different man. Someone with ambition. Drive. A proper career instead of a string of failed attempts and half-arsed jobs.
If his social media was to be believed, he’d found exactly that. Some lawyer bloke with too?white teeth and perfect hair and a holiday home in Cornwall.
Good for him.
Bat’s face shifted. His lips curved into a sleepy smile, eyes still closed. Then his lashes fluttered, dark against pale skin, and those beautiful brown eyes opened.
Met mine.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello.”
We grinned at each other like complete idiots. The hook in my chest pulled tighter, a chain wrapping around my ribs. A chain I didn’t particularly want to escape.
“Did you sleep?” I asked. “Can you sleep? Brad says ghosts don’t sleep.”
“Brad says a lot of shite.” Bat’s voice came out morning-rough. “We can sort of sleep. Switch the brain off. Drift.”
As he spoke, colour bled back into him. Slow. Like watching a photograph develop. The translucent edges solidified, gained weight. His hair darkened from mist-grey to proper black. The hollow spaces between us filled in until he looked real again. As real as he ever looked, anyway.
Bat’s hand moved, reaching for my chest. Experimentally. Testing. His palm landed solid against my sternum. His eyebrows waggled. “Fully restored.”
“Oh?”
That hand slid lower. Deliberate. Achingly slow. Fingers tracing down my stomach, over the fabric of my ridiculous too-thick-for-any-reasonable-season pyjamas. Lower still.
He cupped my cock through the layers. “Hello, there!” my dick practically screamed in reply.
I hummed appreciatively, hips shifting up into the pressure. “Well, I do have several more ghost sex questions that need answering.”
“Oh yeah?” His thumb stroked over the length of me. “Like what?”
“Like if you still get jaw ache from sucking dick or not.”
Bat tilted his head, expression shifting into something mock-serious. Contemplative. Genuinely pondering the scientific implications of ghostly fellatio.
“You know what, Charlie? I think some evidence gathering is in order.”
His hand slipped beneath my waistband. Cool, wonderfully callused fingers wrapped around heated skin. My cock twitched to life properly, blood rushing south with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Yes. Please. Right now. Now, now, now!
Pounding rattled the bedroom door.
“Oi, Chaz!”
I groaned. How was this my life? Was getting my cock sucked by a ghost too much to ask for?
“It’s time to drag your arse out of bed!”
“In a minute! I’m busy!” I snapped back, sounding exactly like a teenager caught wanking.
Brad tutted loudly. “Just a thought, mate. If you hadn’t stayed up all night watching porn, then maybe you’d be able to get up on time!”
“What?!” I spluttered.
“These walls are thin as fuck!” Footsteps stomped away down the corridor.
Silence.
Then Bat and I dissolved into giggles, his hand still wrapped around my cock, both of us shaking with suppressed laughter like schoolboys caught behind the bike sheds.
I pressed a kiss to the top of Bat’s head. He had the most subtle of smells to him. Dust, old paper, and somehow that chemical haze of fog machines. Something I wanted to bury my face in and never leave.
Bat’s hand stayed wrapped around my cock. Steady pressure. Perfect grip. The sort that promised things. Brilliant, filthy things.
And fuck, I really wanted to stay in bed and let him do everything he wanted to me. Every single thing. I’d hand over a detailed list if necessary.
But I was terrified of Brad getting impatient and bursting in here with more demands. Brad marching through that door to find my dick down a ghost’s throat would probably send him into a rage that would get me sacked. Or worse.
“Our experiment will have to wait for later,” I said.
Bat’s mouth curved into the most spectacular pout. Bottom lip jutting out. Sulky and devastatingly gorgeous.
I couldn’t resist. Leaned in and caught that lip between mine, sucking gently.
Bat hissed. His grip on my cock tightened, fingers curling with intense, blissful pressure.
My hips thrust up instinctively, chasing the sensation. Fire flooded through me, electric and sharp.
“Fuck! Bat! Later,” I managed, voice coming out strangled. “I promise. I have loads more ghost sex questions that need answering.”
“Like?”
“Like whether you can possess me whilst I’m wanking.”
Bat’s eyes widened. Dark and delighted. “You want me to—”
“Later.”
I pushed open the kitchen door with more caution than the act required. Brad stood at the counter, hunched over a bowl of cereal, scowling. Each scrape of his spoon against ceramic made me wince.
Bat had floated off somewhere—understanding, perhaps, that being joined at my hip every possible second might be a bit much.
Still, I missed him. Felt somehow vulnerable without him.
Though knowing Bat, he was probably lurking nearby anyway, invisible, eavesdropping on whatever fresh humiliation Brad might inflict.
I braced myself for more taunting about my “wanking session,” that I’d have to act unfazed by. But Brad just shovelled soggy cornflakes into his mouth, gaze fixed on the scarred table.
The silence stretched for an eternity as I made myself an instant coffee.
A sound from the hallway made us both freeze. The creak of hinges. The front door.
My heart kicked into overdrive. Ghost shenanigans already? Before coffee?!
“Hello?” called a voice that took me a moment to place.
Brad’s eyebrows shot up. “Harrison Lancaster. They’re back!”
Footsteps approached, and moments later, Harrison walked through the doorway. Alone. Unlike when we’d seen him last, his tailored jacket bore creases, and grey stubble shadowed his jaw.
“Morning, gentlemen.” He nodded at us. “Evelyn’s still in Brighton, but I thought I’d check in. See how you’re managing.”
Brad set down his spoon with deliberate care. “Well, sir, to summarise the situation, you have a very serious ghost infestation here, Mr Lancaster. Multiple powerful entities. Dangerous ones. Since you left us, Charlie’s fallen down the staircase, and I was thrown across the attic.”
Harrison’s expression flickered—alarm, then something harder to read. Confliction? He didn’t believe in ghosts, so Brad’s words must have sounded like well-performed bullshit. Or insanity.