NOT THE KING OF HIS CASTLE

[OKAY - this is my first time posting anything. Will probably get a lot spicer as I go on and I will change rating. I'm anticipating: This story starts at what is probably the end of Season 2 and just before the start of Season 3, when Beckett (IMHO, just a guess) kicks our boy to the curb, favoring her new NYPD eye candy beau. I need any and all comments, suggestions, and a good murder plot: I have the character elements but not satisied with the crime. Thanks!]

I'm having lots of difficulties loading new Chapters; hope to get this all set tonight and not as separate entries. (I'm a highly dyslexic author.) All comments welcome. Thanks!

CHAPTER ONE

CASTLE WAS IN a bad mood. No, make that a really bad mood. A depression that possibly was darker than the rainstorm that was letting loose just outside of the floor-to-ceiling window that the man was leaning against with his left forearm, his right hand occupied with holding a now-cold cup of coffee. His cotton shirt was wrinkled due to the two days of continued usage. He needed a shower and a shave. Not that he cared. He was wallowing in full self-indulgence and self-pity, which caused his mood most foul. And, when Richard Edgar Castle was in a bad mood, those especially close to him knew from experience to keep their distance. During the course of the long morning, Castle's mother had twice looked into her son's loft office from a safe distance, knowing that nothing she could say would help. Castle's daughter, Alexis, had made a quick exit several hours earlier as she escaped to her school, leaving her grandmother to try to gently reason with her son. Both women knew that this would not be a successful venture. And, as the storm continued, the man just kept staring into the rain.

Rick Castle, basically, had been blessed by the gods: tall, handsome, and very rich (thanks to his authoring of over 26 best selling murder mystery novels), with blue eyes that usually reflected a rare mixture of a Quixotic boyish charm and an impish sense of self-importance. He had a devoted daughter in Alexis, a loving (albeit eccentric) mother in Martha (a former Broadway and minimally successful Hollywood actress), and two ex-wives that usually managed to stay close to his bank account but remain an adequate distance away from him physically, until they needed another return visit to his bank account. However, as may easily be deducted from the fact that the man had two ex-wives, Richard Castle was not lucky in love. And, very recently, the woman who he presently considered to be his muse, NYPD Detective Kate Beckett, and who was also the source of inspiration for his 27th and 28th best selling novels, had been spending all of her time with her new almost-but-not-quite-the-image-of-Castle boyfriend. Not with Castle, but with another member of the New York Police Force, another detective, another tall, handsome, blue-eyed man that, simply put, was not Richard Edgar Castle.

And that was why Rick Castle was in such a really bad mood. He usually got what he wanted with a minimum of fuss, and often without a maximum of effort. Not that he didn't work for what he had achieved; but there was a difference between hard labor for eight hours a day, at least five days a week, and spending an hour or so each day typing on a keyboard in his loft penthouse knowing now that he already had more money than he (and his two ex-wives, a mother, and a teenage daughter) could ever spend in this lifetime. This was something new, and the man didn't like how it was taking over his days and especially invading his nights. There were no more words flowing from his brain down to his fingers. That had been annoying enough: He had experienced brief bouts of writer's block before on rare ocasions, but his ability to concentrate had completely vanished. All he could think about was what where "they" doing, and where were they doing "it"? No other thoughts invaded his usually clever brain, except the realization that Beckett was not now and may never again be a daily presence in his life.

That stomach wrenching tightening in his gut returned. Two days of coffee was probably not the best diet choice, but he wasn't hungry. All he could do was obsess on what he had lost. Ironically, it may have been something he might never had actually had. Castle was obsessed, and for the first time in his life, he was jealous. Even if he could somehow write about Detective Nikki Heat, the heroine of his latest two books that were so closely based on his association with Kate Beckett, he couldn't concentrate on murder when all he could think of was the color of her hair, the softness of her skin, the curves of her body. The body that he could imagine pressing against his. The quick touches when they sat next to each other, the answers they gave in unison by chance, the smell of her skin. . . Castle tried to turn away from the window, but that meant letting in the realization that he was alone in his loft. After all, who wanted to read about "the one that got away"? And, more importantly, he certainly didn't want to write about it.

"Damn rain" he muttered for the twentieth time that day, the handle of the coffee cup still held between his finders on his right hand.

Martha had had enough. "Richard, dear . . ."

"Bite it, Mother." Some days, it served to be more direct than on other days.

It would take more than attitude to dissuade the outspoken Martha Rogers from addressing her son. "Kiddo, I think it is time for you to do something. Get out of the house, Dear. Take a walk. . ."

Castle finally succeeded in turning his head away from the downpour to look at her. "It's raining," he replied, rather icily.

"So I've noticed." Martha stood her ground. It wasn't always easy dealing with her nearly 40 year old toddler.

"What do you suggest? I go down to the station and get looks of pity from the entire squad? I didn't believe her when she said she had a boyfriend; I thought it was an imaginary friend, one created to get a rise out of me. . ." His voice dropped an octave lower as he slowly shook his head in disbelief. "No one even tried to tell me otherwise."

Before Martha could correct that statement, he suddenly remembered the coffee cup in his hand. He took a deep swig and instantly regretted that decision. "This is as bad as the coffee used to be . . ."

Without warning, Castle's brain started replaying all of the times he had complained about the squad room's coffee during his first months of shadowing Detective Beckett, and how he had bought for the squad the top of the line espresso and cappuccino brewer to replace the standard brown handled institutional coffee maker that was the source of his caffeinated displeasure. And, how he had enjoyed the simple task of getting Beckett her morning coffee, not to mention the time he had spilled a mug of the brew all over the front of her blouse. .

He snapped off the memories. "Mother, don't you have someplace to go to, something to do, someone else to torture?" He roughly put down the coffee cup on his desk. He didn't even notice the five other mugs in the immediate vicinity, so out of character for the neat freak.

Martha didn't miss the controlled rage in her son's movements.

"I'm going out for lunch. Do you wish to join me? Just a few of us old hoofers are heading down to the Seaport. I'm sure you'll be welcomed."

Castle shook his head. If he was the kind of person to sigh, he would have. Instead, there was just a heavy pause, followed by his soft deep baritone tone. The thought of all that estrogen was too much to bear. "Mother, I'm sorry. I think it's pretty clear that I'm not good company for anyone." He walked over to the doorway and kissed Martha on the cheek. "You go and have a good time. Tell the ladies I send my love."

Martha looked up at her son and placed her hands on his well developed upper arms, as if she was trying to rub energy into the muscles under the wrinkled sleeves. "I'm sorry you're going through this, Richard. I wish I had some magic words, a wave of my hand, and all would be right with the universe again." Her right hand reached up to his forehead and brushed back a thick lock of his brown hair that refused to stay put.

That familiar gesture made him smile gently for the first time in several days. "You're my mother, not my fairy godmother. Do you want me to call for the car?"

"I've already done so. It should be here by the time I get downstairs. Good night, my dear boy." The fact that his mother had yet again commandeered his limo was not lost on Castle. Indeed, it was almost a reassuring sign that the earth was continuing to spin on its axis.

"Goodbye, Mother."

Castle watched as Matha made her usual dramatic exit, using her umbrella like a majorette's baton, as she departed from the two story loft that the three of them called home. It was an unusual arrangement, but it suited them just fine. Since Alexis' mother was based in Los Angeles, Castle had asked his mother to move in with them to keep an eye on the 15 year old. Or, that was the excuse Rick had used, knowing that Martha's latest boyfriend had managed to run off with all of his mother's retirement savings. While the real reason for her relocation to her son' loft was never mentioned outside of the family, Rick usually thrived in having her so close by. Well, usually. In contrast, his daughter Alexis was the "normal" one of the family, an excellent student who was more of an adult than her own father, as she kept one eye on her grandmother, and her other eye on her dad. Yeah, Castle had to admit that, despite the neverending theatrics that Martha usually surrounded herself with, he was lucky insofar as his immediate family was concerned.

Which made the fact that he had been mentally toying with the idea of expanding that immediate family to include the addition of Beckett even harder to face.

His cell phone rang. He pounced on it. "Castle."

It was the Captain. "We got a murder. Interested?"

Castle scribbled down the address. He'd somehow have to find a taxi in the rain thanks to his Mom, but at least it gave him something ese to occupy his mind. He had one more Nikki Heat novel to write under his present contract, and then his relationship with Kate Beckett would be completed, sealed, and buried. If his mind ever pemitted a moment without a memory of Beckett. And, discarding his present shirt for a new one, he donned his raincoat from the downstairs closet, he was out the door.

CASTLE HAD WALKED north almost eight blocks before he found a yellow cab to take him to the address he had been given. Despite now being thoroughly drenched, the mere action of having gotten out of the loft had given his spirits a small lift, just as his mother had pointed out. Of course, if Beckett was at the scene, any continuing improvement in his attitude could easily be a moot point.

As the cab neared the corner, he spotted Beckett's tall, slim silhouette standing on the sidewalk. "Common, grow a pair," he muttered to himself after he paid the cabby.

Several eyebrows went up as he exited the vehicle and walked the few feet toward them.

"And, where is the limo?" asked one of the detectives. He had never seen Richard Castle take transportation of the commoners.

"My mother has it. If she gets wet, she melts. Now, what do we have?"

Reviews, please. Again, I'm still trying to load the next 5 chapters . . . obviously, I'm not a computer programming genuis.