A/N: Prequel for 4x20, "The Limey." This is pretty much all Bitter!Castle wallowing and me just trying to work out what's going through his head. One-shot, but reviews are always appreciated!
He had to get away. Anywhere but this town: New York leered unkindly down at him, walls too close, sirens too mocking, too sharp a reminder. He couldn't escape his mother's pitying sighs or Alexis's concerned frowns by retreating into his office, and writing in this state of mind was a terrible idea anyway. He found himself mulling over a hundred creative ways to save Rook from falling so hard for Nikki Heat. Why would you take a bullet for someone who didn't even love you?
Maybe he could redact that ending. Nikki wouldn't wait around for Rook. She had better things to do. So did Rook, for that matter.
Should have let her take the bullet.
But typing out bloody accidents for Nikki felt traitorous and didn't stop him from thinking about her, so he found himself dialing his travel agent and asking for a plane ticket somewhere, anywhere but here. Just for the weekend. He had to rinse the NYPD from his brain, detox before he could come back and try to face the precinct.
His travel agent was perceptive. "L.A., Mr. Castle? I hear the weather's beautiful this time of year."
About as far away as you could get without leaving the country. He thought of palms and topless convertibles, starlets, beaches, and abruptly Beckett rising from a crystalline pool like a siren, irresistible—
"Not L.A.," he choked, cleared his throat. He needed a distraction, a way to remember who Richard Castle was without Katherine Beckett: wealthy, successful, famous, wanted.
"Vegas. Get me on the first flight out there tomorrow morning."
"First class, Mr. Castle?"
"Of course."
# # #
Vegas, of course, was the best place to lose yourself. Showgirls and magicians, cocktails and cards: he spent a sleepless two days pouring his thoughts and his money into the casino's waiting hands. Win a little, lose a little. It didn't matter. All that mattered was not thinking.
No bodies. No problems. No Beckett.
It was amazing how much less complicated life was here, within the walls of the casinos. Everything was coated in a layer of sequins and glitter and bravado and desperate hoping for luck. For beating the odds. You knew exactly where you stood because you counted your value in chips and vouchers, paper promises.
And the girls! Dancers in glitter and feathers, dealers in vests and cigarettes, vacationing bachelorette partiers with liquor on their breaths and no boundaries, especially not for the handsome writer who let them win at cards. He slipped into their fawning adoration, downed drinks, bought them drinks, promised autographs. Got high on their easy laughter.
He even went as far as bringing one back to his lavish penthouse suite—Beckett would find it too much, extravagant, wasteful—what was her name? Veronica, Vivienne, something. Tipsy, both of them, stumbling through the door, discarding suit jackets and purses en route to the enormous bed. He'd raked his fingers through her dark curls, pulled her lithe form close, inhaled deeply:
Cherries.
Cherries.
The taste of her lip gloss felt ashen against his tongue. Just like that, his stomach dropped out and he stepped back from her, focusing hard on the soft lines of her face, nothing like Kate's angularity.
She leaned toward him, confused, but he turned her away, bent to retrieve her bag and moved her toward the door.
"I can't do this right now. I'm sorry. So, so sorry," he whispered, saw her into the hall, shut the door.
Even halfway across the country, he couldn't get away from her.
# # #
The flight back on Monday afternoon saw him nursing a hangover as he boarded the plane. He gulped more aspirin with a bottle of overpriced airport water and settled in for the long haul.
They were in the air and the seatbelt light had finally flickered off before he saw her: petite, pretty, blonde curls, her navy-blue uniform modestly showing off her curves. She was used to high-profile passengers in first class, but her eyes lit up when she saw him anyway.
"Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Castle?"
"Perhaps a glass of champagne, Miss…?" He turned on the charm as he handed over his credit card, letting a roguish smile slip free. She was cute, and more importantly, she was in every way Beckett's opposite.
"Jacinda Parker," she replied, smiling even more brightly. And then she giggled.
Perfect.
"Jacinda," he said, toasting her with his champagne glass, "I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful flight attendant to guide me back home."
She flushed, giggled again, and excused herself to help the rest of the passengers. But he'd caught her, and he didn't have any trouble passing the time over the rest of the long flight. She kept returning to his orbit, flirting harmlessly, getting a little braver with every exchange. He watched her go and tried to convince himself that he wanted the hourglass curve of her waist, that he could be satisfied by that innocuous giggle.
When they landed, he slipped her his business card as he passed her on his way out. "Call me," he whispered, flashing his patented, dazzling Castle grin.
He was barely halfway back to the loft before his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number, but it wasn't Beckett, and that was all he needed.
"It's Jacinda," she said shyly at the other end.
"Hello, gorgeous." He laid it on thick for her.
"I have a few days off before I fly out again," she started, sounding hesitant.
"Then by all means, let me buy you dinner, and maybe some good champagne. Where can I pick you up?"
She gave him an address and asked for an hour to change.
"Anything for you, sweetheart."
He ended the call and reflexively glanced at his messages. Three missed calls from the weekend. All Beckett, he knew without looking. Well, if there was a case right now, she'd just have to solve it without him, wouldn't she? Right now, he had a date.
A date. With someone who appreciated him, someone he hadn't held while she was bleeding out and he'd vomited his emotions all over, someone who hadn't led him on for the better part of a year and let him think—
Well.
He had a date with someone who wasn't Beckett, and she would have to be enough.